Title: Keeper of the Light
Author: KCS
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Rating: K+
Word Count: 2741
Warnings: mentions of minor off-screen character death, general sadness
Summary: My entry into the LiveJournal community Watsons_Woes, Challenge 002. We had to, in some form or fashion, use the line "I am lost without my Boswell" in a oneshot that also indicated loss in general, of some sort.
Author's Notes: N/A


The darkness from the rainy night pressed inward upon the room, choking me with unseen dread regarding the news I bore.

"I am truly sorry," I said sadly, wishing even as the words automatically left my mouth that they would be more than empty, useless platitudes. "There was nothing more I could do."

"What?" Our client had leapt to his feet to face me, his fresh young face now hollow with the sickness that only grief can generate. "You – you told me that she would be all right, that you would see to her!"

I winced, noting from my peripheral that Holmes had got to his feet, watching the distrait young man warily. Indeed I had spoken as he stated, for there had been no time for ought else; after the young woman had been surprised and consequently struck down by our unexpectedly audacious – and treacherous – opponent, Holmes had dashed after the villain, ordering the young fellow to accompany him and me to care for the injured young lady. What else was I supposed to say to the man besides the obligatory "Go on, and I shall take care of her, I promise."?

"I cannot stay the courses of nature, lad," I spoke quietly, trying to quiet the budding dread that threatened to sap the young man of all his vitality, and his composure as well. I felt my eyes sting as I continued. "There was nothing else I could do – and believe me, I would have given anything in the world to have been able to help her."

"And – and the baby?" the young fellow whispered with a deathly calm that sent a warning speeding through my mind, though I had no time to pay heed to it.

I shook my head, blinking once to clear my vision. "I am truly sorry; it was already too late by the time I – "

I stepped back on the instant as I saw another warning flare of seething rage. Holmes and the young fellow had apprehended the man responsible for surprising the lady, and the criminal was now in custody of Scotland Yard. But the victory was a hollow one, having come at a terrible price, and I did not blame our client for what he was feeling.

Indeed, I knew all too well just exactly what he was feeling, and this man was young, a mere child really – far too young to be forced to endure such a grief.

"It wasn't too late! You told me you would take care of her – she was still alive when I left!" the fellow cried furiously, each accusatory word twisting my heart even more.

"Carter, that's enough," Holmes cautioned.

"No! You could have done something!" our client fairly shouted at me now in his growing emotional state. "You are a doctor, for heaven's sake! What kind of a physician are you?!"

Perhaps it was my own sense of loss and grief, or just exhaustion from the long, grueling case and even longer hours of the night, that blinded me to the extent of Carter's distraught condition – but whatever the cause, I was completely unprepared to again blink to clear my eyesight after this verbal onslaught, only to see my view obscured by a well-aimed fist, aimed straight at my face and made the more direct by the blind rage that fueled it.

I had no time to dodge or block the blow, so shocked was I, and took the force of impact square to the mouth and jaw. I stumbled backward against the wall, seeing stars for a moment, but did not lose consciousness for the young man was hardly capable of throwing so powerful a punch. After the momentary tingling in my ears had subsided, I became vaguely aware that blood was seeping at the corner of my lips and hazily heard my name shouted from somewhere to my left.

Then young but strong hands were grasping me by the shoulders, my left of which already ached abominably from the inclement weather, and were shaking me quite forcefully; a voice shouted invectives that I was still too stunned to understand properly, until suddenly my vision cleared just as the grip was torn away.

Holmes yanked our emotionally distressed client from me, his face a picture of disgust and loathing at the outburst, and drew back his fist to strike some sense into the barely struggling, near-hysterical young man.

For a moment I coughed hoarsely. "Holmes, don't!" I finally gasped, only just in time to prevent our client from being knocked senseless by a quite angry consulting detective.

My friend's eyes glinted back at me dangerously, though they softened as I staggered back to balance my equilibrium, rubbing a hand over my mouth to wipe away the trickle of blood. His fist remained poised, even as our client broke down into deep, shuddering sobs that nearly shook him free of Holmes's iron grip.

"Don't," I repeated with more firmness, walking slowly over and laying a hand upon the rigid muscles of his arm, gently tugging our weeping client free from his tense grip. "It's all right, old chap. I should know."

