This is not the end, but it is the absolute last that I have written up. It got delayed because, until recently, I didn't know how to "package" all this properly. But, yes. As a heads-up, in this part Holmes poignantly brings to life the Victorian equivalent of a twelve-year-old girl. It's a little ridiculous.
A Change in Circumstances
Holmes doubted he had ever breathed easier in his life than he did once finally ensconced in his new rooms at Baker Street with his doctor and a formidable landlady named Hudson. London teemed around him, pulsing and exuberant and filthy and brilliant, and he had missed her more than he was capable of saying.
The landlady at Montague had been remarkably complacent about Holmes' departure from her charming estate, only insisting that he pay off the remainder of his lease before removing his belongings. They had all been present and accounted for – excepting a few miscellaneous vials and some socks – and despite the fact that the furnishing of that room combined for the bulk of Holmes' worldly possessions, it took only two crates and a carriage to move it all to his new digs. He then spent the ensuing three days roaming the city he loved, reenergizing himself with her bustling vigor as he hunted up some of his contacts and old customers, to inform them of his change in address. He also held a small, fledgling hope that the improvement in neighborhoods would inspire more clients to seek out his help, knowing that the threat of being waylaid by nefarious characters in a dingy alley was significantly reduced.
It wasn't until Holmes was leaping up the seventeen steps to his new sitting room that he realized he had in fact been absent for a full seventy-two hour period and that perhaps he should have informed his new living companion about his plans to do such, although in his defense he had mentioned on the day they had moved in together that he had a habit of keeping somewhat randomized timetables.
"Yes, I realize you probably hadn't intended to disappear for days and not even bother to drop a line and allow me to worry myself to distraction, but you certainly appear to have a knack for it all the same!" Watson had growled when Holmes, a bit shamefaced, attempted to present his argument.
"I do apologize, old boy, but I truly hadn't expected to be gone quite so long."
Watson looked at him as though he were daft. "You hadn't expected to be gone that . . . so you simply lost track of time, then? For three days, Holmes?"
He was certain that had it been anyone else, a pithy and whip-sharp reply would have presented itself with ease. Since it was Watson, however, Holmes was capable of little more than a feeling of awkwardness and futility.
"More or less."
Watson's mouth thinned so drastically as to be lost under his mustache, his entire face scrunched with disbelief and he looked about to question Holmes further, but forcibly stopped himself with a very deliberate, very deep breath.
"All right. Do you lose track of time very often?"
"Occasionally, yes," the detective said, realizing any sort of prevarication at this point would only exasperate Watson more. "Most frequently when I am out gathering particulars for a case, however in this specific instance I had some business contacts to catch up with following my rather extended holiday from the city."
"I see."
The doctor clearly wished to hold on to his frustration, but after another heavy sigh he relaxed into his seat some, and when he looked up at Holmes again his expression was less flint-like, softer around the edges.
"I owe you an apology as well, it seems. I've been a little out of sorts these past few days, though it isn't entirely your fault. It is significantly your fault, mind, but it's hardly fair of me to take all of my frustrations out on you."
He offered Holmes a wan smile, then, which made something slightly desperate clench in Holmes' stomach.
"Do you regret taking digs with me?"
It was out before Holmes could manage to shove it back down, and he resented the plaintive dread he could hear in his tone.
Watson started, blue eyes gone wide. "No! What on earth makes you think that?"
"I've brought you to an unfamiliar home in a city you barely know and then abandoned you shortly after arriving, you have dark circles under your eyes and a tension in your jaw speaking of discomfort and exhaustion so you clearly have not been sleeping well, so much is obvious, so you have evidently been worrying over some matter and what could be more pressing than the fact that you have recently taken up living with an eccentric madman you barely know who keeps terrible hours?"
It came out in a rush, an explosion of deductions to hopefully focus his thoughts and keep them from derailing into the mess of nerves that seemed to be waiting for just the right moment to assail his senses.
Of course this living arrangement wouldn't work. He was a fool to think it would work.
The doctor's face at that moment was uncomfortably blank, blinking his eyes as though a film had clouded over them.
"I haven't slept," he said at length, "because I've had nightmares. It's true, I am not familiar with the city or the new rooms, and that has . . . unsettled me, to an extent -" Holmes' intestines rioted further at this pronouncement and you utterly intolerable git, how could not have thought of that? screamed through his mind, but Watson ploughed on as though he knew exactly what turn Holmes' thoughts had taken, " - but all of that is neither here nor there. What concerned me most, to be honest, was that I had no idea where you were for three bloody days, and the last time you had gone off gallivanting on your own you got yourself nearly strangled to death in a den of horse thieves, so you'll forgive me if the thought of you alone for extended periods of times causes some slight apprehension on my part."
