Notice: Contains a brief, non-graphic scene of serious injury to a main character as a child (not caused by a human). Contains brief reference to child abuse/neglect. Readers, please use your own discretion. As always, feel free to message me for full spoilers before you read.
In the valley between two hills where the train tracks run, there's a small series of stone piles no one ever notices and a path through the trees only one person ever uses. There's a boy there now, his pocket full of stones, listening to a train roll down the tracks. His name is John Watson, and he'll tell anyone that has the fastest, most precise pitch in his town. He knows he does because this is where he practices.
The train comes fast because there are no stops for miles yet, and John is often there to meet it. He stands just a meter or two away from the tracks, readying his stones. He pitches them so fast they slip through the gaps in the passing train cars, landing where he aims them, accumulating in piles. When the train has passed, he'll see where they landed, see if he was able to hit his imaginary targets. This is how he knows he's the greatest thrower in his town.
Everyone else knows it, too. He's not yet a man, but he's the pitcher for his cricket team, and everyone says he'll get a scholarship for certain. His catching is nearly as good as his pitching, so he may even end up playing for England; he's that good. The town brags about him, his father especially. They'd never had a talent like him, not someone who could end up playing for England. It was actually so certain that playing cricket for England was in his future that his father had forbidden him from football and rugby, sports he preferred, lest he do himself an injury.
So, John Watson practices here often, not wanting to let any of them down, especially his father. He throws through train cars at invisible targets and dreams of a day he'll really make them proud.
His own ambitions lie somewhere between playing cricket for England and what he's always secretly wanted: to be a writer. He knows he'll never do one, must work hard and do the other, and will likely be a businessman once his days as an athlete are behind him. If he's lucky, he'll be a banker or a shop owner and will be content with that. That would be a good path, a path his father would approve of and would provide for the family he imagined he'd have. A family where he'd hug his sons and tell them he would not disown them if they wanted to write novels for a living. A family where he'd love the woman he married and never say a harsh word to her. A family all his own to be happy in.
The train was coming, and Watson was wondering what his life would be like when he was older. He didn't know that in another life, a life where he was paying a bit more attention, he would go on to be a writer after all. Not before his father's drinking caught up with him, however. Not before he and his brother were left poor and all alone so that John joined the army to make money and support himself while his brother refused to help himself and went the way of their father. Not before Watson was wounded in such a way that he'd never play cricket again, but it wouldn't have been a bad life. He would have been happy, despite its ups and downs. But that was another world, a world he'd never know.
In this world, he didn't see the freshly fallen tree on the tracks, didn't know anything was wrong until he heard the impact, felt the sharp sting in his cheek as the first piece of shrapnel pierced him. He was close, too close, and he stumbled backwards, just not in time. More shards of wood slashed through his skin, cutting his face, his palms, his arms, and ripping through his clothing. They pierced him like a pincushion, leaving him bleeding from a hundred wounds.
Worst of all, as he slowly came back himself after collapsing on the ground, he realized he couldn't see. Couldn't see! He reached one bleeding hand up, feeling his face. One eye was bloody, but he couldn't feel anything in it and still couldn't see.
The other eye, well… he pulled a large splinter out of his palm by feel before grasping the large chunk in his eye. He grit his teeth, pulling it out with a scream. He still couldn't see, but he knew he needed to get help. He tried screaming for aid, but no one answered him. He didn't know what else to do, so he sat and tried to cry, but he couldn't even do that; it hurt too much.
He prayed the Lord's prayer; it was the only prayer he could think of and if he'd ever needed divine intervention, it was now. And, as it had happened, he had it. It wasn't but ten minutes after he picked himself up and began stumbling back towards town that someone found him. Of course, what it felt like to Watson was that he'd been stumbling in the dark for an hour, but he knew he should be grateful for being rescued.
The man who found exclaimed something Watson didn't quite catch and then Watson felt the stranger's hands on him, lifting him easily. He was saved, but his life was never about to be the same again.
John Watson paused as he shelved one of his books. "Who are you?" he asked, feeling the presence beside him.
"My apologies," the stranger replied softly. "The door to your office was open, and I did not realize you are blind. How do you read?"
Watson held out a book, waiting for the man to take it. He did.
