It's hard to rely on my good intentions

When my head's full of things that I can't mention

Seems I usually get things right

But I can't understand what I did last night

It's hard to rely on my own good senses

When I miss so much that requires attention

Have to laugh at myself sometimes

And I can see that I'm not blind

There's little relief

Give us reprieve

For all the things I've left behind

I'm positive that I'm not blind

~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Good Intentions


Chapter Two

Dazed and somewhat in shock, Watson followed along beside Holmes as they slowly started off in the direction of Scotland Yard. He now ached in too many places to count, so didn't even bother trying. None of them were serious, so could await some tending until they had at least had time to find rooms for the night. Holmes was fuming in a silent fury beside him. Knowing better than to intrude upon those thoughts, Watson kept his peace.

At least it's not raining.

Watson snickered at this though.

"I fail to see what is so amusing," Holmes growled.

Maybe it was the overdose of adrenaline in his system. Maybe it was just nerves stretched too tautly for too long. Maybe it was the fact that trouble never seemed to happen to him a single incident at a time. Whatever it was, Watson found himself leaning against the wall of the building moments later holding his aching ribs as he laughed.

"This is your fault, you know," Holmes said angrily, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as if wishing to have somewhere better to plant them. "I'm happy you're so—"

"My fault?" Watson asked, losing some of his humor. "I'm not the one that invited a killer over for tea this evening."

"But you couldn't even manage to stop him from escaping!" Holmes snapped. "You were right there! You—"

"You're the one that instigated—"

"You could have—"

"I was trying to keep him from—"

"Your uselessness astounds even me!"

Whatever else Watson was about to say ended right there. Closing his mouth with a click, he glared daggers at Holmes, his face flushed with fury. He ground his teeth in an effort not to retaliate. No doubt, there was more coming.

"You're a half-crippled veteran that can't practice the profession for which you were trained! You can't even perform the most simple tasks without bungling them miserably! And your constant meddling into my affairs is unseemly! If I wanted that kind of assistance, I'd call on those idiots at the Yard!"

Holmes' chest heaved as he attempted to reign in his temper. By this point Watson had gone pale to his lips. His glare had transformed into something so cold Holmes found himself wanting to step back. He'd yet to see Watson's temper, though he knew the man possessed one. However, at this point he was fairly itching for something to swing at and almost welcomed the exchange.

"Are you quite finished, Mr. Holmes?"

Taken aback by this flat, icy tone rigid with control, Holmes practically deflated. His anger evaporated like so much London fog in the morning sun, he stood staring blankly for a moment before nodding.

"Good evening, then," Watson grated out as politely as he could manage.

Holmes could only stare mutely in absolute bewilderment as Watson turned to shuffle limpingly in the opposite direction they had been heading. Disgusted with the night's events, he turned to resume his previously interrupted course toward Scotland Yard.

~o~o~o~

For nearly two blocks, it was all Watson could do to keep from turning around and taking a swing at Holmes. By this time his traitorous thoughts had turned these words over and over in his mind. He knew what he was. He knew all too well what his limits were now. He just had not realized what sort of impact it was having on his flatmate. They had yet to discuss the impending financial situation. And now it was a moot point, as they would both be looking for new lodgings elsewhere come morning.

Putting aside his self-loathing, Watson considered where he was to go now. For tonight, he would at least need a safe place to sleep. He had no doubts his lack of sleep the night before combined with the day's events had been at least partially to blame for his current state of affairs. Reaching into his pockets, he attempted to locate his wallet certain he still had that on his person, at least. A moment later his fingers encountered the ring he had all but forgotten.

Staring at the object in his hands, he cursed silently. Holmes was on his way to Scotland Yard at that very moment. He would need both rings as evidence if he was going to convince the inspectors there was a case against Mr. Blessington. Forcefully shoving the ring back into his pocket, he turned himself back in the direction he had known Holmes to be headed. The idea of leaving Holmes to hunt him down for it never even crossed his mind.