There was a wry twist to the man's lips as he said this last, and Holmes realized, with a jolt of something indecently pleasant, that Watson was no longer mad at him, had forgiven him, was now twitting him gently over his faults and didn't seem to regret his presence in the least. His chest felt oddly full for a moment and he allowed a brief smile that only seemed to make the doctor glow a bit.
Holmes thought the chap looked rather stunning in that moment. It was a notion he only permitted himself to entertain briefly before locking it away with his other, less acceptable musings.
"Have I received any post in my absence, dear doctor?" he asked instead.
Watson huffed and resumed The Times that had been resting forgotten in his lap during their tense exchange.
"Not as such, no. A telegram from your brother did arrive, however it was less an inquiry into your health then an itemized list of damages you seem to have left about the Chichester manor in your wake. He says he expects reimbursement at your soonest convenience."
Holmes grumbled as he whisked his scarf off, hurling it on the desk near the windows where it promptly slithered off onto the floor in a heap. His coat and gloves followed a similar pattern, much to his annoyance, but he was thrumming for his pipe and couldn't be bothered with such trifles.
"And to what affect did you reply?" he asked, snatching his pipe off the mantle and stuffing the bowl with shag from a Persian slipper that had been thrown at him by an aristocratic lady who had taken some exception to his grand reveal of her sordid affair with her husband's overseas business partner. It would have been an amusing memory if the woman hadn't moved from footwear to vases quite so suddenly.
"Well, I had thought it would be a bit presumptuous on my part to answer your mail, as it hadn't been addressed to me," Watson said with a dignified sniff, and Holmes swallowed a chuckle with difficulty, "but since you had been absent for three days, and the situation appeared rather important, I thought it only polite to inform Mycroft that you would gladly pay out of the wages of your next available case."
Holmes jolted at that. "Watson!" he barked, ignoring the trace of petulance.
"Oh, do stow it, Holmes, I'm quite certain your brother severely underestimated the damages on purpose," the doctor reprimanded, turning to the next page of the rag with a decisive snap.
The detective maintained his brutally affronted air for all of two seconds before he dissolved into a fit of startled laughter, removing his pipe hastily so as not to choke.
"What? What do you find so amusing?"
Holmes grinned. "Nothing, my dear Watson, nothing at all."
Watson observed him skeptically for a moment before a slow smile quirked the side of his mouth.
"Madman," he muttered, eyes drifting back to the paper. The curve of his lips made the word sound unmistakably tender, and Holmes jammed his pipe back in place to stop any potential lapses in his control from being accidentally vocalized.
This was the other reason that living with Watson was, in point of fact, a terrible idea. Having him close, all the time, whenever Holmes wanted his attention was heady and wonderful and dangerous. And Holmes desired it almost more than he'd desired anything in his life: more than the puzzles, more than the work, more than the drugs or his own genius. And it was certain to ruin him one day, possibly sooner rather than later, tear him inside out and leave him broken and confused and utterly, horribly alone. But he needed it, now, and there was nothing for it. Holmes would simply take whatever the good doctor gave him, whatever small little intimacies Watson was willing to share and be content with that.
Even though he wanted so much more.
The largest problem, however, was that he wasn't even sure what it was he wanted. Only that it was more than what he had now, and he felt confident that he would never have it. After all, if Holmes was incapable of naming it, knew not how to ask for it, then the only way he could ever have it was if Watson gave it to him, but if he couldn't even put a name to it, would he know it if it was offered? He wanted to think yes, but he couldn't be sure, and the only way to be sure would jeopardize even this innocuous start with the doctor and Holmes would not, under any circumstances, hasten the unraveling of whatever this marvelous thing was.
Because unravel it would, eventually.
So Holmes would savor what he had whilst he had it.
Life at Baker Street was almost alarmingly pleasant, and since Holmes was hard-pressed to recall any living situation he'd been in that did not lean somewhat into the category of "intolerable," he was at something of a loss. Mrs. Hudson was forthright and dutiful and just the slightest bit motherly, tsking here at an unfinished breakfast (of which there was much tsking, in Holmes' general direction) or sighing there when the doctor limped heavier than usual. She emerged from her rooms on the bottom floor with breakfast every morning, without ever being asked, and often times despite Holmes' protests that he rarely ate such a meal on the best of days and never when he had a case.
The formidable woman would merely raise a thin eyebrow, displaying an unimpressed mien more masterfully than Mycroft had ever done.
Holmes, to his horror, had been sufficiently cowed. He no longer refused the food, in her presence, but he did persist in trying to foist the majority of his meals off on Watson.
"And why have my rashers doubled in number since I last looked at this plate?" he asked of a morning, not in the slightest bit fooled.
