2. From Winter Winks 221: A nervous wreck


"Well, well!" said Killer Evans coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and– –"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots.

- Adventure of the Three Garridebs


I will admit that my reaction to Watson's injury took me by surprise. I had always viewed emotion as an impediment to my work and flatly contradictory to the supreme logic to which I had dedicated my life. As such, I had no desire to become entangled in what Mycroft termed "sentimental attachments." And yet, at some point in the years since Watson and I had become acquainted, I had developed just such an attachment. At some point, I had begun to care for Watson as more than simply my biographer, but had begun to consider him — dare I say it? — a friend.

I shuddered at the thought of what Mycroft would say if he knew.

But no, it was not simply discomfort at the thought of my brother's reaction; to my horror, my hands were beginning to tremble. Killer Evans was still bragging of his counterfeiting, and I answered distractedly. I could only hope my distraction was not apparent. The tremors grew steadily more intense, and I clasped my hands behind my back in a further attempt to conceal them. I could not understand this reaction…I had hardly been in danger. Unless…was this some kind of side effect of my concern for Watson's welfare?

Clearly emotion of this kind was an impediment, if I could not control it in the presence of our prisoner. Nor could I conceal it for much longer. Killer Evans had fallen silent at last, and I realized belatedly that his last question had been a challenge.

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," I said, trying for my usual air of unconcern. "But that's not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson. It won't be entirely unexpected." It was cruel to ask him to rise and summon the police himself, I thought uncomfortably, after suffering an injury, but my discomfort was nearly buried by the terror that I might soon lose control completely.

At any rate, Watson did not question me, but limped to do as I had asked. For once, the police were not utterly useless; a pair of constables quickly arrived to take charge of our prisoner and take him back to Scotland Yard. Watson's injury and obvious need for a doctor distracted them from questioning me, a fact for which I was exceedingly grateful.

"Are you coming, Holmes?"

I avoided Watson's open, honest gaze. "I will follow shortly. There are one or two points I would like to clear up regarding the printing press." Then I turned away before I could see his look of disappointment. A few moments later, I heard the door close.

The minutes that followed I do not care to remember clearly. Indeed, there are nothing but flashes: shaking uncontrollably for several minutes, an odd feeling of helplessness. Let all the rest be purged from my brain attic forever!

At last, I trudged up the steps to Baker Street. I had been absent so long that Watson had already received his stitches from his colleague Dr. Wright and returned by cab. He was in his dressing gown, a most unusual sight, and sat ensconced by a roaring fire. Mrs. Hudson's doing no doubt. I felt another pang of regret. Watson had been injured while accompanying me, and instead of remaining by his side, I had forced him to care for himself because of my inability to manage my traitorous emotions. Clearly, I required more practice in mastering myself.

Watson noticed my entrance at once, of course. Though he is often oblivious to the most obvious of details, I have learned Watson is remarkably attuned to my presence. I have yet to account for it. To my surprise, instead of exclaiming loudly that I had returned, or some such inanity, he studied my face quite seriously.

"Are you alright, old fellow?"

I could only shake my head in muddled disbelief. Watson's injured leg was propped up on pillows, but he paid no attention to it in that moment. Somehow, his concern for my welfare trumped the pain he was no doubt feeling. My stomach clenched. Even if what I felt for Watson was friendship, I was surely not worthy of it.

"Perfectly." I did not feel up to more; the smile I gave him was hard enough.

He studied my face a moment more, then smiled. Not, I recognized with a start, a smile that indicated belief in my statement. A fond, accepting smile. "In that case, Holmes, will you keep me company awhile? Mrs. Hudson mentioned something about bringing up tea."

The knot in my stomach became resolve. I may not be worthy of Watson's friendship, but I will do whatever I must to keep him safe.


A/N: Wow, another story from Holmes' perspective. I guess I'm really taking the title this year to heart!