AN:/ Sorry this took so long, and I'm even more apologetic for the length. Life has really been dragging me away from the computer as of late, but I'm going to try and put in a little more effort. I've started sleeping more, so hopefully I'll be healthier, and not so tired when I get home for work so I can put a couple of hours into writing. As always, feel free to request one shots, the details are on my profile.
Chapter Ten: If Only Doesn't Make For A Happy Ending
Well. He'd gone and done it. Congratulations, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You've managed to rid yourself of the bother of every single person who has ever cared for you. Good show. How do you feel now? Proud? Lonely?
The bitter thoughts snapped at him from the dark corners of his mind, and Holmes did what he felt would be the most appropriate action to this situation, he'd found a bottle in the mess he called a room and he'd opened it, taking a nice mouthful of alcohol, the taste bitter on his tongue. Watson would come, of course the man would-He believed he'd been the one who messed up. He'd come and he would apologize, and Sherlock Holmes would do what he did best, and he'd push the Doctor away.
"I'll take care of him-"
"See that you do, Doctor. I'm afraid he isn't himself-What could have possibly happened? I thought he was doing so well-"
The voices barely registered on his mind before he allowed the delirium of alcohol cloud his mind.
The next week went on like this, and no matter how Holmes tried, Watson kept returning to clean him up and deliver him into his bed, despite the words the Detective barked. The protests and complaints. It was only a matter of time before he'd be rid of Watson and he wouldn't have to worry about this, about the man's unwarranted infatuation.
"Holmes," Watson sighed, his arms slipping under the Detective's and carefully he lifted him to the bed. The man reeked of Whiskey, as if he'd bathed in the stuff, and Watson collapsed back into the chair he'd dragged beside Holmes' bed, watching as the male propped himself against the wall beside his bed, his back flush against it and his head hung.
"Why do you care about me, Watson?" The man questioned, his tone scratchy.
"Because I do," Watson sighed dismissively.
"That isn't good enough," Holmes said, glancing up at the man, a disapproving look in his eyes, "You are by no means as intelligent as me-But you are not an idiot, Watson. Why on Earth would you devote your affections to me of all people?" He asked in a scrutinizing tone.
"Why do you find it so hard to believe I could care for you?"
"Because I'm not something for people to care about-Watson, I'm selfish-I don't care about anything, or anyone-I insist on dosing myself with liquor, and other indescribable substances-"
The Detective had begun to ramble, and Watson could see his red-rimmed eyes downcast with a build up of tears and he shifted onto the bed, reaching out and barely reacting when Holmes pushed his hands aside.
"I am not something for you to care about, Watson-You are far too good a person for me," Holmes said firmly, struggling a bit as Watson shifted closer and pulled Holmes into an embrace against his will.
"You never were very confident in your self worth-Aside from your intelligence, I've never been able to understand why you can't see all I see in you," Watson said quietly, grasping the Detective close and pressing his lips to the man's forehead as his struggles relented and the dark-haired male relaxed slightly as Watson rubbed circles in his back.
It was when the red-eyed Detective leant up and pressed their lips together that Watson backed off.
"Were it any other circumstance I would not protest-But not while you're intoxicated," Watson frowned, urging Holmes to lay down before pulling the covers over the Detective.
If only he'd registered that the bottle he'd pried from Holmes' hands earlier was full. If only he'd registered that the smell of liquor was coming from the damp patch on the Detective's shirt and not his breath.