Holmes deliberately kept his gaze on the bow of his violin in one hand, applying the rosin with the other. "I'm not at all peckish today, old boy. A new puzzle has recently come into my purview and I fear all my faculties must be bent towards that purpose."
He could feel Watson's gaze narrowing from across the table. "And what puzzle is this? I've not heard anything of it."
"I wished to assemble more of the details in my mind before I presented it to anyone, even my dear biographer."
Holmes grinned wryly at the startled look on the doctor's face, blue eyes wide and a fetching blush spreading across his cheeks as he stuttered to reply, "I – surely you don't think – not that I – I didn't – oh hang it, how the devil did you find out?"
He laughed, briefly. "Your notebook rarely leaves your side, Watson. Even were I not the world's only consulting detective, it would be difficult not to notice you sneaking it out of your coat pocket whenever a client arrives with their tale. I have noticed you writing in it as well on the occasions on which you've accompanied me to question suspects, and you always flip to those exact same pages of an evening when I am explaining the rather rudimentary denouement of that particular problem. So you are obviously keeping a log of sorts of my cases, however you mentioned during our stay in Chichester that you also wrote creatively, and since you are not quite recovered yet to resume your work as a general practitioner, it would be ludicrous to assume an imaginative mind such as yours would be content at simple rote documentation. You write on separate sheaves of blank paper on the afternoons when I am engaged with a chemical experiment or deep in thought – no doubt because you think I'm less likely to notice – while constantly referring back to the book in which you've taken notes. Thus, you are reframing the events of any given case into some kind of narrative and wish to keep your facts straight. Obviously, then, you are writing stories about me, or my cases, rather."
Watson looked momentarily astounded by the deduction, as he frequently did, expression one of open wonderment with the vague traces of bemusement around the edges. But then the nature of the deduction resettled in his mind and he flushed a darker red, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and a little worried.
Holmes frowned at this unforeseen development.
"I am sorry if they offend you at all, Holmes," the doctor said, eyes now averted to the tiger skin rug before the fireplace, "I never meant to intrude on your privacy, I swear it, and if it seems to you like a violation of any sort, of course I'll stop at once. I simply -" he paused a moment, and if anything seemed to blush even more, "I suppose it all seems rather surreal, at times. At night when I lay down to sleep it is difficult to believe any of this is happening. I honestly never – but no matter. If it bothers you, Holmes, I swear it won't happen again."
There was something there, Holmes knew it, something Watson hadn't said, and it niggled at Holmes' mind, deep and imminently important. But it was gone the next minute when Holmes hastened instead to reassure the doctor that it was all quite fine.
"I've no objection to it, Watson. Don't trouble yourself over that. In fact, I find it rather flattering," he said with a grin.
Watson actually chuckled at that, looking considerably less awkward, his blue eyes rising once more to meet Holmes' and they sparked with something happy and mischievous.
"Well, that certainly is a dilemma. I don't know if this sitting room can house any expansion of your ego."
The detective huffed, looking down his nose at his companion. "I'll have you know I am the very soul of practicality, my dear doctor, and that precludes a grandiose sense of self."
The smaller man burst out with a sudden bark of amusement, smiling radiantly at Holmes, and saying, "You are an abominable liar, my good man, and you should be ashamed of yourself."
"Shame requires energy better exerted in the search for truth, Watson."
"Indeed," he murmured, lifting his cup of tea and draining the last of it in one arch of his desert-brushed throat, before rising from his seat. "I'm off to my club, then. I ran into an old friend of mine from St. Bart's there the other day and he was anxious to meet up again. You said you used the labs at Bart's, perhaps you know him? His name is Stamford."
Of course Holmes knew him. He was a passably bland fellow with mediocre intellect and no imagination whatsoever. He was decent for a superficial conversation on the properties of chemicals, but a deeper analysis of reagents and reactants was more than lost on him. Holmes had tolerated him fine during his bleaker days commandeering the labs in a desperate excuse not to remain a second longer than necessary at Montague St and hadn't had any cause to think ill of the man before.
Now he disliked him intensely. Which was repulsively childish of him, and perhaps not entirely acceptable: to have such an objection to a man simply because he occupied his companion's attention which could otherwise be focused on the detective himself? He was far more interesting than Stamford, anyway, and it seemed a terrible waste of Watson's very valuable time to spend it in such plebian company.
Holmes thought better of mentioning any of this.
"Stamford? Yes, of course I know him. I believe he is a general practitioner like yourself."
Watson looked at him a moment, his gaze turning the slightest bit calculating, and Holmes was unsettled to realize there might well be a chance he was found out.
The moment passed, and the doctor simply shook his head, a small grin in place.
"Well, either way, he and I are meeting for lunch later at the Criterion if you have any wish to join us."
