A/N: Another mix of two prompts!
From Ennui Enigma: Dr Watson returns to his childhood home
From V Tsuion: Oil lamp
He doesn't know what he hoped to gain from coming here. Holmes is on a case in Dublin, Mrs Hudson visiting family, and even most of the Yarders have been off work with some terribly contagious strain of flu that's going round. Watson's decision to come back here, to his childhood home, is the culmination of almost a fortnight of isolation from anyone of any close connection. Yet his thoughts are not so logical nor so organised as Holmes's, and truthfully he has little desire to sift through and analyse them.
He did half-wonder if he might run into his brother, but enquiries at the local pub reveal that Harry has not been sighted for well over a year. Harry left debts, the landlord warns, and Watson quickly ducks out of the pub. He hasn't enough money even for a few nights in an Edinburgh hotel, certainly none for his brother's unpaid arrears. He heads for his childhood home.
It is apparent that Harry's taste for gambling and whisky surpassed his need for light whilst he lived here. The gaslight sconces are either encased in dust, inoperable through disuse, or smashed. Watson's brother, like their father before him, is not known for his good nature when under the influence of alcohol and there are other small clues of Harry's drunken rages throughout the property. Watson ignores all of these.
He is tired, indescribably so. He does not bother to clean or repair the gas lamp sconces, but instead uses a small oil lamp he finds at the back of a kitchen cupboard. The house is not overly large and he contains himself mainly to the living room, bundled up in front of the fire under an old quilt procured from what was once his bedroom. Over the next two days he reads the novels he flung into his suitcase when hastily packing for his impromptu trip, eats sparingly, and tries not to think.
It isn't that avoiding ill memories is impossible here, but the memories of his childhood home - ill or otherwise - seem to hold sway over those of his more unpleasant wartime experiences. He thinks not of the acrid desert and men left to die on the sand, but of snowy Christmases in Scotland. His shoulder twinges and, rather than remembering the moment he was shot, he remembers landing too hard on his arm when his brother accidentally pushed him from the tree in their garden. He has no long term plan, coming here. Existence is sufficient.
He is surprised by a rapping at his door on the third morning of his stay, and even more surprised when he answers it to find Sherlock Holmes.
"What are you doing here?" He does not stand aside to let the detective in, suddenly self-conscious that he has not shaved or washed since leaving London. And how has Holmes tracked him down, anyway? He left no note of where he was going. "Shouldn't you be in Ireland?"
Holmes waves a hand in that dismissive manner of his. "The case is finished. It was simplicity itself, I should have solved it in half the time it ending up taking me."
This is unusual. Sherlock Holmes is... well, Watson hesitates to say arrogant, because usually the man's faith in himself is well-justified. "Why did it take you so long?"
"I've grown used to having a sounding board." Holmes sniffs, the admission seeming to embarrass him. "But no matter. Next time I have a case abroad I shall insist on two tickets."
A grin blooms on Watson's face no matter how hard he tries to stop it, but he doesn't say anything - he doesn't wish to embarrass the detective further.
"So, Edinburgh?" Holmes probes. "You did not tell me you had travels of your own planned."
Watson doesn't want to explain it all to Holmes, not when he can barely explain it to himself. Yet Holmes has no doubt already deduced all his most intimate secrets from the crumpled clothes, unkempt hair and 4-day old stubble and now he is the one who feels embarrassed, cheeks flaming under the detective's dissecting gaze.
"It was a last minute decision," Watson mumbles, turning back into his abandoned family home. "Would you wait here while I dress?"
"As you wish," Holmes says, sounding entirely disinterested. Watson is glad for this, and goes quickly to shave and change.
He brings the oil lamp with him to the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water and observing himself in the mirror by its small and flickering light. Being back here these past few days, he could persuade himself that nothing had changed since his parents passed. But now he looks at himself and can pick out the marks and signs that prove him wrong. He is not an old man by any means, has yet to see his thirtieth year, but the shadows under his eyes are darker, laugh lines deeper, and his eyes... He doesn't know what has changed, but something has.
"Doctor!" Holmes's impatient voice floats in through the window that leads outside. "It is starting to snow!"
He finishes his toilette and quickly gathers his belongings from the living room, thrusting them haphazardly into his valise, before going to meet Holmes outside.
The detective eyes the travelling case. "We're not staying?"
Interesting. Not you're not staying but we're not staying. Watson longs to ask Holmes why he has come here, but worries that doing so might provoke Holmes to ask the same in return. So Watson just shrugs and replies,
"I think I've seen all I need to."
They walk in silence to the station, Holmes slowing as he always does to match Watson's limping gait. As they are waiting for a train to take them back to King's Cross, Holmes asks tentatively,
"A black mood?"
The question surprises Watson. Holmes is so rarely unsure of anything.
"Something like that," Watson answers slowly. A black mood - was that why he had come back here? "Whatever it was, I believe it is passing now."
The train arrives and they board, Holmes chattering about the Dublin case and being sure to linger over the details he knows will make Watson laugh. Watson watches through the window as Edinburgh disappears behind them, glad to know that in a few hours time he will be back home.