I was speaking to Holmes, not to our client, but apparently the young man took it as reassurance all the same, for his legs practically folded underneath him and he fell, weeping bitterly, against me. Holmes's wide-eyed stare followed me as I knelt with the young fellow and patted the his back gently, allowing the emotions to run their course (though in a much less physical manner than they had been five minutes before, thankfully for my state of health).

Finally our client gave a hiccoughing sob and suddenly jerked free of my grip, as if he had been burned by the contact. "Dr. Watson, I – I am s-so sorry," he gasped brokenly, more stammering than speaking in his incoherent grief. "I – I have n-no idea what came over me…"

"I do," I replied simply, extending a hand to help the man to his feet. "Put it from your mind now, lad."

The young fellow coughed into the handkerchief I pulled from my sleeve to offer to him, whispering a shamed word of thanks and hiding his face in it for a moment.

For the next thirty seconds, I was acutely aware of the relentless ticking of the clock upon the stately mantel; indicative that Time is and always has been the one force no man is capable of besting despite all our wishes and prayers. Finally Carter choked back a lingering sob and rubbed his eyes.

"May I see her?" he whispered in a voice more dull and still than the room beyond had been when I had left it a few minute before.

My heart clenched painfully in my chest, and I could find no words of comfort or even agreement, allowing a sad nod to suffice for answer. The young man nodded back, and then dejectedly turned to enter the bedroom, his shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of the entire world – and rightfully so, for it had just come crashing down around him in irretrievably shattered fragments.

I watched until the door had closed softly behind him, and then let my own shoulders slump in weariness. From behind me I heard tentative footsteps, ones that stopped at a safe distance from me.

"You are a more forgiving man than I, Doctor." The voice was calm, collected – by no means emotional, and by no stretch even comprehending.

"No, I am not," I sighed, marveling at the hollow blankness of my tone. "I…just know what drives a man to that extreme, that is all."

I heard a swift inhalation behind me – he had taken a sudden breath through his nose – but did not linger to discover if my small deduction was correct, for I felt that I was rather close to fraying the thread that held my composure in check at the moment, struggling to contain and restrain Memory and all her treacherous devices, designed to break a man's will and sanity if he were not strong enough to prevent the eventuality.

I walked over to the window and stood, watching the rain beat down upon the small bit of mud-spattered grass below that was still visible in the moonlight. The fat drops landed in steady succession upon the glass and slid down to the sill, as if the entire world were weeping for the injustice of it all. Behind me in the glass's fantasy-mirror I could see the cheerful fire, dwindling down into a subdued glow that was barely warmer than the gas-lamps.

A thin shadow moved between the latter's reflection and the window-pane, just as a particularly large drop thumped an inch from where my forehead rested against the chilled glass.

I hoped that Holmes would think that the rain-streams on the pane were merely being reflected on my face; all he needed at the denouement of a case was for me to be less than cheerful, and to fail in staving off his ennui as long as was humanly possible.

But simultaneously I felt a strong hand upon my shoulder and something soft and smelling of rather strong tobacco and chemicals slipped into my clenched hand. Through clouded eyes I perceived it was his handkerchief, clean despite the peculiar odours indicative of all his clothing, and I blinked once before raising my head.

"Your mouth is still bleeding," he explained, though I knew that was not the only reason for his proffering it to me. "How badly did he hurt you?"

"Not badly," I replied hoarsely, dabbing at the corner of my mouth and then, surreptitiously, at my eyes. "He's too young, and was too distracted, to do much harm."

"Harm enough," Holmes whispered with a gentleness that made me pause and wonder how much he truly knew, while his hand tightened upon my shoulder as if trying by his formidable strength alone to quell my quivering.

I sighed, allowing my rigid posture to slump under his understanding grip. "He's going to need to be watched, I think, Holmes," I ventured quietly. "With a reaction that profound, he needs to not be left alone."

"Like you were."

The breath completely fled my lungs at the unexpected, but accurate, addendum to my statement, offered in a tone of deep-seated, miserable regret that I had never before heard from his lips, even in fifteen years of association.

"I…" I gasped slightly for a breath, my head spinning slightly, and heard a murmured apology.

"I am sorry, Watson; that was thoughtless of me." I swallowed and closed my eyes, waiting for my voice and senses to return, as he continued. "I shall see to it, my dear fellow; you have done enough for one night."

I nodded wordlessly, not trusting my verbal reactions just yet.