"No, no, I shall be busy with my latest chemical project all day, I fear," Holmes said loftily, waving his violin bow for emphasis.
"Right. Do try not to burn down the rooms, if you can manage it. I'd rather not be evicted only a month into my stay here."
"I make no promises."
Watson rolled his eyes before moving to the door of the sitting room, doubtless in pursuit of his hat and coat which would be hanging up neatly on the door of his wardrobe. Holmes looked to the doctor's desk at the other end of the room, then, and frowned. But he's left his gloves…why would he…
"And clever as all that was, Holmes, you are in fact an abominable liar. I do know a diversionary tactic when I see one," Watson said, head poking back into the room from the landing, "If those rashers haven't been consumed by the time I return for my gloves I shall force them down your throat myself. I am a doctor, after all."
Holmes had encountered many physicians in his life, both nefarious and dutifully well-meaning, and he could say without repudiation he had never seen a glare so intimidating from any one of them. The moment Watson was gone, Holmes took up the plate with his helping of rashers and, after a second of deliberation, turned in his seat towards the fire that glowed in the hearth beside him, and -
"If I find those rashers in the fire grate, Holmes, there will be consequences that you will very much regret."
For a moment, he was tempted to try it anyway and see what sort of consequences Watson intended to enact on him. And then he thought of the horse thieves in the abandoned barn, and ate the rashers without further delay.
Holmes was beginning to learn, slowly, that there were some issues on which he should not test his doctor if he valued his health. His health, ironically, being one of them.
He was also now absolutely positive that there was no one else like John Watson in the entire scope of the world, and that Holmes was bloody well keeping him.
The consulting business at Baker St. picked up quite notably not long after word had circulated about Holmes' change in residence; cases had fairly doubled since he'd first arrived in the city, but considering he had at one time an average of one case every two months, doubling that number wasn't nearly as impressive as it seemed. In the midst of this he became familiar with a few Scotland Yard Inspectors by names of Lestrade and Gregson. Each on his own was more or less tolerable, but together they were a veritable comedy of errors, though it was only humorous for a brief period before it simply became painful to watch.
Lestrade was given to the typical failings of the London police force, in that he was so fixed on making the facts of a crime fit his preconceived notions of how it happened that more often than not he went off after a red herring and let the real criminal go free. While sorely lacking in imagination, Lestrade made up for it in sheer dogged determination, and a grudging willingness to let Holmes operate on his own terms. Gregson was far less accommodating, demanding the detective follow every investigation to the very letter of the law and rebuking him harshly if he deviated – leading to a very heated discussion in which Holmes pointed out, among other less flattering things, that he in fact was not a police officer, and if he had been, Gregson would long be out of the job. Gregson leaned more towards abstract thinking, however, which made explanations with him much easier, however his approach to many cases was the path of least resistance, verging on the outright sloppy. All told, if Holmes were pressed to choose, he'd option to work with Lestrade over Gregson any day.
In all this the good doctor was a welcomed yet intermittent presence. Through his association with Stamford – which Holmes succeeded most days in pretending didn't exist – he had procured a part-time position at St. Bart's doing locum work when one of the regular physicians was away, giving him a schedule almost as unpredictable as Holmes'. When he was available, though, he was always more than willing to accompany Holmes on some of his less adventurous jaunts: the man was recovering well from his bout of bad health, if somewhat slowly, but the leg and shoulder still ached in inclement weather and under exertion, so he took great care to keep Watson out of the apprehension of the culprit, in case anything should go awry. He knew Watson could handle himself, he recalled the four felled horse thieves in the barn in Sussex, but part of him couldn't help but be concerned that that had been largely attributed to an element of surprise. If the doctor were ever to be put up against an enraged serial killer or a desperate jewelry thief, man-to-man, he could not say with all certainty that Watson would be the victor.
Or alive.
So Holmes eluded the doctor's every attempt to sound out when he and the Yard were closing in on a suspect, ignoring every displeased glance and every exasperated huff of breath as he threw cheery non-answers over his shoulder, grabbing up his overcoat and barreling down the seventeen steps out to the hansom waiting near in the road. It tended to put Watson in a bit of a mood, and by late night Holmes would return to an atmosphere in the sitting room that bordered on hostile. Some nights Watson wouldn't speak to him at all, and some nights he stormed from the room the moment Holmes entered, and some nights he would store up an impressive amount of ire and work the detective's conscience over for a good hour. Most nights he could be soothed, though, once Holmes poured them both a brandy and took up his Stradivarius, playing first Beethoven, then Mendelssohn, and finishing with a jaunty Mozart fugue, subtly lifting the doctor out of his brown study and relaxing him enough that restful sleep would be achievable. Yet every night, every single time Holmes was out late into the evening or early day, chasing criminals or following a lead or hunting for clues; every night, Watson waited up. And every time Holmes saw him, something warm and eel-like squirmed in his chest with delight. Something inside him was pleased on a primal level to see the doctor sitting in his armchair near the dwindling fire, reading aggressively or lightly dozing, but still waiting. For him.
