A/N: Er…a little later than I wanted due to work but still, here it is! We are finally boiling down to the moment where Holmes will tell us why he did what he did. But I am entirely serious when I say that he is not sane.

No disclaimer: Public Domain!

Ch. 7- Bad Timing

24 July, 1894

Confound that Gregson! I have made it quite clear to Mrs. Hudson that I wished to receive no visitors and yet that bumbling oaf barged in here despite her protests (I could hear her clearly down the hall) and demanded that I turn my attention to a case! A case! What in the blazes do I care about a case! Should not the ruinations of my life and Dr. Watson's be clear for all to see? Was it even possible that he does not know what I have done? No matter, as I sent him back out the door as quickly as he entered it and with burning ears I'll wager. Since he roused me from my stupor, I suppose I shall continue.

For six months I lingered as the elderly bookseller, far longer than I originally intended, but my tiger-hunter was elusive. I would need him to commit a crime that was not connected to me so as to have him believe it was the crime that drew me back home and not Watson. Even then I feared he was in danger and I knew that I would not draw an easy breath until Moran was safely in Scotland Yard's clutches. When the news of the Adair murder reached my ears, I grinned fiercely behind my disguise, unfortunately scaring away the few customers I had managed to attract, but I cared not. My tiger had slipped and now all that need be done was to lay the trap.

It was time to return to Baker Street.

I am afraid that I gave poor Mrs. Hudson a terrible fright when I let myself into the flat, but there was honestly nothing I could do to prepare her. Nor was I prepared to realize how much I had missed my redoubtable landlady during my three year absence, but the smell wafting from her kitchen combined with the warmth of the fire she kindled had done much to ease the lingering ache of homesickness that plagued me.

It was not until she asked after the doctor that I realized how much his continued absence from my side was the worst hurt of all. It was like a raw, festering wound and everything around me that only moments ago had brought comfort, now poked at that wound like an angry child. I am afraid that I was rather churlish with her and by her expression I could deduce that she was most displeased that Watson did not, as yet, know of my continued existence.

"If you wish to have my help this evening, Mr. Holmes, then I suggest that you fetch the doctor to your side once more. I dare say you have a great deal of explaining to do." Her expression softened somewhat, losing its stern edge. "That is, if he will return to your side. If I may be so bold, Mr. Holmes, you will be a very lucky man if the doctor forgives you for this."

(Since the incident I have wondered why the good lady has not poisoned me. While I am certain she is not in full possession of the details, I was quite loud and the effect that it had on Watson obvious. Perhaps it is because I have barely eaten since that day.)

With those few words she had come straight to the heart of my current problem. How was I going to tell my Watson that I still dwelled among the land of the living? I may be branded a coward, but the thought of him turning me away before or even after I was allowed to explain made me wish I had not returned to England at all. I wanted Watson's forgiveness as much as I wanted him by my side again, but what right did I have to expect either?

None.

Nevertheless, if I wished to see this plan through then it would be necessary to master my courage and confront my much wronged companion. I donned my bookseller persona and hustled down to the courts where I was sure to find Watson this day. Some inner part of me was laughing hysterically (and not altogether sanely I am afraid) at the maneuvers of Fate when it came to placing Watson as the police surgeon attached to the Adair case. Was it happenstance or was there some higher power out to force my hand in the situation?

Pah! I am indeed turning into a sentimental fool!

I listened in on the inquest and felt my blood boil at how they dismissed Watson's theories so casually and callously admonished him to keep his mind to facts, not fancies.

As if that pompous ignoramus could distinguish between the two!

But Watson seemed to take it in stride which led me to believe that this was not the first time that it happened and he did not believe it to be the last.

It would be if I had my say!

I lingered as the crowd dispersed, arranging it so that I might run into him. I had intended to lure him to my book shop but when the time came, I panicked. I was unforgivably rude to him despite his apology and his retrieval of my books. Bless Watson's gentle soul for he was not put out in the least and bestowed an apologetic smile in my undeserving direction before hailing a cab. I listened carefully to his destination and returned to my book shop. I could not return to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson's disapproval when she learned I had failed. Best if I used the time to rally myself together for the second, and successful I promised, attempt. It would be better, I reasoned, if I made my reveal away from the eye of the public and on his own ground. I would rather avoid a scene if at all possible and if I could not, then better it occur in his consulting room.

And what a scene. The showman of my soul should be locked away forever considering the reaction that was wrung from my Watson by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance. I have witnessed my dear companion face down the worst dregs that our society has produced with a steady eye and even steadier aim. To see him faint upon viewing me for the first time in three years shocked me. I rushed to catch him before he hit the floor and clutched him to my chest, secure in the knowledge that he was unaware of what I was doing, berating myself all the while for my theatrics. Honestly, what had I expected? Considering what little I had been able to deduce about his health, I should have anticipated this reaction. Still, a chill swept through me as I was allowed to observe my Watson up close for the first time since our separation.