"Then I would like for you to return to Baker Street, and get some warm and dry clothing," he continued, for my attire was still damp from our run across the lawn earlier, when we had seen our quarry breaking into the house unexpectedly. "I shall wait for Lestrade to come back, and then meet you there."

"Very well," I answered mechanically, again holding the handkerchief to my mouth and hoping my hand was steadier than I felt. "Mind you allow Carter to release those emotions, Holmes – believe me, he truly needs to."

"I shall, but I should prefer you not be the target of his anger for future demonstrations."

"Anger must have a target, to truly be released," I alleged bitterly. "And it is better to target a sympathetic person than to turn the rage and desire to inflict harm back upon one's self. He must blame someone, and it is better that person be I than for him to place the blame upon himself."

I had gotten my gloves on and was slowly donning my coat, when Holmes's voice froze me into a rigid position with one arm half-way through the damp sleeve.

"Are you speaking from experience, Watson?" The inquiry was soft and gentle, but brooked no possibility of evasion.

I slowly, very slowly, finished putting on the coat and painstakingly flipped the lapels right-side out before turning to pick the symbol of my failure for the night – my medical bag – and look at him. He was standing by the rain-wept window still, one elbow in the palm of his other hand and a finger pressed against his thin lips in a familiar gesture that I knew signified worry, not nerves.

"Yes, I am," I answered quietly, and left the room amid his sad silence, the softness of his damp handkerchief still clutched in the palm of my glove.

--

Well after midnight, amid a crashing thunderstorm that blacked out nearly all of the city, Sherlock Holmes finally returned to Baker Street, drenched and unhappy in mind and spirit. Rarely had he felt so unutterably disconsolate, so helpless, as he had this night. Yes, the case had been concluded and the villain captured – but at what a cost! Failure would have been preferable to causing such pain for success.

He could already feel the dreaded lethargy creeping over him like a shadow ruthlessly growing in the setting sun, as he shed his dripping coat and climbed the steps. He entered the sitting room with the expectation that Watson would have had the sense to get warm and dry, perhaps have a pot of Mrs. Hudson's excellent tea, and be curled up by the fire to await his return to discuss the case.

He was mildly surprised, and more than mildly troubled, to find that the sitting room was empty, the fire nearly dead, and the whole house silent and dark as a cemetery just after a funeral.

The comparison resurrected the night's events in ghostly vividness; the case, the client, the tragedy recent and the tragedy not as recent.

He had once, in a fit of jovial sentimentality, said that he was lost without his Boswell, and in fact had forgotten the foolish statement until he had read it with great amusement in the Strand magazine while in France a few years before. However maudlin the sentiment, it was nevertheless true; Watson was his ship's lighthouse, the steady beacon that prevented his mind from dashing itself to pieces on the rocks of boredom and preserving his sanity from being drowned in a sea of never-ending turmoil, a maelstrom of uncertainty and emotion that he would never fully comprehend.

What he had not known then, and what he knew now, was that his Boswell had lost everything – wife, child, friend, health, work, even his desire to write – and yet had not broken under the strain, then or now. Tonight he had used that void to comfort another fellow man, to guide another ship past the shoals of grief and despair.

But even the strongest and most balanced of men sometimes needed a reminder that they were not alone; a keeper was necessary for the lighthouse, so to speak, to see that the lamp stayed lit.

He frowned sadly at this glaring realisation, slowly donned his dressing-gown and slippers, and then ascended his way, silently as a stalking cat, to the upper bedroom.

The door was ajar, the gas a faint glow, and Watson apparently asleep.

He entered, just to make certain, and perceived in a rapid string of forlorn deductions the events following his friend's return to the house. A small packet of letters, tied with a blue ribbon – Watson's wife's favorite colour, he remembered – lay beside an open journal, which he of course refrained from looking at and quickly closed to stave off the temptation to do so. He reverently moved the photograph away from the half-full cup of cold tea on the desk, to prevent any careless spillage, and then extinguished the guttering candle.

Then he stood for a sad moment, wishing that he had been able to do something to comfort his only friend's grief and loneliness – but he had never been good at soothing grief, or at comforting loneliness, and probably never would be. How could he see that another man's light did not go out, when he fought a consistent and constant battle himself against the darkness?

It was not until he worked the twisted blanket out from under Watson's unconscious arm that he realised his friend was still clutching his handkerchief in the hand curled under his head.

Then again, it only took one small spark to light a flame. Perhaps that could be enough.