Only a couple of blocks from where he had left Holmes but still quite a ways from Scotland Yard, he was surprised to hear the voice of the very man he was looking for coming from a darkened alley.

"As you can see, I have nothing to give you gentlemen," Holmes was stating calmly, but forcefully. "If you will allow me to move along, we can forget this incident altogether."

"You see, it's just not that easy," another voice spoke up in amusement. "Toffs don't walk around this time of night without—"

"I'll tell you again," Holmes cut in warningly, "I have been evicted and am now on my way to Scotland Yard. My wallet is currently in my former landlady's possession."

Watson peeked carefully around the edge of the building. His heart sank as he found Holmes facing off alone against five ruffians. One was almost as large as Mr. Blessington. A second was no larger than Watson had been in the years before his military service, and the other three looked like little more than youths. Watson sized them up swiftly, his mind already calculating the odds. Even had Holmes been in possession of one of his weighted walking sticks, he likely would not have been able to take all five at once.

Their pack leader stepped forward menacingly, saying something Watson had already disregarded as important as his mind fell into a familiar mode of readiness he had not felt in some time.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he addressed, stepping into the alley. "I believe Mr. Holmes said he had no intention of complying with your demands. If you will kindly let us be on our way to Scotland Yard, he is willing to forget this, as am I."

"Looky what we got here, another toff," the brutish man piped up almost happily.

Watson nodded, ignoring Holmes' stunned expression. "Perhaps, but I doubt you'll find me an easy mark," he warned them, hefting his cane as he felt the familiar calm that typically fell on him before action. "I will warn you, that I am familiar with the rules of engagement regarding combat; but experience has taught me far more."

Seeing them moving into attack positions, the three younger seemed to like the idea of picking on the crippled man they now saw before them. Smiling malevolently, Watson burst into action even as the other two turned their attention on Holmes. With the amount of abuse his body had already sustained in the last day, Watson knew he was going to be hard pressed even with these three untrained pups. Balancing most of his weight on his good leg, he used the cane and game shoulder as counterweight. Nonetheless, he swept through them viciously swinging his cane in all directions only managing to avoid the worst of their blows as they punched and kicked at him. With two on the ground, he glanced up to find Holmes dancing around the other two larger men as if engaged in nothing more sinister than fisticuffs.

Watson turned his attention back toward this last opponent who had seen the others fall so easily and grown wary. They sized each other up as Watson shifted only enough to give the appearance of movement while keeping the weight off his already trembling leg. Patiently he watched, looking for an opening. However, with his lack of training, the younger man failed to realize Watson was backing them ever so slowly closer and closer towards Holmes. Wanting to put his back to an ally as he had been trained, Watson drew the boy closer hoping for an opening. In moments, his patience was rewarded as he spotted an opening. He winced at the resounding crack and resultant scream as the weighted end of his cane impacted the young man's arm.

Almost at the same time, he sensed more than heard Holmes' step falter as he slipped in the muck lining the floor of the alley. His brief glance turned into a full spin as he watched Holmes fall to one knee with the largest of the men raising a knife. Not wasting time on thought, Watson reacted instinctively. Lowering his right shoulder, he slammed into the man's ribcage with crushing force as he dove over Holmes' kneeling form. Even as they impacted the wall behind the brute, he felt the knife stabbing into the flesh of his back with explosive agony as it caught on bone. He only barely managed to keep from crying out as the force of the blow forced him to his knees. He choked on a gasp as the knife was jerked painfully back upward. Wasting no time, he sent his cane upward behind it. Hearing the knife skittering somewhere off into the darkness, he attempted to regain his balance and his feet only to be kicked viciously in the ribs and sent sprawling. His cane went one direction as he fell the other.