"The strange system of dots you are seeing is braille," Watson explained. "It is new here, but they've had it in France for years now. That's why the book you're holding is in French. I hire a few people to translate books to braille and have some of the university assistant's translate others for me. When I need to grade student essays, I have them read to me, and I know when they are trying to pull one over. Nevertheless, there is always an assistant in the room. Assistants also take my dictation at times. For what reason would you be seeking me without knowing anything so simple as I am blind?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm afraid I've never heard about you before today, but that hardly means I know nothing about you."
"Oh? What do you know about me, Mr. Holmes?"
"I know you were blinded in an accident when you were a child. Something similar to an explosion, I believe. A fall was my first idea, but that won't explain the slight scars on your palms. You were defending yourself, not trying to catch yourself. Something shattered?" he asked to confirm his theory.
"I was standing close to the train tracks," Watson said slowly. "There was a fallen tree. The train hit it and I was struck. I've been blind ever since, and therefore I've never seen my own scars, but I do know what other people say about them."
"Oh? What would that be?"
"Usually something along the lines of, 'Dear God, what is that thing?' or 'Look away, children.' You're the first man who's ever drawn a conclusion from them... and the first I've told the root cause of my blindness. The students seem have spread a rumor that I was attacked by a tiger as a child in India."
"And were you a child in India?"
"No. And I've never met a tiger. But don't tell them that; I'll lose my mystique."
"I'm sorry people say that," Holmes said softly. "The scars are visible, but they're not any kind of repulsive."
Watson paused. "What is your purpose here?"
"I am here to ask about a colleague of yours. Professor Moriarty."
Watson nodded. "He teaches mathematics and astronomy. He's damned brilliant, but always busy. I can try and get you an appointment with him, but I can't guarantee anything."
"It's not an appointment with him I want. I'd simply like to know if you've never conducted business with him."
"Business? No, not really. We're not exactly in the same fields, Mr. Holmes, seeing as I teach literature and world mythology."
"But you know each other?"
"Yes. He comes to my office sometimes to inquire about the mention and position of certain stars in various myths. He's always been amiable and helpful in return."
"I am afraid, professor, that he may be taking advantage of your blindness."
"Sir? What is it you mean? I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to explain yourself."
"And I trust I can count on your discretion."
"You can, If your claim is founded."
Holmes nodded, then realized the blind man couldn't see that. "Of course, professor. As a blind man, I'm sure you're intimately familiar with your office."
"Of course. When a man loses one sense, the others heighten to make up for the lack. It's the same as when one loses a limb and the others strengthen."
"And that familiarity extends to your bookshelf?"
"Yes, naturally."
"But, like any good professor, you have far more books than you actually use for a course. Some are simply for reference. Some, you won't touch for years until you have need of it."
"Yes, I suppose you're correct. However I would tend to have less than the others as I often will have students read me the passages I need."
"As is to be expected. But unlike the others, you are blind, and therefore cannot see if one of your books in particular has less dust on the top of the pages than the ones next to it. All of them, I presume, are books of the sort we've described; books you don't use often. This one in particular, it seems, may have been a gift from Professor Moriarty. It is a math book, therefore ensuring you don't use it for reference often if at all."
Watson knew where to reach on the shelf, his hand going to one book in particular. "This one," he said, "is the only one that was a gift from Moriarty." He frowned, holding it. "That's not right…" he murmured.
"I thought so," Holmes said with a nod Watson couldn't see. "May I?"
Watson handed him the book.
"I'm opening it," Holmes narrated, "and I am finding that some of the inside pages have been cut out to make a small space inside. And I am finding that something is, indeed, hidden. It is the stolen ruby necklace of Lady Beatrice Harding." He held the book out so that Watson could feel he was telling the truth.
"Mr. Holmes, I assure you, I had no idea…"
"Of course not," Holmes assured him quickly. "In no moment were you ever under suspicion. I'm afraid you've been cruelly used; Moriarty targeted you for your blindness."
"Moriarty stole the necklace?"
"No, but I'd be willing to wager anything that he'd be popping by your office soon for a friendly chat and just so happen to find that you're out. He'll then retrieve the necklace at his leisure and you'd have never been the wiser. Another professor might notice the visible difference in his shelf, but you wouldn't. The only way you'd know the difference would be by feel. And you did, Professor. When you picked the book up, you knew immediately that something was wrong. It was the same deduction I made, just made with a different sense."
"I did know something was different," Watson confirmed. "But who would have planted it there?"
"A student, likely. He may have been the same person to steal it, or he may have gotten it from the man who did. Either way, he's likely in one of your classes and is not a student of Moriarty. That way, the crime can't be traced back to the professor. They never are, which is why he is still at large."
