A/N: I really, really did not want to leave people hanging. And there's the added incentive that my muses are not giving me a moment's peace until I quit dragging my fingers and get to work. So, here I present the first substantial chapter. It's not much, but it's something. However, if there are glaring mistakes, I own them fully. It's only been 60 hours since I crawled out of bed. I'm not too tired to be typing, really. No, I mean, how much damage can a tired writer do anyway? It's not as if I'm...Okay, so mass destruction on an epic scale can happen. We've all done it at least once, right? Right? It was an accident! lol Shutting up now.
Chapter One
As March led into April and Watson still did not seem to be recovering, Holmes began to lose patience. His own guilt for his failure in the situation that had lead to the death of Watson's son ate away at him; but he could not indulge in those emotions, as Watson suffered far worse. Holmes took up the role of the caregiver as his friend had for so many years before, and without complaint. Yet, as the weeks passed one after another, Watson seemed only to fall only deeper. What little money he had he spent freely on drink and the occasional round of races. More often than not, any interference from Holmes was treated with anything from pleading for help to violent bouts of anger.
Eventually it was the last that won the battle for dominance in his friend's character. And the target for Watson's anger presented himself daily in the form of his friend. Time and again he would lash out in verbal assaults without the slightest provocation. Holmes only had to be present for this to occur. As April led into early May, Watson no longer needed drink to initiate these rows. As they had done in the past, the two went rounds about there being easier ways to commit suicide, who was to blame for this mess, what mattered, what didn't, to whom...
It was on one of these nights after a rather spectacular argument that could be heard in the street below the sitting room windows that Watson stalked out of the house and made his way back to the now familiar comforts of the Dancing Duck. Holmes paced the sitting room like a tiger looking for a fresh kill. He had no need to think through the situation. These little encounters had only escalated from the originals in the last several weeks. They were nothing new. His mind knew every inch of them.
For once he was surprised that he was no longer craving. His black moods hadn't disappeared, not completely. But now he found other ways of exploring the darkness without letting it consume him completely. He had only to look at the broken wreck of his dear Watson to feel guilty enough stave off that darkness. He would have likely found amusement in this changing of positions in their partnership, but the circumstances were such that he could not.
Holmes waited long enough to ensure he had completely detached himself from his emotions before taking the next step in his plan.
~o~o~o~
Watson had become something of a regular fixture in his little corner seat at the Dancing Duck. Many of the constables and other law enforcement officials that had so happily welcomed him several weeks ago now glanced at the man periodically in pity. It was more to check on his state of consciousness than out of any consideration toward socializing. The man wanted his drink and misery. Many who graced these types of drinking establishments were the same. But none were Dr. Watson...until now. Often Lestrade was found to be sitting at the table with Watson, but they never spoke. As he had done in the past, Lestrade usually kept his peace until he thought Watson would be in a position to listen.
Tonight was not one of those nights.
He had endured numerous scathing tirades from Watson in recent weeks in regards to Mr. Holmes. Lestrade had thought they'd gotten beyond such differences. Initially he was surprised. He had seemed to genuinely forgive the man for his disappearance. They had seemed on exceptionally good terms only weeks before Watson was framed for murder. When Watson had first begun to make appearances at the Dancing Duck, he seemed only to want to avoid the man. Now, Lestrade wondered what the latest transgression was that had sparked these more recent episodes.
Lestrade had seen much between the two friends over the years. His somewhat distant role as something of a mentor to the pair had not diminished over the years. But he found a fiercely protective streak came to the fore when Holmes had abandoned his friend so thoroughly and for so long. He wasn't sure he could ever trust Holmes again, in that respect. As the weeks of the previous year came and went, Lestrade had seen reason to believe that perhaps he had been too harsh in his judgment.
There were just too many unanswered questions he dared not ask. He did not even want to know what would come from Watson when questioned directly. His tirades ranged from vague references of previous cases and disagreements to outright assaults on Holmes' character and lifestyle. While much of this had never been a real secret, some of it was shocking in its frankness. As Lestrade watched Watson reaching for his cup once more, he wondered what was really going on behind that man's lifeless green eyes.
"So, it is as I suspected. Well, Watson, if the consumption of alcohol is so desperately needed to tolerate the company within your present surroundings, perhaps you would be willing to consider a change of scenery."
The disdain in the detective's voice drew eyes from every corner of the building. Lestrade, having his back to the room, had not heard the man approach. Not that there was much he could have done, at any rate. The man would come whether welcome or not, it seemed.
Watson's bleary eyes tried to focus on Holmes, towering over them. Holmes did not wait for the verbal acknowledgement, as he doubted Watson was in any condition to give it.
"I have a case that will take us into the country. We can get away from all...this," he said, waving his hand around the room, the disgust plain in his voice.
"Go away."
"Really, Watson, it is time you put an end to this nonsense. You're the one always—"
"Get out."
"Perhaps you should at least consider a nice, quiet dose of morphine in the privacy of your room to this public display of stupidity!"
Watson mumbled something into his cup that didn't sound complimentary.
Lestrade sat back, not sure if it really was his place to get involved. They seemed alone in their little confrontation, at any rate. Lestrade did not need to exert much effort to melt into the background. He really would like to see Watson out of here, preferably for some months. It would do him good. He only questioned if Holmes was the person he should be with at present, especially giving suggestions like that!
"I've shown you great patience in all of this. Now it is time for you to move on."
Silence had begun to descend as the combined crowd of law enforcement officials and general customers realized exactly who it was they were now seeing. Watson's next statement regarding Holmes' lineage earned wolfish grins from several of the patrons as those gathered smelled blood. The law enforcement officials bristled. Many of them wanted to know who this man thought he was to tell their police surgeon when to put off mourning. The tension grew as more edged closer to the scene of the disturbance.
"I've heard better," Holmes returned, unruffled.
Even Lestrade's eyebrows rose at Watson's next volley.
"Enough of this. I'm taking you back to our rooms and we are leaving," Holmes insisted, pulling Watson to his unsteady feet.
"That's all that matters to you! My son is dead and all you want is for me to go back to work! My usefulness to you—"
"You're useless to me right now," Holmes cut him off calmly. "So that is obviously not why I am here. You would know that if you were sober enough to think through this for yourself."
"You cold-blooded, heartless, ba—"
"Honestly, Watson! As you've forced this to be a public display, then let us share the truth. You abandoned the brat and his mother before he was even born. You knew him less than a month. Why you insist—"
Lestrade had acted instinctively. He was rather proud he had not frozen in absolute shock. And, even for his quick reflexes, it still took a second man to help keep the doctor from finishing what he started. Watson snarled and raged, the vile invectives that flew from his tongue meshing and slurring into something almost animalistic. Holmes, blood pouring from his possibly broken nose, calmly rose to his feet. Every man in that building who knew Watson moved to take a defensive stance between the doctor and Holmes, though many looked as if they should be holding Holmes and letting Watson go at him.
"Very well then," Holmes stated coolly, eyeing Watson as if no one else in the room existed. "For the sake of our disbanded partnership and friendship, I give you one week to remove your belongings from my rooms. Good night, gentleman."
With that, Holmes swept back out the door. Those who did not move quickly enough met a steely gray-eyed glare that promised further violence.
None dared.
~o~o~o~
Holmes managed to make his way out of the door and down the nearest alley. It was over now. At least, his part in this mess was over. He could only hope and pray that Lestrade and the others could do for his friend what he could not. Maybe they could help Watson see reason. This madness was going to kill him before long. His shoulders slumping, he wondered if he had made the right decision.
Either way, there was no going back now.