He wanted the doctor to always wait for him.
He didn't know how much longer he would.
The night that Holmes came home injured, however, was an entirely different matter. It had been later than usual, for starters, because apparently significant blood-loss slowed a person down some, and so by the time he finally struggled up the steps to the sitting room of 221B, the fire had dwindled to feeble embers and Watson was fast asleep in his armchair. Knowing how uncomfortable the doctor's shoulder became when cramped in one position for too long, Holmes thought it pertinent to wake the fellow before he retired himself to tend to his own hurts.
It was something of a calculated error on his part.
Nudging Watson with the hand that wasn't sluggishly dripping blood onto the carpet – Mrs. Hudson would object, no doubt – Holmes murmured, "Come now, old boy, up with you. You'll be intolerable in the morning otherwise."
The doctor stirred, muscles in his shoulders and arms fluttering as they subtly stretched, before blue eyes blinked slowly open. They glanced up then, taking Holmes in with a look so sleepy and warm and content that he felt his breath seize up in his chest.
And then realization fell, and with it a hardening of those blue eyes to tempered steel.
"What time is it, Holmes?"
"Tut tut, you are in no condition for trivialities, my good man. Your goodnight's sleep is but a flight of steps away," the detective threw out casually as he moved quickly over to the sideboard, making sure to keep his injured hand out of sight.
"Holmes," Watson repeated, "What. Time. Is it?"
He shuffled aimlessly with the remainders of the paper and some post that had come whilst he was out. "Oh, perhaps half four."
A startled choking sound over his shoulder. "It's half past four in the morning?" Watson cried, rather louder than was necessary in the nearly-silent sitting room.
"While I find your vehement concern rather touching on a personal level, you may wish to curb your enthusiasm before Mrs. Hudson arrives to murder us both for knocking her up at such an inconvenient time."
"Holmes, what the Devil were you doing until half past four in the morning?" the doctor barreled on, clearly in no humor to be humored this time.
Holmes flapped his hand carelessly as he came across several opened letters addressed to Watson. One from St. Bart's, his services no longer required for the time as his senior physician has just returned from his vacation to Cornwall with a woman who is not his wife. One from Stamford, no doubt asking for confirmation on dinner plans at Simpson's tomorrow, or rather today. Will need to think of suitable distraction in the interim. Telegram from . . . Mycroft! Brother has no business maintaining a correspondence with my doctor any longer. Will put an end to this by intercepting all post from now on and discreetly disposing of offending telegrams. Another letter under that, most recently opened, postmark not from London . . .
"Holmes. Holmes!" Watson hissed in the dark, "Holmes, what is that on your hand?"
He froze, wounded hand clenching unconsciously when he realized he had in fact waved the wrong one about. Imbecile. Can you keep nothing from this man? Does your mind simply turn to rot in his presence?
It certainly seemed to.
"It's nothing, really, Watson, do not trouble over it."
Holmes heard a muffled curse and then the doctor levered himself out of his armchair and crossed the room to him in a matter of a few strides. Strong hands gripped his arms, about to turn him, and he tried to shield his arm, protest in some way, implore him, "Really, Watson you make too much of a trifle, I promise it is nothing!" but all for naught.
Watson forced him round, grabbed his wrist, and Holmes knew it was silly wishful thinking to suppose he hadn't noticed the detective's minute wince. He definitely noticed the blood, however, even in the low light. Watson grimaced, face dark and stormy as he carefully yet firmly rolled Holmes' sleeve back, revealing the gash that tore a quarter of the way up his forearm and wept sluggish drops of red down his tapered fingers, not so deep as to be dangerous, but enough that it could not be left unattended, and even Holmes had conceded that point when the wound had failed to coagulate properly during the cab ride home. Watson cursed.
In Persian.
"I cannot believe I ever trusted you when you said you'd be fine on your own," he said as he lunged for his doctor bag near them on floor and tearing a roll of bandages and a vial of clear liquid from within, a tinge of something more than exasperation in his voice, which Holmes ignored in favor of his shock.
"I did not know you spoke Persian, Watson. Or swore in it, in any event. What else do you know?"
Watson tore a piece of the bandaging off and uncorked the vial, dousing the cloth before setting the small bottle aside and grasping Holmes' arm once more, higher up this time but not so very gentle. His application of disinfectant was downright brutal. Holmes hissed through his teeth before he could forestall it.
