Prompt: Holmes is so logic-oriented, his phobia would have to be something that both could happen and would destroy him if it did. What is he afraid of, and how does Watson find out?, from trustingHim17
A/N: This prompt may have gotten away from me a bit, because I proceeded to do nothing but throw gallons and gallons of angst at it.
Italicized text is from, respectively, The Sign of Four, The Three Garridebs, and The Devil's Foot
"...whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things..."
I should have known, perhaps, that those words would come to haunt me, as I had said them upon the occasion when Watson told me of his proposal of marriage to Miss Morstan. It was not the most appropriate reaction I could have had, and as Watson was rather cool with me for the rest of that day, I had come rather quickly to realize it and made amends. It was only that he surprised me with the news, after all! One cannot expect to hear that one's only friend and fellow-lodger is set to move away with excitement.
Well, that was many years ago and by Watson' own admission I have become less cold and calculating (his words) of late. Perhaps he is right, for much has changed since then. Yet for all that I knew I should, perhaps, not have said them aloud, I still thought of those words as true. He simply misunderstood me to mean that it was only love I viewed with such disdain. But in truth, all emotions are distractions from that which is rational, and logical. Even so, I will not pretend that I am a perfect reasoning machine, as Watson calls me in his stories, and so all of the British public currently believes. I admit to having an unreasoning pride in my intellect and observational abilities, a certain flair for the dramatic, even a curiosity for those subjects I consider within my purview that, at times, borders on the obsessive. It is hardly my fault that I am prone to losing track of time while at the chemistry table, or that I am driven to solve any problem that comes to me, allowing mundane things like food or sleep to fall aside. Emotions may be foreign to me, but one cannot escape one's own nature. I have, for example, never managed to outrun the black moods that descend upon me without work for very long. The picture Watson paints with his words is not entirely accurate, for either of us, but that is to be expected in such romantic drivel.
"You're not hurt, Watson. For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
Fear. Perhaps the most irrational of all emotions, save for love. I would not go so far as to call myself a brave man, for if fear is irrational then its opposite must be equally so. I have seen men take such unbelievable risks in the name of bravery, when they might easily achieve their goal while taking proper precautions for their own safety, and such is the height of irrationality. I have never brought either myself or Watson into danger unnecessarily, and I have always made sure to take precautions to ensure our safety if it was unavoidable. On those few occasions the situation was out of my control, well, standing there being afraid was not going to help! One must master their fear. To be afraid of what one cannot control is as irrational as love, in its way, and I had prided myself that I had had no need to master mine.
Until now.
I had, perhaps, grown too used to our partnership. We moved as one after so many years of cases together and there were few anymore who could stand against us. It had become inconceivable even to me that at some point, Watson and I would not be able to crawl through tunnels and confront criminals anymore. Even after I had been attacked by the men hired by Baron Gruner - an embarrassment, that they were able to get the better of me! - even that I had justified. After all, Watson had not been with me. I told myself that I should not have been so easily overcome had I not been alone.
Pride. Vanity. Foolishness. I did not realize how much until I heard the gunshot, and Watson fall behind me. I have never believed in the expression that one's life flashes before their eyes when facing death, as mine had not even as I clung to the cliffs at Reichenbach, but in the couple of seconds it took me to knock out that dreadful American and turn around, I would swear that I saw every possible outcome of that event as clear as if it were happening in front of me. I might turn around to find that Watson was dead already, shot through the heart or the head. Or that the bullet had hit an artery and Watson would bleed to death too quickly for me to do anything. He might have been shot in such a way that he would no longer be able to walk, or to talk.
Even remembering those brief seconds is enough to bring me to shudder. Watson was very fortunate that the bullet hit him in the leg, and not very deeply at that. He was by now already healing, walking around leaning on a thick walking stick, though the wound still pained him. I had hastily covered up my fear, and my relief, with an admonishment to the American that he would not have got out of the room alive if he had killed Watson, and I had meant it. Yet I did not know how to tell Watson I regretted bringing him in there, even though I could not have known that the man had a gun and was prepared to murder for his scheme.
Watson would no doubt tell me there was nothing to forgive, that he knew the risks in following me, and that, moreover, he did so to ensure no danger came to me. I do not deserve, and never have deserved, his loyalty, for I knew I had come too close to catastrophic failure. Pride, again. That Watson could have died for my foolishness, and my vanity…!
Yes, that I feared. More than anything else. Hiding from one's fear is hardly any more rational than running towards it to prove one's courage. That Watson might have died at all sent a chill through me. I wondered if I had become so used to his always being two steps behind me that I had begun to see him much as he saw me - invincible. He had, after all, survived a Jezail bullet and a bout of enteric fever that nearly killed him. A later injury took his steady gait from him and gave him a limp which he will carry for life. Emotionally, he has always been the stronger of us two, having survived the loss of his whole family, his wife and my own disappearance, and still he remained at my side, as eager and interested in my cases as ever and determined to assist in any way he could.
