Prompt #40. For me?: A botanical gift (from someone known or unknown).

Holmes' pov of Rainy 18: Fog of Memory

This is probably slightly over 1 week after EMPT


Hollow eyes. An unsteady gait. The shrunken frame of malnutrition. Another glimpse of the disbelieving shock that had sent him to the floor.

"Holmes! Are you really here?"

He barely smothered a flinch at the memory, at the feigned hope failing to conceal empty grief. He needed to focus, not examine previous conversations. A moment's inattention would let Watson disappear into this thick fog.

"Fine." Watson's tone firmly ended the discussion. "I'm fine, of course, but I can hardly believe my eyes!"

Though desire did not mean success. Even the Yard knew Holmes could not stop his deductions any more than he could stop breathing. From a lack of food and sleep to a strange hesitance, every moment of the last several days had painted a frightening picture of just how far his friend had fallen. Four months should not have created this much change. What about Mary's death had hurt Watson so badly?

"I have several appointments tomorrow."

And why did he avoid Holmes despite an obvious desire for company?

He did not yet know, but he would find out, even if it meant he had to replace the marigold and rosemary Mrs. Hudson had asked him to deliver. Watson's practice had been just as dark this morning as it had been every other day since Watson had rejected the offer to extend his week at Baker Street. Shuttered windows made the place look abandoned until well after Watson should have been out of bed, and no patients arrived even after the clock tolled the hour. Unlike the previous days Holmes had watched, however, the start of the workday had seen Watson limping through the fog toward Hyde Park. Had he meant several appointments to attend rather than administer?

No. His unsteady gait followed the buildings in no discernible pattern. Up one street and down the next, he did not appear to care where he went and looked up only when someone bumped into him. He wandered for the sole purpose of not being home.

Why?

"I am not used to seeing a ghost in the sitting room."

Grief, most likely. His house would hold memories of Mary in every corner, but that did not explain why he had declined a day at the flat. Could Baker Street be another painful reminder of his late wife?

No, that did not fit with his evident pleasure every time he entered. Even the shuttered expression that so worried Holmes still revealed a certain relief at hours spent in the sitting room. Watson had no wish to spend the days alone.

So why did he refuse to visit for more than a couple of hours at a time?

A glance at a street sign produced a flinch and a hard left, though Holmes had no idea what about the ancient name would garner such a response. None of Holmes' cases had produced anything of interest on this street. Perhaps he had been looking at someone in the crowd?

If so, the stranger had long disappeared. The street opened to a winding park, and Watson directed his steps toward the path he had undoubtedly taken many times in the years before Holmes' disappearance. Had he decided to go to the flat after all?

Possible. Even Watson's current reticence had not hidden how much he wanted to accept the suggestion that frustration had made far more straightforward than usual. His "appointments" could have canceled to let him accept the offer of company.

Which meant Holmes could show himself. If Watson intended to go to Baker Street, he would turn right at the fork, and a circuitous route kept Watson in sight while letting Holmes station himself on the edge of the path. He would enjoy Watson's surprise when the young banker on break became the friend he intended to join.

Unless Watson did not intend to meet. The familiar turn jerked Watson's gaze away from his feet, but instead of following the path toward home, a sharp flash of pain battled clear longing. Holmes had not expected that. Could Watson think himself unwelcome?

How could he after such a direct invitation?

Watson stared for a long moment before resignation abruptly replaced longing, then disappeared as he ducked his head. Giving Holmes a wide berth, slow steps took him the other direction, around a fountain and through a wooded part of the path toward the low bridge. Holmes used the fog to stay several paces away as Watson leaned against the railing.

And stayed there. How bits of floating debris produced the facsimile of amusement, Holmes could not gather, but faint curiosity studied the water for several minutes before he suddenly flinched and turned away. What could have caused that?

He had no idea. Leaning against the rail had helped Watson's limp, not worsened it, and Holmes no longer found his friend's thoughts easy to read. The simpler—however painful—grief of a widower could not cause this decline. Why was Watson so wary? Why had he stopped taking patients? Eating? Sleeping? Talking? Why did he avoid company? Why did he avoid Holmes?

What was wrong with his friend?

The tower tolled midday, and Holmes moved slightly closer. Watson should pick a destination soon. So many hours on his feet meant he would want luncheon.

Right?

No. Watson's stride never wavered, for all that it was so slow. He meant to skip yet another meal, which only increased Holmes' concern. The days since Holmes' return had already shown how little—and seldom—his friend ate, only partly due to lack of funds. While Holmes had more than once slipped a handful of coins into his friend's pocket, he could never be sure Watson used them. Watson needed to eat. Could Holmes do anything to make him eat?

Unlikely. A week at Baker Street had not accomplished that, nor had more than one meal at Simpson's, but he could draw Watson's attention to the time. Watson had been lost in thought all morning, and he may simply have not noticed the signs of hunger. A moment double checked his disguise, then rapid steps carried Holmes past his friend and just out of sight before he used the fog to double back around. Would Watson pick a destination now?

No. While the "banker" apparently late for luncheon did catch Watson's attention, he certainly showed no inclination to find a food cart or return home. Instead, he chose a route that circled through a small park, looking around only long enough to note how many people filled the open ground before he settled on a stone bench. Ginger movements found a comfortable position to suggest he planned to stay here for a while.

Here. In a park. Alone. On an uncomfortable bench and obviously still dealing with the pain Holmes had seen earlier. Less than a minute served to make his decision—and remove his disguise.

Judging by the faint sigh that eased the stress lining Watson's face and drained some of the tension from his shoulders, sitting beside his friend had been the right choice. Now he just needed to figure out why Watson refused to look at him.


Don't forget to drop your thoughts below :)