Holmes was in shock, of course. It had been a trying few days for any soul, and he was no longer the young stoic he once was. He also hadn't been taking care of himself properly, but that was because he never really had. He didn't tend to think about cultivating healthy eating or sleeping habits even at the best of times, and these were not the best of times.
His body had reached the breaking point when he'd been rushed out of Watson's hospital room. The passing nurse had noticed Watson wasn't breathing and had thrown Holmes away from him without a second thought, calling for help as he did so.
One of those who responded to the call was a compassionate nurse who, not being needed in the room by the time she arrived, gave her attention to the visitor who lay pale and trembling in the hospital corridor. She had wrapped him in blankets and talked to him softly until she was able to get it out of him where his family was. He gave her Mr. Gordon's address, and she arranged for him to be taken there. He spent several days on Mr. Gordon's living room couch after the shock wore off, being fed soup by the bucketload by Mrs. McEntyre while Alphie read to him aloud from first The Hound of the Baskervilles and then several other volumes Holmes couldn't remember. His fever wasn't high enough to be immediately worrying, but it was persistent. Worse, he was sick at heart. Knowing that Watson was suffering, likely to die, and that he could do nothing for him was felt worse than when he had known Watson was dead, and Holmes lay on the couch and felt very old and felt very useless.
Watson, too, after the doctors could do no more for him, was moved to the family home, stowed away in what was to become Alphie's room to recover or die. Holmes was forbidden by Mrs. McEntyre from seeing him until he no longer had a fever. For his part, Alphie rotated between Holmes' sickbed and Watson's, and finally Holmes' fever subsided and he was only weary.
It was from his vantage point on the couch that Holmes watched Watson stumble into the living room. He had been sitting on the couch with Alphie by his side and Mrs. McEntyre stoking up the fire when there was a bang and something fell in another room and then Watson was there. Standing like a walking corpse, but awake and standing nonetheless.
Watson's eyes glazed over the room until he found Alphie, and then he positively sagged in relief. Had it not been for Alphie and his mother flying to his side, he would have collapsed. They brought him to the couch next to Holmes, who had stood, but then sat again close to Watson's side, letting the doctor lean on him.
"Come, Alphie," demanded the boy's mother.
"But…" the boy protested.
"Come," his mother repeated sternly.
Watson gave Alphie a warm smile. "It's alright, lad, we'll speak later. You're doing just fine, which is all I needed to know." His voice was weak and strained, but both Holmes and Alphie were glad to hear it.
Alphie grinned back shyly, and let his mother lead him away from the room to give Holmes and Watson some privacy.
Holmes and Watson silently grasped each other for some minutes while Watson fought for each breath. Holmes smoothed his hand over Watson's back and turned his head towards Watson's, resting his nose in his friend's hair. He smelled like the lavender shampoo Mrs. McEntyre had been using to wash him.
"You've been ill," Watson finally said, his voice still weak and certainly still welcome.
Holmes chuckled, he couldn't help himself. "My dear Watson, you never change, do you? Here you are, struggling to breathe, and you worry about me? Good old Watson. I assure you, I am just fine. It was only a small fever, and Mrs. McEntyre has bullied me into resting and eating ridiculous amounts of soup and bread."
"Good," Watson whispered. "My greatest comfort as the ship went down was that you were safe and sound in New York and that you would ensure Alphie and his family would be taken care of once you met him. Holmes, I… I didn't mean to live when so many others perished."
"I know you didn't, dear fellow. Alphie told me everything. I knew as he told me his story that you had no intention of living. You lied to him, Watson. You told him you'd be right behind him in order to inspire confidence in him, but you knew that you wouldn't be able to swim for more than a minute or so. I know you can't; I've had to pull you out of enough water to know. I'm so sorry. It must have been horrible."
"It was. I very much wanted to die, Holmes. But Alphie was not about to let me, and so I fought very hard so I wouldn't disappoint him. I meant to go down with the ship, but it so happened I didn't."
"I know, Watson. I know. I would never accuse you of anything otherwise. I suggest you take the advice you gave Alphie to heart: it's okay to want to live. And it's okay that you're alive. Yes, people died who should not have. People lived who should not have. But there is nothing more to be done about it. You are alive, and whether it's right or not, accept your life without guilt. It's okay to want to live." Holmes continued to soothe his hand over his friend's back.
"I heard you," Watson whispered.
"Hmm?" Holmes hummed.
"I don't know when. But you spoke to me, didn't you? I heard you. Only vaguely. And I must confess that I didn't try to live for you. I came back for him, for Alphie. I fought to live so I could make sure he was alright."
"I know. You were looking for him, no one else, when you stumbled in so dramatically." Holmes chuckled. "And you thought that my return from the dead was done with a flair."
"It was," Watson replied with a small smile. "I've never been able to surprise you so completely, nor have I tried."
"Nevertheless. Did you hear what I told you? I did speak to you, that was while you were in the hospital."
"I think so. Perhaps. But I may have dreamt it. I thought I heard you telling me it was okay to die. And now you say it's okay to live. Perhaps both are true."
"You did not dream it," Holmes said gently. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"You know," Holmes finally ventured, "They say the air out west is good for the lungs."
Watson chuckled weakly. "And to think it used to be me who begged you to go on holiday. Yes, of course, Holmes. When you like and where you like."
"I think I like being retired," Holmes said with a smirk Watson couldn't see but could certainly hear in his voice.