"Watson, my good man, is all this really necessary - "
"—You promised, Holmes," the doctor said, and there it was again, he could tell, something was very much wrong here. "You promised, Holmes, you swore you wouldn't leave me behind anymore, not after -"
Watson pulled the rag away after cleaning the wound and began unwinding the sterile wrap one more time, and Holmes was rather forcefully reminded of the eerie stillness of the rugby changing rooms, his arms twined round John's waist, steadily wrapping up his broken ribs, white cloth a stark contrast to the duskier hue of sunned flesh. So near he could feel his heat . . .
" – And I've let it go, Holmes, I've let you go off your own this past month and a half and I haven't forced my presence, not once have I demanded you take me with you because I know, realistically, I couldn't hope to offer any genuine assistance, but this, Holmes, this I simply . . . I cannot -"
His hands trembled, like Holmes had never known them to do before, as he bound the wound closely and carefully, and there was more here, there was something just barely under the surface and Holmes couldn't think what, but not all of Watson's current state was due to Holmes' injury. Something more had upset him. Was it being left behind? Was he feeling insecure somehow? Was he losing that confidence that he was useful? What had happened in his absence?
Something deep and visceral inside him grumbled with displeasure.
What has hurt my doctor?
" – It is completely unfair of you, you can't know what it's like, you cannot possibly fathom how wretched it can be to simply wait here, all night, never knowing when it will turn out like tonight, or if it will be considerably worse, or if I'll ever see you again, for that matter, you have no idea, the way you use yourself up and keep me in the dark, you have no idea, you have no -"
Watson tightened the fastenings, muttering low and desperate, a hint of hysteria to his tone, and it almost seemed as though he was speaking to someone else entirely, and Holmes hadn't the faintest notion what to do or say, if there even was anything he could do or say to fix this. Especially when he didn't even know what "this" was, and Watson sounded so lost.
Warm, wet drops on his freshly-bound wrist, and Holmes' eyes widened before shooting up to behold, with horror, Watson's equally shocked expression. And the tears that streaked his face. Something in his chest clenched agonizingly, and Holmes reached out with his good hand, wanting to touch, wanting to wipe away the tears, wanting to hold this man somehow, and he whispered, "Watson, what -"
But the doctor drew away sharply, a mortified blush spreading across his cheeks even as his eyes burned sapphire through their dampness and, if only such a look did not mean pain for his companion, Holmes would find it the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.
"I – please forgive me, I am merely tired. I believe I will retire now," Watson muttered before turning and limping quickly from the room, his uneven step hurried on the stairs up to the garret bedroom that had become the doctor's by mutual agreement.
Holmes stared dumbly after him, arm still raised to thin air, his mind a whirring cacophony and yet frighteningly blank. Blank of anything useful, rather, and despite his proficiency in solving problems, Holmes was woefully out of his depth in such matters as emotional distress. But Watson was . . .
He couldn't allow the man to remain so tormented.
So he followed, leaving the relative safety of the sitting room behind, quietly mounting the stairs up to the doctor's room. He didn't bother with knocking when he reached the door, merely turned the knob and slowly pushed it open to reveal Watson, sitting at the edge of his bed, his head hung low and hands clasped tightly together. Holmes' felt his throat constrict just then, and he swallowed with difficulty. He had the sudden wish to rush to the man's side, to take his hands and pull him into a firm embrace, to keep him close and protected, and it was so utterly foreign that Holmes barely allowed himself a moment of shock before shunting the notion to the far recesses of his mind from where it would hopefully never emerge again.
Instead he went carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, drawing steadily nearer, and Watson gave no notice that Holmes was even in the room.
"Watson," he murmured, still a few feet away, "My dear fellow, what is -"
His closer proximity allowed him to see that the doctor's hands weren't empty, as he had originally supposed. In them was cradled a small, golden pocket watch.
Ah, Holmes thought with a heavy sigh. That would be it.
Through the cage of Watson's fingers Holmes could distinguish the letters H.W. long since carved into the back of the watch, somewhere between forty and fifty years ago, much too long a time for it to have originally been his doctor's, especially since the "W" evoked the man's surname. Watson's father then, who has clearly passed and left his watch to his son. However, Watson was possessed of an older brother: Andrew. As Watson nervously shifted the watch in his grasp Holmes caught sight of scratches round the keyhole on the bottom, more recent than the engraving, noticeably so, therefore put there by someone other than his father. The watch arrived with the post earlier that day, in a letter that, despite clearly being the last one opened of the bunch addressed to Watson, it appeared at the bottom of the pile, with a postmark not from London, and after a few seconds of mulling Holmes finally placed it as indicative of an Edinburgh post office.
A family heirloom left by Watson's father which should have passed to the eldest son, bearing signs of frequent drunken mishandling, arrived for Watson by post from Edinburgh.