"So what do I do now?" Watson asked.
"Please, do nothing. I don't want Moriarty to know you're aware of his deceptions. He will know by now, I'm sure, that I've been in your office, but he won't know you are aware of his deception. I'm leaving the necklace here. I hope you don't mind, but the official forces of Scotland Yard and myself may find it necessary to use your office as a trap."
"Of course. I am completely at your disposal."
"Please, don't feel put out. Go about your normal schedule. No harm will come to you; consider yourself under my protection."
Watson frowned sadly.
"Have I upset you?" Holmes asked, and to his own surprise he found that he cared about the answer.
Watson shook his head. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. I sometimes forget to control my own facial reactions. I'm not upset, not really. Just remembering something. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I'm going to visit you tonight, Professor Watson," Holmes answered, "If you'll allow it. I'll explain more then. For now, I must be gone."
Watson nodded. "I'll see you tonight." He gave him his address, and found himself looking forward to the strange man's visit.
"So explain what it is that you do?" Watson asked that night as they reclined in chairs side by side in Watson's living room.
"I am a private consulting detective," Holmes said, and he explained what he did for Scotland Yard as well as individual clients. "It would be better, however, if I had a business partner," he finished. "Unfortunately, not many people are interested in the art of detection."
"Really? To me it seems as if you must have one of the most enviable jobs in the world. If I could simply create my own profession I don't know what I'd do. If only there was a way to make a decent living off of learning to be blind in a world that doesn't care."
"Speaking of, I'd like to hire you."
"Excuse me?"
"You're brilliant in all the ways that I'm not," Holmes explained. "I could use a man like you on my side. It's hard to find a good confidante, and as a detective having someone I can trust and talk to would be invaluable. I'll come around sometimes and impose myself upon you to ask for your academic expertise or tell you about my cases. I won't interrupt your lectures, but my visits will not always be convenient for you. I'll pay you a flat rate each week whether I visit or not."
Watson had an odd expression on his face. "That's a very odd way, Mr. Holmes, of saying that you'd like to be friends."
"I…" Holmes stammered.
"Don't be embarrassed," Watson said. "I'd like to be friends, too. It's been a long time since I've had a friend, but I do know one doesn't charge for it. Please, Mr. Holmes, come around whenever you like, and leave your money at home."
Holmes was silent for a moment, wondering if he really did have a new friend.
"Unless," Watson said nervously, "you were having me on?"
"No! I… it's been a long time since I've had a friend, too, Professor. I was not at all expecting you to be amenable to the idea. I'm afraid I won't be a very good friend."
"And I look like a monster," Watson said. "Not many people want to be my friend."
"You don't look like a monster," Holmes said softly. "Others are simply cruel."
"Can I see what you look like?" Watson held out his hand, letting it hang in the air between them.
Holmes swallowed hard, but he wasn't afraid. He took the professor's hand in his gently, guiding it towards his face and touching the fingertips to his chin. Watson felt the shape of his chin, tracing his fingertips along his jawline to his ear. He felt Holmes' eyebrows and the shape of his forehead, but he was very careful not to get very close to his eyes. Instead, he traced the line of the nose Holmes thought was far too big and around the lips that Holmes knew were far too thin. Holmes knew he wasn't a handsome man, but he'd never been self-conscious like this because it was as if Watson was feeling more than just his facial features.
With an open palm, Watson ran his hand down Holmes' neck and shoulder, feeling his elbow and finally getting back to his hand. He squeezed the other man's fingers slightly before letting go as a silent thanks for trusting him.
"Thank you," he whispered. "I haven't known what another human looks like for a very long time. And I haven't been touched in a friendly way for even longer. So thank you."
"You're welcome," Holmes said softly. "Does that have anything to do with how I upset you earlier?"
"You didn't upset me, not really," Watson admitted. "You just reminded me of my brother. When we were children, he despised me because our father favored me even though Harry was older. Then, after the accident, when my father despised me, Harry realized it wasn't me he had hated for years, but rather our father's behavior. He became my staunchest defender and my closest companion. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have recovered and adapted to my blindness as well as I did. I may never have learned to love reading and learning and become an English professor. I may have ended up dead in some filthy alley, a beggar without a friend. My brother ensured that didn't happen."
"So what happened?" Holmes asked reluctantly.