The handsome face was creased with far more lines than I remembered and the hollowness of his cheeks accurately dictated the state of his appetite. As I had already noted, he had lost a great deal of weight, but now that I could focus my full attention, it was far worse than I had first imagined. The suit he wore, which I recognized as one he donned during his consulting hours, nearly swallowed him. I wondered at the state of his finances—could he not afford a new one?—but then dismissed the idea when another, far more accurate (if disturbing) theory presented itself.

Watson had always been most careful with his appearance, striving to appear as ever the respectable, professional English gentleman. No other before him, in my mind, had ever done so well in achieving this goal, more so because of his genuine nature. That he should allow himself to descend into such a state (wrinkled, ill-fitting, stains on his cuffs, waistcoat, and knees, mud splattered over his shoes—again from the East End!) allowed a window into the disparity of his mental health. My eyes squeezed shut and I found it hard to swallow when I reached inside his coat and found that I could count every rib despite the layers of fabric. With one finger, I traced the outline of his hair, noting that it had receded another centimeter and a half. At his temples I counted no less than eighty-six white hairs to add to the fifty-four I observed in his mustache. My heart, the curse of my existence, wept to see this dramatic change in my dearest friend. I would make it my goal, I vowed then, to erase as much of this as possible and restore him to his former glory.

Had I but known that I was capable of far worse the Reichenbach, I would have left that very moment and never darkened his doorstep again. I should have allowed Moran his victory and seen my life ended by that air gun! But then, hindsight is always presented with the utmost clarity.

As it was, I rose to retrieve the brandy flask from the pocket of my costume when a frame atop the mantle caught my eye. Drawn to it by some indefinable curiosity, I found myself both elated and deeply horrified to find that it was the note that I had written to him at Reichenbach. Elated that my last words were so precious to him and horrified that he should keep an item, a mere trifle, that I had no doubt caused him pain daily. My whole body clenched as I clutched the frame to my chest, reminding myself how to breathe lest I join the good doctor in unconsciousness. Once I had regained sufficient control, I replaced the frame and set about reviving my companion.

I could not help but revel in the obvious joy that my reappearance brought to Watson. Many of the wrinkles that I had counted, catalogued and despaired over, vanished in the intensity of his smile and I was heartened to see color return to those too pale cheeks. I basked under the rapt attention that he paid to my tale, his eyes obviously taking in every detail of my appearance. I wonder what it was that he saw that day.

I often find it slightly disheartening to read Watson's stories of our cases together. Not so much for their inherent romantic tendencies, though I have chided him more than once on that point; I am aware that their format was that of a story and not to be found in a lecture. Rather, they were made for a study in literature. No, it was not for their romanticism, but for the role that he placed himself in. He was never just a student of my methods, but my partner in an agency of two. More than once I had toyed with the notion of having my calling cards reprinted to include his name. Where I understood how the web of clues, such little details, came together, my Watson understood matters of the heart and his medical prowess was unrivalled, in my opinion. Should he have applied himself to the furtherment of his career, I have little doubt that his name would now be among the top doctors of England, if not the Empire. But because he does not hold any great desire for advancement, he remains a general practitioner. In that realm, however, he flourishes and, for him, the joy it brings far outweighs the pain and frustration. It was his connection to the people that he helped that made it all worthwhile.

But what had his connection to me brought, I wondered, even as I put forth what was most assuredly the best performance to date, rivaling even that of the Culverton Smith debacle. I exaggerated my travels and failed to mention how his absence had been like a festering knife wound, when my greatest want was to fall to my knees before him and beg his forgiveness. Begging for anything, especially forgiveness, is not something I am ever inclined to do, but for Watson, I would have done so without shame.

But I need not have worried for he forgave me! My Watson forgave me! It was all I could do not to reach out and pull him to my side, but I do have some self-restraint. All at once the tension drained from my body—he forgave me!—and I found it difficult to keep my eyes open. My ever observant Watson saw this at once and insisted that I indulge in a nap before the night's work—which he would be joining me in!—and I consented readily though I was rather adamant on the point of sleeping in his consulting room. From the paperwork that was but half-finished on his desk, I knew he would remain there for some time. He immediately agreed, less inclined to be parted from me than I from him and I soon dozed off, tucked under a thick rug, to the soothing sound of his pen scratching away.

The night's events unfolded much as I predicted, though I will admit that my near strangulation at the hands of Moran was not, but Watson saved the day. So my tiger-hunter fell for my bait and I was once more free to do as I pleased. My first mission was to bring Watson to Baker Street with me, partake in the wonderful repast that my dear Mrs. Hudson has prepared (making certain that Watson ate more than his fair share), and persuade the good doctor to spend the night. It was all together a simple plan and one that I executed with perfection. During the day, Mrs. Hudson had endeavored to make our rooms inhabitable once more (even going so far as to make up Watson's room) and she was entirely successful. That night I was allowed the first peaceful slumber I could achieve in three years.

