I've been getting back into the Sherlock Holmes Canon lately and 'The Dying Detective' has always been one of my favourite stories, even though I hated how Holmes tricked Watson *again* in this story. This fic takes place immediately after TDD and addresses a lot of things that I feel were left unsaid in that story.

Also, because it's been years since I've really delved into the Canon I forgot that TDD took place before the Great Hiatus in 1890. But by the time I had remembered that detail I had already written out over half the story, which takes place in 1895 after Holmes has returned. So just bear with me on that little detail, especially since the Canon is always confusing when it comes to dates for cases. Thank you and enjoy!

The Haunted Solider

"Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so old a friend?"

Watson's impassioned words would not leave Holmes' mind in the days following Culverton Smith's arrest, no matter how much he tried to distract himself with a handful of cases (trivial pursuits that had barely been worth his time and effort) and chemical experiments.

He had always known his friend was a passionate and caring man, but Holmes had not been prepared for the depth of loyalty that Watson had always shown him and continued to do so even after Holmes deceived him again and again. First with the Baskerville case, and then for three years…and now this blasted Smith case.

The detective shook his head. No, he would not apologise for his actions. Watson knew his methods and accepted them. His conscious was clear.

And yet…

Watson's face would not leave his mind – it blurred with other instances in their partnership, from their reunion on the Grimpen Mire to less than a year ago in Watson's office. In both instances, along with too many others Holmes refused to recall, there had been relief and elation on Watson's face, as well as anger and confusion. But worst of all was the deep hurt that the doctor could never quite hide in his blue eyes.

Holmes' hand tightened on the empty glass tube he held as he remembered the rush of raw panic that had surged through him when Watson had reached for the deadly box. It had taken all of Holmes' iron control that he had cultivated over the years not to grab his friend and pull him away from the deadly box.

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson bringing in Inspector Lestrade.

"Inspector Lestrade," said Holmes coolly. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The little inspector took off his hat, somehow still managing to look intimidating despite looking very much like a drowned rat from the rainstorm.

Mrs. Hudson left, saying that she would bring some hot tea up for the inspector. As soon as the good woman had closed the door Lestrade turned his formidable glower towards the detective.

"You, Mr. Holmes, are the most selfish man I have ever met," hissed Lestrade without preamble.

"I beg your pardon?" said Holmes, turning half-way in his chair, the test tube still held in his hand.

"You heard me."

The detective's expression remained calm (bloody ice-water for veins, Lestrade thought angrily). "Watson told you about circumstances surrounding Culverton Smith's arrest, I see."

"He said nothing. If you think he'd betray your confidence after all these years then you are not deserving of his friendship. It was Inspector Morton who filled me in."

When Holmes said nothing Lestrade tried for a different angle.

"How could you do that to him, Mr. Holmes? Especially after…" Lestrade trailed off, the unspoken words falling more heavily than the rain outside.

He had scored a hit - Holmes' grey eyes grew sharper and colder at the unspoken reminder of his three-year absence.

"You are out of line, Lestrade," warned Holmes, his expression still one of vague disinterest but the inspector wasn't fooled after so many years of dealing with the most brilliant (as well as most arrogant) man in London. He saw how the detective's jaw tightened slightly.

"Now, if you have no business that needs my attention, I am extremely busy. Good day, Lestrade."

"Actually, I am here on business but I can return later if you are so busy," snipped the inspector. Lord, how the good doctor hadn't strangled or shot the man after all these years was beyond Lestrade.

"Then speak it, man!"

"There's been a string of murders over the past four months. After first I didn't think there was a connection - that all the evidence was circumspect. Here," he said, handing a piece of paper to Holmes.

The detective took it, his sharp eyes quickly perusing the lines and making the connection.

"The funeral announcements all state that these were former soldiers. They all died under mysterious circumstances?"

"Yes," said Lestrade, hesitating. He was about to break a promise to Dr. Watson but the doctor didn't seem to care about the danger. And that thought disturbed Lestrade deeply.

Holmes noticed Lestrade's sudden uneasiness. "There's something else, I take it?"

"Mr. Holmes, I am breaking a promise to Dr. Watson by telling you this, but it is only out of concern for his safety. He has not been taking care of himself, as you well know."

The surprised look on the younger man's face suddenly told Lestrade that Holmes did not, in fact, know and that somehow made Lestrade even more furious. He never would have thought he would see the day when the city's greatest consulting detective could not see how much pain his closest friend was in.

"Last month Dr. Watson came to the Yard to report that someone - he could not see who - took a shot at him. The bullet grazed his arm -"

The rest of the inspector's words were cut off by the sound of glass shattering.