Watson huffed. "Oh, please. We both know you will never be retired. Not really. Nor will I. But yes, by all means, lets go west."
"Come in, lad," Holmes called, and Alphie, who'd been lurking in the shadows as they talked, entered sheepishly, a tray of tea and biscuits in his hands. He presented it silently and turned as if to leave, but a wave of Watson's hand had him snuggled against the doctor's other side in an instant. Watson rested one hand on Alphie and with the other tried to sip his tea without coughing.
"You know, Alphie," Holmes said after some minutes of comfortable silence between the three of them, "New York is a good place for writers, especially young writers with friends like Watson."
"How did he…" Alphie breathed.
"We're readers, you and I," Watson whispered conspiratorially. "No one who reads as much as we do can resist the urge to write a story of two, even if we just imagine it. I think he's right. You should write. Write the story of what we've been through, Alphie. Someday, people are going to want to know."
"Do you really think so?" Alphie asked, his eyes wide and his fingers twitching in the same way Watson's always did when he was excited to write something down.
"Oh yes," Watson said. "Here." He gestured for Holmes to give him the copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles and a pen which both rested on the side table. Holmes did so, and he and Alphie watched as Watson scribbled in the front of it. His hand was shaking, but his writing was as bold as ever.
To my friend Alphie McEntyre, who saved my life during the Titanic disaster on April 14, 1912. I look forward to reading your stories in the future. With all my fondest affection, John H. Watson.
"There," he declared when he was finished, "show them this if they don't believe you're my friend."
Holmes took the book, too, and added his own inscription before handing it back to Watson who politely didn't read it and flipped to a blank flyleaf.
"Here," Watson said, writing down his new address in London. "I expect you to write to me when your story's finished. And before and after. And Alphie?"
"Yes, sir?"
"There will come a time when you don't feel strong or brave or important at all. When that happens, remember this. Remember that you are."
Alphie nodded solemnly, taking the book and holding it close to his heart. Upon hearing his mother call again, he quickly slipped the book in his pocket, refilled Watson's cup, grabbed the tray, and left them alone once more.
"What do you think of this American tea?" Holmes whispered low in Watson's ear, making Watson nearly choke on the sip he was taking.
"Holmes," he hissed as well as he could as Holmes softly laughed at him. "It wouldn't do to insult our host."
"No," Holmes agreed, "it would not. But really! How anyone should expect you to recover being fed that! Mrs. Hudson would have a fit if she knew."
That made Watson huff and a moment later they were both chuckling until Watson't laughter turned to a painful bout of coughing.
"Sorry, old man," Holmes apologized, once more running his hand over Watson's back, but Watson waved him off.
"It's alright, Holmes. I can already feel myself growing stronger, I assure you. And I'm sure Mrs. McEntyre will get some good tea in this house soon enough."
"Good." Holmes said, then a new thought crossed his mind and he shook his head. "Who would have ever credited it?" he mused.
"Holmes?"
"The chronicler has become the chronicled," Holmes said, his tone teasing and an affectionate smile playing across his lips. "The Adventures of Doctor Watson. It has a nice ring to it. They shall sing your praises with more fervor than they've ever sang mine. And good thing, too, I say. You'll finally know what I feel every time someone recognizes me from one of your horrible fictions."
"I didn't want my praises sung," Watson sighed. "I never have. And, in the end, all I wanted was for that boy to live. That I'm alive as well is, as I've assured you, a wholly unexpected development."
"For me as well," Holmes agreed, "but I am not complaining. The world will change after this, you know. But, maybe, it will be for the best."
"You've become optimistic in your old age, Holmes," Watson accused without malice. "No, the world has already changed. We are testaments to a bygone era, you and I," he sighed, blinking wearily.
"I believe you are right," Holmes said, staring into the fire, "and yet, you and I may still have some small part to play in this new world. Some service we may still do for the next generation. Some bridge we can build to lead them to a more glorious future."
"We have, I think, built some bridges already," Watson said softly.
"Will you build another with me, Watson?"
"Until the day I die."
"Good man. I never doubted it. I've been thinking about peace, you know, Watson. About how some things are inexplicable. About how eternity can make sense sometimes and leave you wondering how you'd never realized it before. And then, well, you realize you could have known. But you can't even be upset because now you do. Are you following my ramblings, Watson?"
"Yes, Holmes, I believe I am," responded Watson fondly, and Holmes smiled warmly at him.
"Of course, my dear man. Somehow, you always have."
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed this story. I am genuinely curious if I 'got' anyone back in Chapter 1. Was it easy to pick up on the clues that this was a Titanic story? Or was I able to surprise anyone just like New York was surprised when the news came? if you've come this far, do let me know :)
If you'd like another similar story, check out Sherlock Holmes and the Titanic Tragedy: A Case to Remember by William Seil. I got my copy on Ebay for around $5 and it's pretty good. I give it a 3.5/5. It's not stellar, but really enjoyable with a few very memorable scenes. My story is not based on that one, nor is it inspired by (I wrote this before I'd read it), and I am in no way connected with the author or publisher. I simply thought it was intriguing so I checked it out. I've never been able to resist a Titanic story. Or a Sherlock Holmes story.
My inspiration for Holmes and Watson's dialogue was Clive Merrison and Michael William's respective Holmes and Watson portrayals.
Thank you for reading.