Notes: Thanks Duffy for catching the page break I missed in the last chapter! I sometimes forget that Fanfiction doesn't transfer them over from Word Documents and that I have to add them in myself, and I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.
Four
It was after dark when Holmes reached Watson's, but he urged the maid that he must see the man at once and she led him to his study as she went to fetch the doctor.
Holmes skimmed the titles that Watson held, finding a spot dedicated solely to those that Holmes had given him before he had moved in with Mary. Before they had been untouched, for Watson had not much cared for the reading Holmes indulged in, but now their spines were bent and their covers worn. Holmes smiled a little to himself at that.
"Good evening, sir," he heart Watson say behind him, suspicion laced in his voice. "Is there something I may help you with?"
Holmes turned around and smiled at Watson. Putting on a croaky voice, he spoke with a lower-class accent. "Indeed you can, sir," he told him, sitting in one of the chairs as Watson limped behind his desk. "You are a doctor, are you not?"
Watson paused, nodding. "I am."
"I was hoping you would be willing to assist me with something," Holmes told him, trying not to acknowledge the pain from the bullet wound.
"And what might that be?" Watson sounded a little annoyed now. Holmes looked up at him, took in his features. Bags under his eyes from not sleeping. Dullness to his features from his current lack of emotion. And a few gray hairs lining his temples, despite the fact that he was still young.
"You see, sir, I have a most intriguing case," Holmes told him, looking down at his hand. "A close friend of mine has an illness. I was wondering if you could help me diagnose it." Without looking up, he jerked his head towards the bookshelf. "Your book, Diseases of Mideastern Asia, might be of some help."
Watson narrowed his eyes, not quite getting where Holmes was going. But he turned around anyways, having to pull a footstool to reach the top shelf of his books. It gave Holmes enough time to pull of his disguise, quickly depositing it into the bag he had brought in beside him, and stood up, flashing a thin smile in the doctor's direction.
Watson brought the book down and set it on the table, raising his eyes to look at Holmes. Something like bewilderment flashed in his face, which turned to utter astonishment. No matter how stony-faced Watson liked to believe he looked, he was but an open book to Holmes.
And then the poor man fainted.
Holmes had just enough time to lurch forward and grab his friend, catching him before he hit his head on the table. His wound screamed; he merely ignored the pain. It was not quite the reaction Holmes had expected, but it caused him to giggle like a schoolgirl at the irony of it.
Holmes could not wipe the grin from his face as he set Watson down on the settee and undid his collar. So long he had been without his dear friend; so much they had missed. And now that no one was in any immediate danger, things could resume to normal. Or as close to normal as they could achieve, Holmes having faked his death and all.
Two years had passed since the incident and Reichenbach. A little over a year since Mary's death. Watson had suffered alone for many months, and Holmes did feel awful for that. His mind felt dizzy from the blood loss he knew he was experiencing, but it was still clear enough to make out thoughts and emotions.
He walked over to Watson's liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy, and immediately washed one down for himself. The other he brought to Watson, setting it on his lips and letting it trickle into his mouth.
It did not take long for the doctor to come to. He resumed that astonished look, and merely gaped at the living ghost in front of him.
"My dear Watson," Holmes said, his head resting on his chin, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
He found himself at odds again when Watson punched him. He had not expected that reaction either. Not hard, but with enough force to make him see stars.
"You had no idea that I would be so affected?" Watson cried. "Holmes, what are you, blathering mad?"
Holmes opened his mouth to answer, but Watson spoke before he could.
"No, don't answer that question. We all know the answer already. Do you have any idea what you put us all through? What you put me through? How in the devil did you survive that fall? I ought to kill you for all you've put us through!"
He reached for Holmes, and the detective slunk back defensively. But it was unnecessary, for instead of striking him again Watson pulled him into an embrace.
Holmes cried out involuntarily when Watson put pressure on his wound, and he immediately drew back. His brow creased in worry when he saw the blood staining Holmes's shirt, and he grabbed his hand.
"You're hurt," he stated.
Holmes smirked at him. "Always stating the obvious," he joked.
Watson rushed over to the other side of the room, grabbing his medical bag. "What did you do to yourself?"
"I saved your life, actually," Holmes told him, removing his shirt and lying on his other side. He was facing the doctor, preferring not to look at the hurt in his eyes. When Watson just stood there, staring at Holmes, he snapped, "Are you going to stand there all day or help?"
Watson broke out of his trance, and immediately set to work on cleaning all of the blood. "Sorry," he offered. "I keep thinking that I've been visited by a ghost."
