Chapter Twenty Six: Watson Remembers

"Holmes old boy! I shouted throwing open the sitting room door. "Merry Chris…" When I crossed the threshold, my face fell and my holiday greetings died in my throat.

Sherlock Holmes was curled up in his armchair, his profile mostly in shadow from the flickering flames of the dying fire. The sleeve of his mouse colored dressing gown was rolled up to his elbow and he was pressing his forearm with his right hand, searching for a vein. I knew what was going to come next.

"Holmes," I said not wanting to see him slowly destroy himself. "Not tonight, not on Christmas."

My voice grabbed his attention and he diverted his gaze from his arm and he looked up at me. His face was set in a scowl that marked his blackest moods and his eyes were blazing with extreme self loathing. He then returned his attention to his arm and picked up his syringe. Perhaps my warning gave him that extra push he needed to inject the vile substance into his bloodstream, or perhaps the holiday cheer annoyed him, but whatever the reason, he threw the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger home. Then he reclined back in his chair with a satisfied sigh of relief.

I cannot describe the acute disappointment I felt when I saw him inject himself. All the hard work that I did in effort to eradicate his destructive habit, his supreme willpower, all our combined efforts had come to naught. I had hoped that he had overcome his addiction, but when I saw him inject himself all my foolish hopes died in my breast.

I shook my head in disgust and hung my coat on the wrack to dry. "Holmes! Holmes how could you? After all we have done, how could you go back to this vile drug? Why does it hold such power over you? Why?"

"Watson," he said his voice cold. "I am not in the mood for one of you indignant lectures. I would appreciate it if you left me alone."

"Holmes, I can't. Not when you are like this! Holmes it is Christmas, a time to be with the ones you care about, a time to be with close friends…"

He raised his hand to silence me. "That is your view of Christmas Watson! That is how you celebrate it. I would prefer to forget it! But you, you insist on decorating the flat, on filling it with disgusting holiday cheer. I have put up with these holiday tidings of yours long enough. I suggest you celebrate Christmas your way and I shall celebrate it mine," he said turning away from me.

"But you don't celebrate it! Idon't understand why the holidays put you in such a black mood. Every Christmas for the past six years I have watched you administer unhealthy amounts of cocaine into your bloodstream. I want to know why. I want to understand!" I pleaded.

"It is not for you to understand!" He spat angrily. "If you are going to proceed to lecture me on the joy of Christmas then I would appreciate it if you and your holiday cheer left. I don't need either one of you."

His remark stung more than I would ever admit to him. I rose to my feet and angrily tossed my wrapped gift to him, hitting him squarely in the chest. I noted the look of surprise on his face, but did not give him the chance to say anything. "If that is what you want Holmes," I said walking from his chair and grabbing my coat. "I will leave. I do not want to interrupt your dark thoughts."

I started for the door, but his voice stopped me. "Watson, please. I-I didn't mean what I said." If it were another man speaking those words I would have sworn he was on the verge of sobs. But surely Sherlock Holmes would never show any kind of emotion.

I turned toward the figure in the chair and regarded him silently. Now was the moment of truth. If Holmes was willing to be open with me I would stay. But if he chose to shut me out I would leave and possibly never return.

"Watson, please stay," he murmured softly. "I do not want to be alone tonight."

The amount of pleading and sadness behind those words affected me deeply. I removed my coat and sat down in my accustomed chair across from Holmes's.

"Holmes," I said, my voice gentle for the first time that evening, "are you all right?"

He looked down at my gift and shook his head. "No."

"Perhaps if you told me what was troubling you, I could help," I offered.

"Or you could hate me, leave and never return," he said in a voice so soft that it was nearly impossible to hear.

I gasped. "Holmes, how could you say such a thing? You are my dearest friend, I could never hate you. What would make you say that?"

"Because you are chivalrous Watson and you would have leapt to help the lady in need. I did not and for that, I will always hate myself."

"Holmes…"

He once again raised his hand to silence me and took several moments to marshal his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was soft and strained as though he was experiencing wrenching emotional turmoil. "Watson, I must apologize for my earlier behavior, but you must understand, the cocaine, it takes away pain of unhealed wounds, wounds that I thought were long forgotten but occasionally they resurface and the pain begins all over again.

'Christmas, for you and most other people, save Mycroft and myself, most probably brings back warm memories of your boyhood. You probably remember Christmas dinner with your family and opening gifts beneath a pine-tree. Am I correct?"

I was a little unnerved by this strange conversation and the even stranger question. "Yes, Holmes you are correct. But I don't understand--"

"Quiet Watson," he barked quickly. Then he smiled apologetically. "Your gift shows the depths of your friendship and it is one of the few Christmas gifts I have ever received."

I was startled. "Holmes, you cannot be serious!" I gasped thinking back to the Christmases of my youth, when my father always had several gifts for my brother and me.

"I am quite serious old fellow. I-I have no gift for you Watson, no tangible gift anyway."

I opened my mouth to protest but he raised a hand to silence me.

"You have trusted me with your confidence several times, from telling me of your time in Afghanistan to telling me the painful memories of your elder brother. I want to…" his voice faltered for a moment. "I want to show my same trust for you. I…for Christmas, I want to confide in you and tell you the reason I abhor the holiday. Perhaps it will help you to understand me better."

"Holmes," I said feeling extremely humbled. The best and wisest man I have ever known wanted to take me into his confidence. "Holmes, do not feel compelled to tell me."

"I want to tell you Watson," he said vehemently. His tone then softened. "I owe it to you. My childhood was never a happy one. My father was a drunk and my mother, although kind and tender, I could never relate to her…father never allowed it. I…I was never wanted as a child, Mycroft was, Father needed a boy to carry on the name, but I…I was an accident, an accident caused by one of my father's drunken rages.

'Christmas was always a horrible time of the year; Father would drink more than normal and mother would be more fearful. One Christmas night, I was seven years old at the time; we were all sitting together in the sitting room.

'Mother had given Mycroft a gift and she gave me a hat, my deerstalker which you my dear Watson, have publicized in the Strand.

'Mother put me to bed and sometime later I was awoken by shouts, angry shouts. Being naturally curious, I crept onto the landing and peered through the supports that held up the railing. I was in shadow, but could see everything. Father was drunk and was shouting at Mother.

'"Who is he? Tell me wench!"

'Mother murmured something in reply, but I couldn't hear her. Whatever she said enraged Father so much…" Holmes's voice broke and he struggled to keep his composure. "Father struck my mother so hard that she fell against the hearth. He then raised one of the iron pokers and beat her with it until she stopped struggling, stopped moving.

'I wanted to run down the stairs and help her, but I was too scared. Father was terribly angry and I was frightened of him. When Mother didn't move after several minutes, Father's face whitened. He stumbled to his study and then I heard the sound of a gun being fired. The shot brought Mycroft down and he looked at me, I was probably white-faced and shaking, and then he saw Mother. Mycroft grabbed me and held me close, turning my head so I couldn't see anything.

'He whispered gently in my ear to be strong, that everything would be all right. I was confused, and frightened. I didn't know what I had happened. I suppose on some level I knew that my parents were dead, but I didn't want to admit it. I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep…"