"My brother adored me a little too much," Watson elaborated. "He would have defended me against anyone who dared to try and harm me… and that included our father. With my blindness, his hopes of using me for his own fame died. Harry was all he had left if he wanted to use one of his sons for his own wealth and glory. His problem, of course, was that Harry now hated him. He decided I was the problem."
Holmes swallowed hard. He didn't like where this story was headed; he'd been a detective for too long. "He tried to murder you?" he blurted out.
"No," Watson said sadly. "But he beat me. Every time I accidentally knocked something over or became frustrated with adjusting to being blind, he'd punish me severely. The first time Harry saw it, he didn't leave my side for a very long time, and he swore he'd never let him hurt me again. And for a while, father left me alone."
Watson sighed. "Then, one day I accidentally knocked into the kitchen table because it had been moved. Father was drunk, and he was enraged that I spilled his drink. He struck me, knocking me into the mantle. His gun fell from where he kept it, and it went off. The bullet hit me, and I screamed from the pain of it. That was what Harry heard… and I suspect that he, like you, thought that father had tried to murder me. I don't really remember what happened next…" he shook his head.
"I woke in hospital. My father was dead, and Harry never said what happened, but I knew. Harry was never the same after that. He clung to me even more, put on a brave front, but he was severely changed and wouldn't tell me his troubles. When I went away to school, he began to drink heavily, just like our father. One day, he got into a drunken fight and was left alone all night, injured and bleeding in the snow. He died a week later from the pneumonia that followed. No one told me until he was dead. I didn't even say goodbye."
Watson took a shuddering breath. "He was the only one who ever loved me, and I took him away. If I hadn't been so clumsy, if he'd ever opened up to me, if only I'd have died in the accident that blinded me…"
"Stop," Holmes said softly, taking Watson's hand in his own.
"Sorry," Watson apologized. "It's not really a story I tell. I'm sorry to burden you with it."
"It's not a burden," Holmes assured him, "but neither do I wish to hear you blame yourself. You were a child, and your brother's choices were his own."
"My brother saved me," Watson said sadly, "But it destroyed him. I've tried to make my life worthwhile for his sake, and I hope I have, but it seems like a trade that couldn't possibly be worthwhile."
"It would have to him," Holmes countered, "because he would have wanted you to live. I'm sorry he didn't as well, but there's nothing to be done about that now."
"I suppose you're right," Watson sighed. "It's nice, to finally have a friend again."
"To friendship," Holmes proposed, raising his glass and putting another in Watson's hand.
"To friendship," Watson agreed. And, from then on, they were.
The students and faculty got used to seeing Holmes around the university's campus. He'd visit a few times a week, sometimes bringing an inquiry to Watson and sometimes just visiting. Watson lived in faculty housing on campus and rarely had visitors, and so it was noticeable when he started having Holmes come around.
Holmes noticed how, when they walked the campus paths that Watson was familiar with, the students they passed all seemed to have one of three reactions. Most would view Watson warmly, showing deference and an obvious fondness for their professor. Some would watch him warily, uncomfortable with themselves around the blind professor they'd obviously heard of but never interacted with. Still others seemed to hold some disdain for him, shooting him glares, making rude gestures, or saying something rude to their friends about him. Watson ignored them, and so Holmes did, too, but he didn't like it.
Holmes didn't offer to pay him again, but did learn which publisher was working on making books in Braille and commissioned some from them. He decided it was the least he could do for Watson. For a long time, it was a good life, but the situation with Moriarty couldn't be ignored forever.
Holmes burst into Watson's office, a cry of his name upon his lips. Watson was standing in the middle of his destroyed space, debris all around him.
"Holmes?"
"Watson! Thank God! Are you hurt?"
"Not badly," Watson said with a small shrug, "but how did you hear of the break-in so quickly?"
"I received a threatening note, Watson, saying that next time it wouldn't be only your office that was destroyed. I came as soon as I got it. I'm so sorry, I fear you've been targeted due to your association with me."
"Have one of the university assistants post that my lectures are cancelled today, won't you?"
"Yes, of course," Holmes said.
"Thank you. I have much rearranging to do, and I suppose you'll want to know what happened."
Holmes quickly went to fulfill his friend's request and then came back to help him. They slowly worked on cleaning Watson's office while the professor told him what had happened.
