It is a little known fact that Sherlock Holmes likes blankets. I, who am often at Baker Street, have gotten used to the sight of the "great detective" with blankets wrapped around his shoulders, blankets covering his legs, blankets clutched in his hands... really just blankets strewn about everywhere. Sometimes, if a blanket happens to be handy, he will simply take it no regard for who it belongs to or where is or even what the weather happens to be doing outside. It is an odd habit which I quickly became accustomed to, to the point where, when constables would comment on it. I would simply shrug. It is a harmless vice, really, save for the dirty glares he gets from some people when he rudely snatches blankets inside the homes of his clients or his suspects. However, seeing as how he returns them (usually letting them fall to the floor before he leaves, but what can you do?), I don't interfere. Far be it from me to deny a man so simple a pleasure as a blanket.
That was why when, after the conclusion of a case of some particularly bad blackmail, I showed no surprise and frankly no interest when Holmes grabbed a blanket from the back of a rocking chair which belonged to his wealthy client. I half-watched him while I assigned my constables their duties in the aftermath; the conclusion of the case had been explosive. Quite literally. I knew we all wanted to wrap this case up quickly.
I noticed as he tested the weight and texture of the blanket he'd grabbed against two others, choosing the third one and nodding to himself as if pleased. I crossed the room and poured myself a generous whisky, also purloined from the wealthy heiress, as soon as my constables had departed. I was shaken by the whole business, though I'd never let a junior officer know it. 'Been through all this before, you'll toughen up,' is what I usually say if a young officer asks, but crimes aren't usually this violent, and no, I hadn't seen it before. Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, had certainly already deduced anything he'd wanted to know about the state of my nerves, so I didn't care if he saw how my hands shook as poured. I took a sip, letting it burn me all the way down and clear my head. I glanced back at Holmes.
I had expected Mr. Holmes to immediately throw the blanket over his shoulders, but instead he just shook it out and walked into the next room. Apparently, he didn't give a rat's that I was there or about what I was doing. Which was usual, really, but there was something different about his actions this time. It was odd for him to ignore me at the conclusion of a case, especially one that ended so dramatically.
Curious, I followed him, stopping half-concealed in the doorway so I could see into the room he'd entered but couldn't be seen. He approached doctor Watson who was sitting on the couch staring down on his hands, lost in thought apparently. Holmes came beside him and tucked the blanket carefully and securely around him before sitting next to him.
"Oh, my dear Watson," I heard him say. He put his arm around his friend. The doctor didn't respond and I wondered if he was all right. He didn't seem well, now that I was looking at him properly.
"You are, you know that, don't you?" Holmes continued.
Watson's brows knitted. He didn't look up. "No… know what? Sorry… I didn't hear you," he said softly.
"That is perfectly understandable, seeing as how you are in shock," Holmes said bluntly. "I have a feeling..." he started to say, and his voice was softer now. I was surprised at it. I had never heard him be so calming or gentle. In my experience, he had been brilliant, chaotic, dramatic, and often insulting. Never kind or gentle, not unless he had to be in order to calm down a hysteric witness to get their story. In my mind, he'd been the same. I'd never even imagined him with his arm around a mate like schoolboys.
"I have a feeling that this is hardly the first time you have seen a man die so violently. I am very sorry," Holmes finished.
As he spoke, he raised the hand that wasn't holding Watson and touched Watson's chin, turning his friend's face to look at him. He didn't let go, either, caressing his cheek with his thumb. "Watson?" he whispered. "Come back, Watson. Please."
Watson stared at him blankly for a moment before shutting his eyes tight and leaning into Holmes' touch. Holmes turned himself so he could pillow Watson on his chest. Both arms went around his friend now and he held him close, rubbing small circles on his back.
It was the most caring, affectionate gesture I had ever seen him make, and by far the most human I had ever seen him. He often deffered to his friend, even during the course of a case, but this was beyond stopping for a lunch or giving the doctor the best seat in a room, both of which I'd seen him do. It was so intimate a moment, in fact, that I felt guilty watching it and began to turn away when I heard the doctor's voice again.
"What am I?" he asked confusedly.
"In shock, I'm afraid."
"No, I… before that?"
"Ah, yes. Dear to me."
"What? I don't... understand."
"I call you my dear Watson. And you are dear to me. I hope you know that."
"Oh. I think so?"
Holmes smiled sadly and adjusted Watson against his chest. "I worry you don't," he admitted. "But I do believe even your gracious nature wouldn't tolerate me if you thought your loyalty wasn't returned. I assure you, I am quite as dedicated to you as you I."
"Oh."
"How are you feeling, my dear fellow?"