Holmes thrust himself upward fist-first at his remaining opponent landing a solid right to the man's midsection that had him doubled over gasping for air. In seconds, he landed several successive blows that felled him. The man rolled away from Holmes before regaining his feet and joining his companions in a flight from alley. Turning back around, he found Watson lying on the ground as a booted foot swung toward his midsection. Holmes winced in sympathy as Watson shifted several inches attempting to absorb the impact and grapple with the man's ankle. Having never seen this side of his flatmate before, he was rather astounded as Watson gripped, twisted, and kicked simultaneously in a maneuver that left the man staggering backward before turning to flee the alley himself.

For one, brief moment, Holmes suddenly understood how it was such a wreck of a man had managed to survive the bloody and horrifying combat all around him. Obviously there had been more to his youth than just medical training. However, these thoughts were quickly swept away as he watched Watson curl in on himself lying in the filth and mud of the alley. Staggering a little bit as he felt the sudden rush of adrenaline wearing on him, Holmes fell to his knees beside the gasping figure.

Instantly Watson's head shot up. An expression twisted with rage crossed his features for a moment before relaxing into relief at spying his flatmate. Before Holmes had a chance to process this, it morphed again into concern as Watson reached out taking him by the arm.

"Are you hurt?"

It took Holmes' dazed mind a moment to process this sudden concern as his mind began to catch up to the events of the last five minutes or so. "No," he assured quickly.

Again Watson sagged with relief. "Good..." he whispered wearily.

Holmes watched as the doctor rallied his strength and pushed upward with his good arm. It was as if the man's legs refused to obey when he attempted to struggle to get his good one underneath him. Knowing how badly the man's war wounds hampered his ability to regain his feet unaided even after all this time, Holmes took him by the arm to assist. A moment later he sat back in surprise when Watson roughly tugged his arm way, flatly refusing any assistance. Instead, he crawled a couple of feet toward the wall taking his cane with him.

His mind reeling, Holmes stared blankly for a moment at the struggling doctor feeling the first twinges of admiration and irritation. The stubborn man refused assistance, but had not hesitated in joining the fray that had left him in such battered condition.

"Why did you—"

As if having anticipated the question, Watson used his free hand to hold out the ring that had been in his pocket. Staring in wonder, Holmes carefully took the ring and pocketed it himself. His swirling, confused thoughts refused to reconcile this battered, combat-experienced man with the quiet, polite flatmate he had come to know. As Watson pushed away from the wall, he stumbled slightly when his leg threatened yet again to not support him. Holmes reached out reflexively to take him by the elbow, only then noticing that nearly the entire right side of his back was soaked with blood.

"Watson!"

"I know!" he growled, yanking his arm away from Holmes yet again.

His back rigid, Watson forced his legs to comply as he used the other hand to support himself on the wall. Carefully he began to limp toward the mouth of the alley back in the direction of the open street. His mind already turned in the direction of where he would be able to seek medical help at this time of the evening.

"We have to get you to a hospital," Holmes said, waving off his flatmate's prideful attempts to maneuver unaided out of the alley.

"No hospital."

"You've been stabbed! We'll—"

"I said, no hospital. It's shallow. I will go see Dr. Cummings," he said through gritted teeth, stumbling yet again.

"I'll go get a cab."

Huffing angrily at the stubborn man forcing himself to make his way out of the alley, he turned to do just as he'd said, ignoring the angry cries behind him. Minutes later he returned with the cab just as Watson had finally made it to the end of the alley. Only when he stepped into the light of the gas lamp was Holmes able to fully take in the man's disheveled and filthy appearance. But that was not what caught his attention so much as the warning look those green eyes threw at him when he moved toward Watson in an attempt to assist once more. For a moment it almost seemed as if the doctor's pride was going to override his good sense as he considered rejecting the offer of the cab.

Knowing as well as Holmes that he would never make it on foot in his condition, Watson finally relented. He again waved off his flatmate's offer of assistance as he forced himself up and into the cab. The driver eyed the two of them skeptically while this silent exchange took place. However, the addition of some extra coins Holmes threw at him on his way into the cab along with the promise of more for hurrying was enough to soothe his concerns.

