Holmes watched Watson leave but did not have the strength to stop him; prevent him. When he finally mustered the strength to follow the good doctor his legs did not wish to conform to his will and gave up before the detective could reach the landing. Holmes gave up for the first time in his life, remaining where he had stumbled, silent tears leaving tracks down his cheeks. Now he really wished he had died. He had not meant to hurt Watson, but Watson had hurt him and besides, the detective had been bored. God, how he hated himself at the moment. Sherlock Holmes had never had anyone so dear to him or who cared and he had perhaps just thrown it back in John Watson's face.
"Watson…" the detective cried out feebly. "Please, Watson…"
He got no answer.
Watson regretted leaving the room as soon as he had left it. The doctor took a drag on his cigarette and sighed. His medical instinct nagged at him that his detective was not thinking straight, that a good doctor would have stayed with his patient, but Watson's heart hurt at the detective's words. Why couldn't Holmes see that his actions affected everyone around him, especially his stupid, self-indulgent actions? He needed to learn, and if this was the only way to get him to then so be it. The good doctor stubbed out his cigarette and hugged his coat closer to him. It was getting dark, and he thought it only polite to rescue Mrs Hudson from whatever state and mood the younger man was in.
To his surprise, Watson was not confronted with an outraged or indignant landlady upon his return to his lodgings. Instead he was confronted with only silence. The silence unnerved him; it encouraged his mind to create outrageous scenarios of what might have happened, like finding his detective dead.
"Holmes? Holmes where are you?" the good doctor asked the silence as he ascended the stairs. "Holmes, we need to talk about this. Holmes?"
The detective lifted his head from its resting place on the door frame. Watson had returned, was calling for him. Yet he did not have the strength or will to call back to him, to admit he was wrong. His ego wouldn't permit that. Sherlock Holmes was wrong and his pride wounded; he was not about to beg or admit such a thing to Watson.
"Holmes? What are you doing here, old boy?"
Holmes looked up to see the good doctor stood over him. He could tell that Watson was hurt; he could see it in his eyes. The older man knelt beside the younger, and Holmes shamelessly threw himself at Watson, swallowing his wounded pride.
"Watson, I beg of you. Forgive me, I implore you."