"Huh?" Watson replied.
The poor man really didn't look well, and his words were slow and slightly slurred. I didn't usually need to call in a surgeon when dealing with a constable or a witness in shock, but in this case I wondered if I should send someone for a doctor.
Holmes frowned. "You look horrid. And you're cold as well. What can I do? No, Watson, look at me. I need to know what to do for a shock patient."
"Hmm? Patient? Bring them to me. I'll take care of them."
"Watson, you are the shock patient."
"Hmm? Am I injured?"
"No, just in shock."
"Oh. Uh, try to keep me warm, then."
"I am."
"Am what?"
"I am trying to keep you warm."
Watson's brows knitted again. I could have almost chuckled because the doctor was clearly trying to understand, but was unable to put the puzzle pieces together to figure out what was happening. His face was scrunched, and he looked very unlike himself.
"I… I'm sorry. What were we talking about?" he finally asked.
"Nothing. I'll tell you later." Holmes replied, and continued softly rubbing his friend's back.
They sat in silence for a minute or so, time I took to finish my whiskey and worry about getting caught spying on them. I couldn't move now, not and get away with it. I watched and saw Watson was shuddering and his breathing was erratic. I was expecting any moment for Holmes to yell for me and command me to go get a doctor, and believe I would have in any event had it lasted a moment longer. Instead, Watson came back to himself, blinking up at Holmes.
"Holmes?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Watson? Are you back with me?"
"What happened?" he asked. But Holmes didn't need to answer him because his eyes widened and he grimaced. He had remembered.
"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry. The last time I saw someone die like that was in the war. It was a bit of a shock."
"It was a lot of a shock, I think, but don't fear; you didn't let it show. You stayed calm in the heat of the moment and no one from Scotland Yard is the wiser. I saw you wander off after everything calmed down, and I knew it had gotten to you." Holmes was still holding his friend close, and rubbing one hand up and down his arm.
"So that's why you're coddling me like a child?" Watson tried to joke.
Holmes frowned down at him. "I hope you know I do keep my eye on you, even during cases. Ever since," Holmes' voice caught, "Ever since what happened in January, I swear I shall never be so neglectful again."
Watson's face softened. "Holmes, what happened was not your fault."
"You almost died," Holmes snapped.
With that, I understood. Holmes was being overprotective because he'd had a scare not yet five months ago. It happened to us at the Yard, too. Nearly lose a mate, and the fright of it never really goes away. I, too, knew what it was like to have a partner get a bit too close to death's gates. I knew what being hypervigilant over the welfare of another person was like. Holmes and Watson, well, they must be mates, then. Not roommates, not business partners, real mates. And for some reason, I hadn't seen it before.
I watched as Watson pulled away from Holmes, keeping the blanket around his shoulders. "I had no idea you were so affected. I am sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," Holmes sighed, rubbing eyes for just a second. "And though I am perhaps more callous than most, I hope you know I would never have... well, I would have done many things differently, had I known. And I was not about to leave you alone now, either."
"Holmes… I thank you. Come on, let's go see what's left to be done," Watson said, his voice stronger now. "Inspector Lestrade will be wondering about us."
Holmes nodded helped his friend to his feet and automatically readjusted the blanket when it began to slip.
"I see you like to share your comforts," Watson said, chuckling.
"You were freezing," Holmes said defensively, "and shock patients need to be kept warm. You taught me that, remember?"
"Did you know that at first?"
"I suspected!"
"Alright, alright," Watson said with a chuckle.
"I like blankets," Holmes grumbled.
I bit back a laugh at their banter and backed away quickly as they started towards the door, letting their distraction mask my soft footsteps. I put myself in another doorway so I could pretend I'd just entered.
"There you are!" I exclaimed as they came through. I narrowed my eyes at them. "Are you alright, doctor?"
"Yes, thank you, Inspector," he replied, and I believed him.
He'd never know it, but I respected him for how quickly he had pulled himself together. I'd never tell them what I'd seen, but I knew I'd always remember it whenever the thought cropped up that Sherlock Holmes is a heartless machine. I had, in the past, wondered how they could stand each other. I'd even thought they would part ways within a few months. I was seeing now that the good doctor had changed Mr. Holmes for the better, and Holmes was good for Watson, too.
"Inspector?" Mr. Holmes said, quirking an eyebrow at me in that infuriating way he favored, "shall we finish this case?"
Instead of scowling at him as per usual, I simply nodded. "Yes," I said. "Lets."
This was inspired by the many times Jeremy's Brett's film interpretation of Sherlock Holmes casually demonstrates a love of blankets/scarves/warm things.