Inference: his elder brother had died. Within the past three days, most likely.
And Holmes had not been there.
"Oh, my dearest," he sighed, taking another step closer, knees nearly brushing the doctor's, who still had yet to look up, "I am dreadfully sorry."
Watson shuddered at that, eyes blinking rapidly as teeth worried his bottom lip, and he refused to raise his head, refused to look at Holmes, but a trembling hand reached out, tentatively, and wrapped around Holmes' fingers of the uninjured hand.
Watson took a halting breath.
"He had always been . . . difficult," he said, voice cracked and whispered. "He was often despondent . . . low, would barely move for days. He was given to bouts of anger - rage, even. He was a violent sort. It got worse when he drank. More low, more melancholic, more violent. Mother was dead, luckily, before any of the worst came about, but my father and I had a very trying time of it. Oftentimes I believe the only reason I went to medical school or joined the war was simply to escape everything. And especially once my father died . . . Andrew was quite truthfully a danger to live with."
A viciousness seized Holmes' chest at the idea of that drunken sot harming his doctor, but managed to reign in his reaction. Regardless of their relationship, Watson was very upset by his sibling's passing, and Holmes would do nothing to make it worse, if he could possibly help it.
He squeezed Watson's hand gently to continue.
"Before I left for Afghanistan he swore to write to me, but he had been sober at the time, which was an increasingly rare event for him. I received a single letter in all my time there, and it was nothing more than a sozzled rant about our parents and the injustices of the world and how all poker dealers were cheats and that he'd had to pawn our father's watch to pay his debts, and would I please, brother dearest, wire him some funds if I ever made it out of that hell-hole alive. That was all he cared about. It seemed all he ever cared about."
Watson took another deep breath, a shiver picking up along his muscles, and Holmes stroked his thumb over tanned, wind-roughened skin in what he hoped was a soothing manner.
"And I hated him, Holmes," he gasped, barely more than air over strangled vocal chords. "I despised the very ground he walked on, or I would have had he not been my brother. But he was, so I could never actually hate him. I never had that luxury. And he never cared. He never gave a thought to how anyone else was affected, never bothered with other's feelings, how he treated them. He knew his drinking damaged everyone around him, but it was all secondary to his own self-medication. He went to the pubs every night, and I tried to convince him not to but I couldn't stop him, so I would wait up all night, to make sure he came home intact. To make sure he came home at all. And he knew he was killing himself, he knew what the alcohol did to him, and he knew how it ruined us to watch him go through it, but . . . it simply wasn't important. And I quit, Holmes. I washed my hands of the whole affair after our father died, and I put myself through medical school, and I went away to Afghanistan, and I . . ."
Watson paused, sighing again, shoulders drooping and the shivers finally beginning to relax.
"It's pathetic, to tell the truth. I knew alcohol would be the death of Andrew. I knew he would never stop. I knew he would eventually kill himself. In all honesty, I had been expecting this end for years. But now it's happened, and . . . somehow, I'm still surprised."
"It is not pathetic, Watson," Holmes murmured, fingers pressing firmer into the meat of the doctor's hand. "He was your brother, and he was troubled, and he was difficult, and you loved him. Older siblings always have a way of trying one's sense of good will, but they are, after all, family. What are we to do?"
He knew Mycroft's polite condescension and frustratingly vague omniscience was in no way similar to a violent, self-destructive drunkard, but he hoped to alleviate some of Watson's sorrow, if only a little.
The smaller man huffed a breath, and Holmes was uncertain whether it was offense or amusement, until Watson allowed his eyes to slip closed at the same time his upper body leaned in, and he rested his forehead against Holmes' stomach. He froze, confused by this unprecedented contact, but then he observed how all the tension suddenly fled the doctor's frame, and Holmes realized it didn't matter whether he understood or not. If it brought Watson even the smallest modicum of comfort, then so be it.
Watson breathed deeply for a few quiet moments, his other hand reaching around Holmes' back to grip the fabric of his waistcoat there, the press of the watch's metal a hard, insistent presence, and Holmes soon discovered his own hand had somehow buried itself in the soft hair at the base of Watson's skull. Again Holmes' mind disconnected – rather pleasantly, he had to grudgingly admit – and his thoughts slowed to an aimless contemplation of the gentle ridges along the top of Watson's spine.
An unknown amount of time had passed – ten minutes and fourteen seconds, his mind helpfully supplied – in soft, soothing silence before Watson shifted a bit and sighed, sounding less world-weary and simply weary. Holmes felt this was a decided improvement over affairs. The rising warmth in his abdomen where the doctor's brow still rested apparently agreed.