"They were inside my office when I arrived this morning," Watson explained. "There were two of them. One was taller than I was. He had rough hands and strong arms. He was aggressive; he grabbed me by the neck and threw me to the ground. The other was shorter and more timid. He protested, and his voice was shaking. He sounded young, like a first year student. He said, 'we're not supposed to touch him.' The other was smart enough not to speak. He slapped the smaller one, and they left quickly. The tall one was wearing boots; he seemed like more of a man than a student. The smaller one was wearing athletic shoes, if I am correct. He did seem like a student."
"I see. Anything else?"
"Yes. You received a note saying that I'd be hurt next time. This wasn't next time. So why was I hurt?"
"I don't know," Holmes admitted. "But I know who's behind this."
"You do?"
"Who do you think?"
"Watson? What has happened?" came another, familiar, and unwelcome voice from outside his office.
"Hello, Moriarty," Watson greeted. "You'd think immature pranks like this wouldn't happen here, but here we are. I'd suggest you double check you've locked your doors at night. The night watchmen will be hearing about this."
"Of course," Moriarty agreed. "This is a disgrace. The students responsible will certainly be expelled when they are caught. I'll spread the word. Are you sure it was students? Should we call for the constabulary?"
"They've already been," Watson lied easily. "They agree students are the most likely culprits, as nothing was stolen. My friend here has been helping me. Professor Moriarty, meet…"
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty interrupted him. "Your reputation precedes you. It is my pleasure. How did you meet Professor Watson?"
"He hired me," Holmes lied, just as smoothly as Watson had. "After I'd solved his case, we went for drinks and realized we shared a common interest in book collecting. I've promised to help him collect his next volume, as I can guarantee he won't be scammed."
"Fortunately, that has never happened as of yet, but the worry is always there," Watson elaborated, picking up the lie as if they'd rehearsed it. "I am lucky I keep none of my volumes in the office, else I might have found that the rogues who destroyed my office had robbed me after all."
"I see," Moriarty said, "and how were you able to arrive so quickly, Mr. Holmes?"
Watson raised his hand to his head. "I'd almost forgotten!" he exclaimed. "With what happened, I forgot why I asked you here. Did you bring what I needed?"
"Yes, of course," Holmes replied. "I, too, was distracted by coming in to find this."
"Will you take this on as a case, Mr. Holmes?"
"I don't think that will be necessary," Holmes said. "Watson believes it was students, and I trust his judgement."
"Of course," Moriarty said, a small frown turning the corners of his mouth. "Professor, I came by intending to ask you to tea this afternoon. I suppose with this new development we'll need to reschedule. Would tea on Friday suit?"
"I'm afraid, sir, that Watson and I are meeting Friday," Holmes said. He watched Moriarty, who watched him back steadily. Watson couldn't watch either of them, but he sensed a charge in the air, the kind palpable before a fight. He stayed quiet, letting the detective and the criminal get the measure of each other. The veil of polite conversation between them had worn thin, and the next words spoken were icy.
"I'll have to get my hands on the professor some other time then," Moriarty said. "Good day."
"Watch yourself, Professor," Holmes replied. "There may be more mischief afoot. And if that is the case, don't be alarmed. I'll be right on top of it. Good day."
Moriarty nodded, leaving them in the destroyed office.
"Was that a threat?" Watson whispered softly when he was gone.
"Yes," Holmes affirmed, "but don't be alarmed. He won't try anything against you, not directly. He doesn't deal his blows directly, only through means that can't be traced back to him. "I don't foresee him harming you, especially knowing full well that you are under my protection and that I am close on his heels. His whole operation will crumble under my hand be it sooner or later. I will find the weakness in his ranks. I will destroy him and see him hanged for his crimes."
Watson reached out his hand and Holmes took it, squeezing his fingers in a way he hoped was reassuring.
"I'm not afraid," Watson said softly. "Don't worry about me."
"I know you're not," Holmes assured him. "And I'm glad of it. I may yet be needing your help to bring about his downfall. But for now I will continue to help you." He let go of Watson's hand and picked up some of Watson's scattered books.
They worked together to put Watson's office to rights before they were interrupted again.
"Professor Watson?"
"Hello, Peter. My apologies, but lecture is cancelled today. I thought you'd see the notice."
"I did, sir, and my apologies, but I've also heard the rumor of what someone did to you. I see now that it's true."
"Yes, Peter. We'll pick back up tomorrow, I'm sorry for the delay."
"No, sir," Peter said with a shake of his head. "It's me and some of the other lads who are sorry, sir. Fact is, we've been doing some investigating of our own, sir. With apologies to your friend here, of course."
"And what did you find?" Holmes asked.