If a mere scratch can throw me so much, I am positive I could not do the same.
But the fact remained that it had come to seem to me as if Watson could not be killed, that nothing could destroy him. In that little room, I was reminded that he is not, nor am I. Though, perhaps unsurprisingly, that I do not fear.
Perhaps it was time to think it through rationally. All emotions have a root cause, and I must get to the bottom of this one if I was ever to have a fruitful night's sleep again, and for that, I needed my violin. As I propped it up under my chin, I thought. Why had I immediately assumed the shot was deadly? It could have been, and in the end proved to be, a superficial flesh wound. I should have known that, and thought to check before allowing my imagination to run away with itself with what could be. Utterly irrational. Allowing fear to control one's mind is to always live in the worst case-scenario.
But what if next time it was not such a lucky shot? What if I was not quick enough, or the criminal we were apprehending was more ruthless? I drew the bow up too quickly and the violin screeched. I glanced up. Surely Watson had heard that, and sure enough, his heavy footsteps descending slowly, and he entered the sitting room leaning on his walking stick.
"I do apologize, Watson," I said.
He waved his free hand and sat in the armchair. "It is no matter. I could not sleep anyway." He gestured vaguely toward his bandaged leg.
"It pains you?" I asked.
"Some," Watson said. "It is better than it was. I shall be up and around again before you know it." He smiled reassuringly, as if he knew I needed such reassurance.
Watson has his own observational skills. It is a pity they seem to only pertain to me, for they would be most useful in our investigations.
"I could not sleep either," I said unnecessarily. "I could not help-" Blast, why is it one cannot simply say what one means without the sudden urge to cough or swallow past a great lump in one's throat?
"Holmes, I am fine," Watson said. "I did not realize you would be so affected."
"You could easily have been killed," I said, perhaps more harshly than I intended. I could not understand why he was being so deucedly flippant about it.
"Yes, and then you would be in prison, and the world would have lost a great detective," Watson said. "You cannot let these things bother you. I have faced death many times. If I allowed it to stop me, I would never leave these rooms, and that is no way to live." He looked at me shrewdly. "Perhaps, though, it is always worse when it happens to someone else. I was not nearly so calm when I heard you had been set upon by Baron Gruner's hired men."
I almost smiled. No, he had threatened to go take the hide off of them, if I remembered correctly. Still… "I have never brought you into danger like that before," I said.
"Holmes, most of your cases have involved some danger or another," Watson said. "What would you call what you did during the Devil's Foot, then?"
Blast it, I knew he would bring that up. It was certainly not my finest moment. "I was hardly myself during that case, as you well know," I said testily.
"I do," Watson said. "Holmes, you cannot blame yourself. I have always followed you willingly. Perhaps you might remember what it was I said on that occasion."
"You know that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."
"Yes," I said.
"Well, it is still true," Watson said. "Had you gone alone, undoubtedly he would have tried to kill you instead. I am glad I was there. Perhaps he would have been more successful had I not been."
"He was successful enough," I said angrily. "I do blame myself, Watson, but that is not all of it. We have both of us nearly been killed over the past few months. We are taking risks we can no longer afford to take. The next time might-" might be worse.
Perhaps fear is based in rationality after all. It is the logical dread of something one does not wish to happen. When such becomes possible, how else is one to react?
Watson is my only friend. I have not had, nor needed, any others. I do not know what I should do without him, cannot even begin to picture my life without him in it. Though I could picture all too easily how I might, this very moment, be sitting here alone in grief had this case ended differently. Had that American aimed only a little higher.
"Come, Holmes, it is three in the morning. We can discuss the future on another occasion, Perhaps after more sleep and a good breakfast," Watson said. "You might be interested instead in seeing what I have written about this case, since I could not sleep."
"You are trying to brighten my mood," I said darkly. "You know what I think about those stories, Watson."
"Read it anyway," Watson said, handing me a sheet of paper.
"It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble, but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."
"I wrote that first, while the memory was fresh," Watson said, somewhat shyly and with a blush spreading across his face. "I have to expand my notes around the case."
I am not the sort of person who is ordinarily rendered speechless. Yet what Watson had written...I had had no idea. "I am not sure, Watson, if I have ever thanked you?" I finally said.
"You have never needed to," Watson said. "I meant every word, Holmes."
"Perhaps it goes without saying," I began, "though it should be said, that if the situations were reversed, I would consider it worth a wound as well."
Watson smiled at last. "I know, Holmes."