"Come now, old boy. You should have been in bed ages ago," he said, giving Watson's hand another gentle squeeze, thumb of the other hand pressing into a line of tension in that tanned neck.
Watson pinched him lightly through the fabric of his shirt. "As should you, Holmes. Honestly, I cannot fathom how you let time get away from you in such a manner."
Neither can I, my dear. Neither can I.
"Right," Holmes said, "To bed with you."
He patted Watson's shoulder before pulling away finally, and a deep ache of bereavement tore through him so quickly he nearly lurched with dizziness. He had to shake his head several times to regain his bearings.
Watson looked back down at the watch in his hands, gazing at it with tired eyes and a twisted expression before he sighed again, reached over to his side table, and dropped it into the top drawer. When he turned back he looked up at Holmes and smiled, quiet and small but utterly genuine.
"Thank you, Holmes. I don't know what I would do without you."
You would not live with someone whose absent-mindedness and frequent lack of presence forcibly reminded you of the horrid hours spent wondering whether your drunkard of a brother would come home that night or not.
Holmes chose not to voice this – wisely, in his opinion – but instead flicked a brief smile at Watson in return.
"There's no need to thank me, my good man. I am more than glad to be of assistance."
"Kindness should always be rewarded," Watson argued, a vein of teasing in his tone, but it fled quickly when the doctor cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders – a distinctly military habit he still retained, and Holmes wondered whether Watson was consciously aware of doing it. "I do have a favor to ask of you, however."
"Certainly."
The thought of refusing honestly did not occur.
"I need you to solemnly swear that you will not go on potentially dangerous jaunts without me again in future. You promised once and have so far failed to honor it. But I need you to, Holmes. If things become dangerous for you, I need to be there with you."
Perhaps the thought of refusing should have occurred. It would surely be simpler. Because what Watson was asking, implicitly of course, was for Holmes to willingly put the doctor in harm's way. And that seemed a little counter-productive, considering the intensely violent internal reaction he experienced whenever he even contemplated the possibility of Watson being injured.
That calloused hand sought his again, gripping firmly this time, pulling Holmes' attention down to Watson's dear, earnest, up-turned face.
"I can handle myself, Holmes. I will not be a liability. But you have to trust me."
"I do trust you," he exclaimed, which was a revelation since Holmes hadn't even known that until a few seconds ago.
"Then why -"
"I trust you with my care. I've seen enough evidence to know that you are exceptionally mindful of my well-being, which I am very grateful for, of course. What I am less confident of is your care for yourself. I fear there is the distinct chance that you would do something ridiculously noble and foolish one day in the name of protecting myself or someone else, and that it will not end well for you."
Watson's mouth quirked a tiny grin, mustache charmingly bristled and trying – but failing – to conceal the flushed pink of his bottom lip from where his teeth had raked over it earlier, and Holmes had a sudden, piercing flash of want, but it was come and gone before he could even deduce what, in fact, he wanted.
This was becoming a frustratingly common phenomenon.
"Well," Watson said, "you will simply have to trust that I'd rather remain among the living than shuffle off this mortal coil prematurely. For one, I doubt there's anyone else willing to put up with your nonsense, and despite your impressively worded arguments to the contrary, you do actually need a minder, Holmes."
The detective couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.
"In that case, I promise that in future, if I am reasonably convinced of dangerous probabilities, I will be certain to include you. And your revolver, if it isn't too much trouble."
"I knew you only kept me around for my firearm."
"Don't forget the rent, as well."
"Git," Watson muttered, chuckling as he lightly shoved Holmes away.
Holmes snorted to himself before settling into a grin.
"Good night then, Watson. I shall see you in the morning," and with that he turned on his heel and headed for the still open door of the doctor's bedroom, and he'd nearly got his hand on the knob before he heard:
"Thank you again, Holmes. Really. You don't know what this means to me."
Holmes thought of the endless, nightmarish months while Watson had been overseas being shot at while Holmes failed to start up a private business, trapped in a state of perpetual anxiety that today would be the day when he would unfold the paper or tear open a letter and discover that the young Scottish boy he'd met so many years ago was dead. Never coming back.
"I have some idea, my dear Watson. I am content if you are."
Watson smiled then, that same wide, bright, guileless one that had ensnared his mind from the very first.
As he nodded once, stepping out into the hallway of a reasonably-sized flat in central London on an early Thursday morning and shutting the door behind him, some sixteen years after the puzzle first presented itself to him on a hillock in Scotland, he finally solved it:
Holmes was in love.
Admittedly, he'd take longer about it than he should have.
DUN DUN! Did you ever think we'd get here? I didn't. I can't say for certain whether the next part will be the last part, it depends entirely on how things play out. I WILL FINISH THIS, I SWEAR, just bear with me a bit longer, yes? Hugs and kisses!