Despite the euphoria that seemed to encompass the household, I was somewhat ill at ease. The other hammer had yet to fall and I wondered, once the amazement at my return had vanished, what Watson's true reaction would be. None could deny that he had the right to be angry, but he had yet to exercise it. Any time that I was alone (which seemed to be only during my hours of sleep) I often found myself pondering every possible scenario and plotting my own reaction to it so that I might stay in control of the situation. Those contemplations evicted sleep from my being and it would often be many hours before Morpheus was allowed to lay his claim upon me.

The first, and most likely scenario, was that Watson and I would engage in a physical brawl. Watson is a man with a formidable temper, as he warned me upon our first meeting, and when that sleeping bull pup is roused, he is a magnificent sight to behold. And no less a formidable opponent. In the past he and I have engaged in numerous sparing matches. I am reluctant to admit that I claimed victory in just over half those matches. In those tales that Watson shares with the public, he expounds upon my physical prowess in numerous areas, but fails utterly in even mentioning his own.

Another scenario could be that he would seem to grant forgiveness, but in the end we would fail to achieve the closeness we had both enjoyed in the past. Instead, the distance would remain an infection between us. Since neither would be willing to address the cause so that it might be healed, we would drift apart and eventually out of each others lives.

But it was the last scenario my mind conjured that so often occupied my thoughts. In an instance of brave stupidity, I would reveal the feelings that I had so long harbored for him. He would reject me, repudiate our friendship and cease all contact with me.

It was that train of thought that stole my appetite and any notions of sleep.

So I tread carefully. I measured every response, continued to agonize over my scenarios, and waited. The waiting I found to be most irksome. I wished to settle this matter between us, but could not summon the courage to broach the subject. Watson may extol my bravery for his readers, but in matters of the heart I am an utter coward.

Watson, I observed, was equally reluctant to approach the matter but I was certain that he was aware of it. It was in his hesitance to join me for dinner, the slowness of his laughter, and the absence of his touch. The tension in the weeks that followed my return was enough to try even my nerves. I would find, at the oddest intervals, that Watson would be watching, not speaking, just watching. The effect that it had upon my person was most disconcerting. Part of me wished to understand what was troubling the good doctor because though I once thought his face an open book to my deductive powers, I now found those pages to be frightfully blank. It was my want to understand so that I might act. Another, more irrational part, wished to wring the answers from Watson and ask why it was that he bloody well stared so much!

When, at length, I felt matters were coming to a head, I set out on a stroll of London, refamiliarizing myself with my city and discovering what had changed in the years of my absence. My feet carried me on their own while my mind examined this problem from all angles. While Watson visited every evening, he had not asked to share lodgings once more. But he was relieving himself of his patients, though I doubted he would be very successful in that mission. As I have stated previously, Watson's qualifications and skill as a practitioner are unquestionable, and inspired loyalty in the patients under his care. So long as he did not move too far away, they would retain him as their physician. But would he be able to maintain an active practice if he returned to Baker Street? Why had he not asked to return? Or, for that matter, why had I not asked him to? He continued to accompany me on cases but the unspoken language we once shared seemed to have faded from our memories.

It was during the fifth such stroll that I forced myself to have a mouthful of dinner at a small café on the Strand. This situation must not continue! I could no longer allow us to dwell in this wretched limbo. If I was to see our friendship repaired then I would have to be the one to take the first step. Since it was I that had caused the situation in the first place, it was my duty to see it the rift mended. It was my wretched emotions that muddied the waters between us worse than the Thames and I would have to marshal them so I might convince Watson not only the sincereness of my apology, but the truth behind it all. I would explain why I had acted in such a manner, why I had allowed him to suffer all those years and reveal the true extent of my feelings in regards to him.

It was decided.

It might be regarded as a hasty decision, but after nearly two months of this, I could no longer keep my heart to myself. I had to try. What I would do should my heart be broken, I did not know, but suffering as I was, as we both were, was no longer tolerable. He stared…oh how he stared! Those wondrous green eyes that used to shine so bright…now so dull…It was the only way! Either this would end both of our suffering or only plunge us deeper, but it had to be done!

My step was decidedly lighter upon my return to Baker Street. I was dismayed when Mrs. Hudson informed me that I had a client. He would not delay my talk with Watson, at least, not overly much. I would dispatch him as quickly as possible and return my attention to the more important matter at hand. As I bound up the stairs, I was calculating what I wished to say to Watson, but when I through open the door, I was unprepared for the sight before me.

Watson, it seemed, had ended his rounds early that day and at present was entertaining my client.

My female client.

End Ch. 7

A/N: And now, it seems, we are reaching the bottom of his problem. Still not sane, and I am decidedly evil. I am not convinced he has a good reason. But does anyone ever have a good reason for breaking someone's heart?

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