Holmes eyed Watson's thin, rigid form in the seat beside him as he turned to prevent the stab wound from coming in contact with the back of the seat. Cocked slightly away from him, Holmes was unable to read the man's expression as he sat silently. His face had taken on a deathly pallor and his lips were drawn into a fine line he could only just see from the profile.

"Why?" Holmes blurted out the question that had been causing his mind to stutter and stall.

Why would you do such a thing?

Why would you come back?

Why do you care?

Why didn't you go fetch a constable?

Why? Why? Why?

Watson turned his head only slightly, not even bothering to face the detective. He grated through teeth clenched in pain, "I apologize if my meddling has caused you further inconvenience, Mr. Holmes. And to answer your question, I'm not in the habit of abandoning friends."

Though there was no accusation behind those words, Holmes mind once again froze on a single word.

"Friend?"

This time Watson only grunted in reply. Taking in this image and attempting to process the man sitting beside him in the swiftly moving cab, Holmes' mind snapped backward in time to their earliest days of tenancy in their new flat.

~o~o~o~

Holmes surveyed their newly arranged sitting room with no small pride. He and Watson had spent the better part of the day arranging the house to their liking, but the sitting room most of all. Initially, Holmes had disliked the idea of a flatmate at all. For all his encounters with humans on a daily basis, he had yet to meet one he could tolerate for more than a few hours at a time. The idea of having to share a living space with one had been abhorrent to him. But, in the face of his need of better quarters and a place to work, he had been forced to accept the man that now sat contentedly in a chair beside the fire.

This frail-seeming broken wreck of a man could not be much older than himself, he knew. But the weariness that seeped from him in waves gave him an aura of age that Holmes could not quite puzzle out. He knew enough of the man to guess at his background, but little more than that. He knew of the crushing defeat at Maiwand and could guess at the devastation the man had suffered at the hands of the disease that followed. He seemed quiet enough, but with military types one never really knew.

"I will, of course, be needing the use of the sitting room from time to time as a consulting room," Holmes informed him, seating himself in the other chair beside the fire.

Dr. Watson glanced at him briefly, nodding genially. "Of course."

"I hope that will not bother you overmuch. And, of course, when you are in need of the sitting room to entertain your own guests, I simply need enough notice to make other arrangements."

The doctor waved this away with a little half smile as he turned his gaze back toward the fire. "You need not worry about that."

"Is the environment unsuitable to your guests?" Holmes asked, secretly hoping this was the case; anything to deter the man from bringing more people into his personal space.

"Not at all," Dr. Watson assured him, suddenly seeming very far away from here. "I have no friends."

Holmes' guess about the man's mind being somewhere else was proven correct seconds later as the doctor's hand reached unconsciously toward his shoulder. It wasn't the statement itself or even the gesture that tugged at something inside the detective. In a sudden flash of understanding, Holmes realized why it was the man had no friends.

Then Dr. Watson shook himself visibly as if forcing his mind away from the memories. Holmes watched as the doctor flashed his new flatmate an assuring grin behind the mustache before turning his gaze to take in the scene of their sitting room once again. He appeared perfectly content with their surroundings. For the first time, Holmes felt a curiosity about this quiet gentleman that now shared his living space. He wondered at the experiences that had shaped such a person.

Days later he had acquired the reports and information on his new flatmate and the Battle of Maiwand from his elder brother, Mycroft. What he read was enough to spawn nightmares with his vivid imagination. He could not even begin to imagine having lived through such a horror. And yet, the kind-hearted, soft-spoken man he now shared living quarters with here in London had done just that.

The former army surgeon had not abandoned his friends and patients even when faced with the possibility of a horrific death. But they had been left behind, likely in pieces, on the sands of Afghanistan, nonetheless.