Holmes had nothing to say to that. By the amount of time it took cleaning, Holmes guessed that there was more than he had originally thought. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him, days without sleeping finally taking their toll.
"I'm sorry I struck you," Watson mumbled.
Holmes shrugged. "I'm sorry I did not let you know sooner."
"You must share with me the details of what happened as soon as you're patched up and rested," he insisted. "I need to be sure I'm not delusional."
There was a sad edge to his tone, and Holmes continued to avoid looking at his face.
"You're awfully thin."
Holmes couldn't help a smirk, the familiar remark bringing some comfort to the both of them.
Watson gave him a sedative so that he could remove the bullet, but even through the drugs Holmes could feel the pain setting his mind on edge. He sat quietly for much of the time, concentrating on Watson's steady breathing to calm his mind.
"I'm sorry," Holmes mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow he had his face turned towards.
"For what, Holmes?" Watson seemed genuinely confused by the comment.
Holmes closed his eyes, avoiding Watson's gaze. "For acting impetuously, and not seeking your aid before I threw Moriarty and myself over the falls."
He could almost feel Watson smile at him, and Holmes opened his eyes as he set a hand down on his hair. Watson smiled down at him, sad eyes looking happier than Holmes had seen them for a while.
"Dear Holmes, you needn't be sorry," he told him, though his eyes smarted with a faint trace of tears. "You did only what you thought was best for the world."
"Damn the world," Holmes growled, causing uncertainty to flash through Watson's eyes. "Prison would do him fine if it had been the world I was concerned for." Watson pulled his hand away from his hair and looked at him confusedly. Holmes sighed and looked down once more. "He threatened to kill you and Mary. I simply could not let that happen."
Watson was outraged. "And that's the reason you sacrificed yourself? Because of some threat Moriarty uttered?"
"My dear boy, you know as well as any Moriarty is more than capable of acting on—"
"Holmes!"
"Yes, Watson?"
Watson was seething with emotion. Such a sensitive fellow. "Holmes, that is among the worst reasons I have ever heard for suicide!"
"Hosh posh, we both know that's a lie. In fact, it's one of the better ones."
Watson gritted his teeth and grabbed his face with one hand. "It's no excuse! You didn't have to kill yourself!"
Holmes pouted. "It was the only way."
"No, Holmes, it wasn't!" Watson yelled. "I understand that you were injured and that you couldn't have bested him, but I could have helped you. We could have fought him together. You even just said so yourself!"
"Watson, I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation I found myself in. There was no room for error. Say that Moran had come out at that moment. We would not be at favourable odds. The way I did it was the only sure way."
"It wasn't so sure if you survived, now was it?"
Holmes looked down darkly. "I was not expecting to survive that fall. It is purely chance that I did."
He was surprised when Watson chuckled, and scowled at him. "Dear fellow, what may I ask is so amusing?"
Watson smiled down at him, tears glimmering in his eyes. "The fact that for once you are not trying to claim all of the credit for your escape. That you would actually admit to fate."
Holmes felt his scowl deepen, and he shot Watson a glare.
Running his hand over Holmes's head once more, Watson laughed again. It was such a carefree sound, one that Holmes guessed he had not made for many a month.
Holmes couldn't help but to grin a bit at that. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry."
"Think nothing of it."
Watson's face showed a sad smile. Holmes smirked as well, but stopped abruptly with a hiss of pain when his side throbbed.
"You've lost a lot of blood," Watson told him, a worried edge to his voice.
"Oh hush. Not enough for any serious threat."
Watson frowned, and Holmes gave him a weak smile for reassurance. He guessed with his sudden appearance their last adventure together would be brought up and still sore from Watson's memory.
There was a clatter on the table as Watson dropped the bullet into a tray. He picked up the needle and thread, and after cleaning the wound once more, set to work on stitching it.
"You're lucky, Holmes," he told his friend. "He missed."
Holmes snorted. "Of course. I always am."
Watson shook his head. "More lives than a cat."
"Oh, the numbers don't even compare."
They sat in comfortable silence once more. Perhaps comfortable was not the right word for someone getting an open wound in their side stitched, but it was as good a word as any. He was more than used to being mended by Watson—years ago, before Watson had met Mary, he was stitching up Holmes every week. Neither complained—it was good practice for Watson, not that the doctor would ever turn his friend down, and Holmes was just happy to have someone patch him up.
When the careful snip of scissors and the dropping of the needle on the tray announced that Watson was done, Holmes opened his eyes once more and smiled at him.
"Thank you, dear friend."
Not even he could evade sleep forever, and he fell victim right there and then.