"We've ratted him out, sir. Fresher called Monroe. He was seen snooping around with an older gentleman, likely let him in the gates. The lads and I found him and have him confessing. Should we turn him over to the police?"
"No," Holmes said. "Let him go, and don't tell him that you've let Watson know who he is."
"Professor?" Peter said, looking towards his mentor.
"Do as he says, Peter. You can trust him."
"Yes, sir. And professor?"
"Yes?"
"Anyone else gives you trouble, you just let us know."
"Thank you, Peter," Watson replied. "I… thank you. But I don't think that will be necessary. Please, do as Mr. Holmes says."
"Of course, professor."
"I need to go, Watson," Holmes said once Peter was gone. Keep your normal routine; go home tonight. I'll contact you."
"Very well," Watson agreed. "Be careful, Holmes."
"I will be. I have a feeling the key to taking down Moriarty is close."
"Then do what you must, Holmes."
"Don't seem so morbid," Holmes said. "I'll see you soon."
"Of course. Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
Watson paused, as if trying to think of something to prolong the conversation. "Will you tell me what the weather is like outside? Right now, I mean. Is it sunny?"
Holmes took a moment to look. "No, Watson," he replied. "It's cloudy, but they say the sun will come out soon."
"Right," Watson said. "Let's hope Thank you, Holmes... you'd best go."
"Goodbye, Watson. I'll see you soon."
"Goodbye, Holmes."
And for some reason, that goodbye seemed final.
Holmes didn't come back. Instead, his pursuit of Moriarty led to Moriarty's pursuit of him, and it was only a few months later that it was reported in the papers that both had been killed somewhere in Switzerland. Moriarty's body had been found in a river, and Holmes had never arrived at his destination.
Moriarty's involvement with organized crime had become, naturally, the biggest scandal in the university's history. His subsequent death only made rumors fly with greater fervor. Peter and most of Watson's students refused to hear a word against Watson, but that didn't stop the rumors. The fact that it was common knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was Watson's friend led to wild speculation about how Watson might have been involved.
Watson tried to stay away from it, but eventually applied for and was granted sabbatical. He took some time to grieve the death of his friend and immerse himself in myths.
Somehow, he'd known on the day he'd said goodbye to Holmes that something bad was going to happen, but he had hoped Holmes would come back like he said he would. Watson held onto the last letters Holmes had ever sent him. No one else had ever cared enough to learn to write in braille for him, but Holmes had, and so Watson wouldn't have needed someone to read them to him even if he didn't have them memorized.
Eventually, the commotion around Moriarty died down and Watson resumed teaching once more, as alone as he'd always been.
Watson paused, listening. He knew that tread, but from where? It wasn't a student, it wasn't a member of the faculty, it was a visitor…
"Don't be afraid."
Holmes. It had to be, but that was impossible, wasn't it? Was he going mad? He began to tremble. What was going on?
"I'm not a ghost. I promise. I'm here. I'm real. I'm not back from the dead, Watson, because I never was dead. Please, don't be afraid."
Watson sensed Holmes holding his hand out. He hesitated, not reaching for him.
"Please," Holmes said so softly Watson barely heard him.
Slowly, Watson reached out. He touched the hand, running his fingers over it. He felt the familiar, bony wrist, the small scar on his thumb, the callouses on his fingertips. He traced his hand up to the elbow, then up to the shoulder. He hesitated, but the man before him showed no hesitation and no fear of Watson touching him. So, Watson continued. He traced his fingers up the man's neck. He felt his chin, his nose, and his hairline. Then, he gently let his hand fall to the other man's hand once more.
He grasped the fingers, squeezing them slightly. "Holmes," he said, his voice soft and breathy with astonishment.
"Watson." Holmes' voice was hesitant, but it needn't have been.
Watson embraced him tightly, burying his head in Holmes' coat. "It's you."
"It's me. I'm so sorry; I wanted to come home sooner. I didn't want to leave you all alone, but I had to keep you safe. I'll explain soon. I promise."
"I don't care," Watson replied. "Now that you're here, I don't care. You can explain later. For now all I want is for you to not disappear again. Don't leave, else I know that I am mad for real."
"I'm not leaving." Holmes murmured. He embraced Watson in return, reassuring him he was really there. "I won't leave you again. I didn't know how much I needed your friendship until I had to be alone once more. But the danger isn't over yet, Watson."
Watson pulled away, placing his hands on both of Holmes' cheeks. "You're thin," he said. "I can feel it in your face. Are you ill?"
"No, Watson. I'm alright," Holmes assured him. "I've not been living well, but I'm not hurt. Please, don't worry about me."
"And what is the danger?"
"The one last remaining member of Moriarty's network." He explained about Sebastian Moran and the murder of Ronald Adair.
"And so it is Moran we must catch," Watson said, easily falling back into his old role of confidante and advisor.
"Yes, and I fear I'll need you to do something for me that you've never done before. I want you to come with me."
"Come with you? Holmes, I know you value me as a friend, but in a spot of real danger I won't be able to look out for you."
"I'm not asking you to act as a lookout," Holmes replied, laying his hand on Watson's shoulder. "I just want you to be there. I'm afraid, Watson. I know what Moran is capable of. I'm afraid that if I leave you he'll target you now that he knows I'm alive again."
Watson shook his head. "Tell me the details, Holmes."
Holmes had Watson sit down, and then he did.
"So we're across the street from where you live?" Watson asked late that night.
"Yes."
"And if I could see, I would see you in the window over there?"
"Yes."
"But it's not you, it's only a replica that you are hoping that Moran will try to assassinate?"
"Yes."
"And when he does, he'll be arrested."
"Yes."
"Very well. I see this is the kind of ridiculous plan you concoct when you don't consult with me about your cases."
Holmes grinned. "I suppose so. My cases always do seem to conclude better when I speak with you about them. You're the consulting detective's consultant. I… shh! Someone's coming!"
They watched, or, in Watson's case, listened, as Moran did as Holmes had predicted he would and shot at the Holmes duplicate through the window. He tried to fight Holmes when confronted and knocked him to the ground, but Watson wasn't standing for that.
He stepped in between the two men, deftly dodging a punch he felt was headed his way and then coming back up quick, slamming his elbow hard into Moran's temple as he went. That ensured it was a quick fight, as the brutal blow felled Moran and by then Holmes was back on his feet. Moran tried to kick out, and did succeed in knocking Watson to the ground, but Holmes quickly cuffed him and a moment later Lestrade arrived.
"Watson? Alright?" Holmes asked, ignoring the criminal in favor of helping his friend to his feet.
"Yes, Watson said. "I hope I helped."
"You did splendidly, Watson. I didn't know you could fight like that."
"Mr. Holmes? This must be Professor Watson. I…" the inspector paused, taking in the blind man's appearance. "Thank you for your help," he finished. "We'll take over from here."
Watson stepped out of the light, hiding his ugly scars.
"Come to Baker Street," Holmes said, and Watson agreed.
Mrs. Hudson, also, paused and stared at Watson for a moment before welcoming him in.
"You never told them what I look like?" Watson asked when they were alone.
"I told them you were my friend," Holmes said with a shrug. "They know that I confide in you, and that you're blind, which is the reason I travel to you instead of asking you to Baker Street. Well, that and the fact that my schedule is erratic while yours is set, of course, and that you know your space well and are unfamiliar with mine."
Watson was frowning. "Is that really why?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," Holmes replied without hesitation. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"No reason, I suppose," Watson said softly.
"Watson, these long years I've been gone I've missed you dearly. I'm not ashamed that you're my friend, though my actions have been deplorable. I see now I should have told you the truth, put you in danger though it may have done."
"You did what you thought you had to," Watson conceded far too generously.
"Watson," Holmes continued, unwilling to let the matter drop, "I don't know what this is about, but whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I didn't keep you away because I'm ashamed of you."
"I know you didn't," Watson replied. "I sometimes forget that I look like a monster. I understand why you didn't warn them."
"Warn them? Watson, of course the Inspector and Mrs. Hudson noticed your scars, but that is because they are noticeable. You don't look like a monster; there is nothing to have 'warned them' about." He reached out and touched one of the particularly ugly scars on Watson's cheek. "My dear man," he said sadly, "haven't you had a friend these long years?"
"Acquaintances," Watson said with a small shrug. "Colleagues. More than you've had, I'd imagine. Don't worry about me, I'll always find a way to make it through. Just like you always do."
"But it's easier when there's someone by your side you can rely on," Holmes countered. "I wish I could have had you with me, and I wish I could have been there for you. And from now on, I will be. I swear. And I am going to prove to you that you have nothing to be ashamed of."
And, as if on cue, Mrs. Hudson entered. "Here you are, gentlemen," she said happily, bringing them in some tea. "Mr. Holmes, it's so good to have you back. Professor Watson, it's so nice to finally meet you. Believe me, you're all he ever talks about. He hadn't so much as explained what was going on to me when he began talking about how excited he was to see you, and don't you let him tell you anything different. Oh, here, please, sit down. The sitting room hasn't been moved since Mr. Holmes left, and he had me simplify the layout in case you ever came over. There's nothing unexpected that could trip you up."
"I… thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said gratefully. He held out his hand, and Holmes took it, helping him take a seat and showing him where everything in the room was.
"Did you really rearrange your room?" Watson asked. "For me? Before I even came?"
"Of course," Holmes replied, and Watson heard a bit of nervousness in his voice. "I'd never realized how cluttered and unorganized my space was until I saw how you keep everything in order. And I did think that you may come someday. Especially if I wasn't here, which is often, I wanted you to feel welcome."
Watson found the tea tray with his fingers, pouring his cup by using his thumb hooked over the rim like Holmes had seen him do a hundred times before, but this time Holmes was filled with remorse fueled by nostalgia. Would his friendship ever be the same again? He didn't think he had made any sign of his inner thoughts, but Watson reached out for him, touching his shoulder gently as if he understood.
"Holmes."
"Watson. I… I didn't know you could fight," he said to change the subject.
"I can't, not really. But I'm not bad at a bit of self-defense. My brother made certain of that. I'm glad I did well."
"More than well. You should come with me on cases more often. After all, the term's nearly over."
"I would be in the way," Watson protested sadly.
"No, of course not. You'd need to stay close to me at times, especially if the situation was new, but you wouldn't be in the way. When the term is over, I'll send for you if I have an interesting client."
"I think… I think I would like that. As long as you're certain."
"I am very certain."
"Holmes?"
"Yes?"
"There's something else you should know."
"What's that?"
"When I thought you were gone, I wrote about you. Nothing terribly personal that you would be ashamed of, but my own experiences with you. I wanted the world to remember you, Holmes. I wanted history to know who you were and what you'd done for us all. The story I wrote has already been published, I'm afraid. I can ask for a retraction, but I hope it's not too much of a problem."
"It's not a problem at all," Holmes assured him. "You needn't request a retraction."
"Thank you. You know, I always wanted to write. It was nice to make something that wasn't a serious academic paper."
"Then do it," Holmes encouraged him. "I don't have much use for fiction myself, but that's why I have you. Write what you like, even if it's about me. I won't resist you."
"Thank you," Watson said. "Holmes… you're really here. I can hardly credit it. When I wake, will this all have been a dream?"
"No, Watson, but I'll assure you of that in the morning, too. Why don't you sleep here tonight? Or I'll sleep in your rooms."
"I don't know if I can sleep," Watson pointed out.
"Nor do I," Holmes agreed, and they didn't.
They sat up all night, talking. Watson made Holmes tell him once again what he'd been doing the past three years and Holmes had Watson catch him up on changes that had been happening in England.
Much later, Holmes kept his promise and brought Watson on one of his cases. They had needed to adjust the way they worked together, but each trusted the other and they made the adjustments they needed to. Holmes tried very hard not to neglect him, but there were instances when Holmes told him to stay here or there and then didn't come for him for a long time. Eventually, however, they found a way to work together smoothly.
Watson even met one of Holmes' former clients, Mary Morstan, who greeted him without a trace of fright and agreed to see him again without hesitation. Finally, on the night he asked her to marry him, when she touched his face and told him she'd never wanted anything more, he began to believe that maybe he didn't really look like a monster. And on the day Sherlock Holmes stood close by his side, softly telling him what her dress looked like and how big she was smiling, he finally banished all doubts that his brother was right; his life was worth living. Everyone who said differently was wrong. Holmes was right, too: his brother's choices had been his own and there was nothing to be done for him now. All Watson could do was go on.
He would, and when Mary took his hand at the same time as Holmes squeezed his elbow reassuringly, it felt like the first day of the rest of his life.
What If: John Watson was blinded as a child?
And so, dear readers, we see that in some worlds events bend themselves in an attempt to adhere to a reality that's truer than itself. For this world, a world where a simple childhood accident caused chaotic change, all the pieces are in place. They don't fit in a way we may have expected, but the picture they make is not, I think you will find, an unpleasant one. I am the writer.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction in which I have given Watson a better life than he likely would have had as a blind person in Victorian England. Please, do your own research if you are interested.