Born For Adversity

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17

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It did not pain me to watch my costly Moroccan case be carried away by the filth of the Thames. It did, however, pain me to throw it - I had done so with such force that my shoulder had begun to burn.

Watson chuckled slightly at my discomfort, remarking quietly about the folly of old men. I rebuked him sharply, but after a moment I found myself also amused. After the previous day's events, every following occurrence was something in which to find contentment or gratitude.

Arm in arm we walked beside the river, exhausting every topic suited for conversation in a fairly obvious attempt to avoid any talk of cocaine. We were comfortable with each other's evasion of the matter, as neither of us possessed much desire to discuss it. As far as we were concerned, the entire episode was contained in that wretched case, which now was traveling leisurely towards the sewers.

However, there was one point upon which I was not satisfied, and it was that singular point which threw my contentment into disorder. So, in accordance with my disposition, I decided to set about righting it.

I gave Watson no indications of my intentions, instead leading him blithely through the streets - and not in the direction of Baker Street. So content was he that it took him several moments to realize we were not returning to our lodgings.

"Holmes? Where are we headed?"

"You'll see."

Honestly, if I did not think it was necessary, I would have preferred to avoid this coming excursion altogether. I knew that, as is usual with occurrences that tax one's emotions, it would in all likelihood be completely unpleasant. It has been a long while since I have last dealt with the death of someone close to me, something for which I have not been sufficiently grateful. Watson, however, was not so fortunate. During my absence he had lost the last remnants of his family, the more immediate members having perished in past years. Also, in his mind, he had lost a friend.

Looking at the entire affair now, it probably should not have come as a shock to me that Watson had delved into my supply of cocaine. I have spent a good portion of my life to understanding the human mind, as I must first be able to fathom the reasons for a man's actions before I can predict them. Yet I had fallen into such a frame of mind concerning Watson that I had prematurely eliminated the possibility of his succumbing to human nature. I felt that a change in his static character was unthinkable, and such an assumption seemed to have nearly doomed our partnership.

However, I like to think that I am a man who learns from his mistakes, which was why I was leading my friend in that little detour which caused him so much bewilderment.

I drummed my fingers against my arm, a despicable nervous habit that betrayed my agitated state as we neared our destination. Watson stiffened as he realized that it happened to be a graveyard we were approaching - a graveyard we both knew held more memories for him than for me. I grasped his arm tightly, offering whatever comfort I could in that way. I knew that he wished he could run away then, back to Baker Street where emotional happenings had once been worth a laugh and a sneer. But I would not relinquish my grip on Watson. He had not allowed me to escape the possibility of a life without cocaine, and I would not allow him to escape the possibility of a life without Mary.

Despite his silent protests I led Watson through the maze of weathered stones, smiling when he started to lead me. It proved my theory that he had indeed come to visit her before. The reluctance was tangible in the manner with which he dragged his shoes, but Watson did not cease walking or turn around. For that I was immensely, and perhaps a little ridiculously, proud.

We at last arrived to one tombstone that held any meaning for either of us. It was spectacularly gray, the etchings of the name of a Mrs. Mary Watson painfully fresh and clean. It was too young to know neglect. I smiled slightly at the impromptu garden that had 'mysteriously' manifested around the grave, a variety of exotic flowers looking beautifully out of place - my acquaintances in the local florist shop had not disappointed me. Watson, however, was not admiring the flora, instead gazing intently at the marker of Mary's final resting place. I was surprised at his silence, but I knew that it was his way of keeping his emotions under his control. Had he attempted to speak, I suspect he would have sobbed instead.

This forced remoteness bothered me. It would have been entirely appropriate for him to express his grief. Such was expected of a widower! Yet Watson was not allowing himself that release. It did not take my heightened intellect long to realize that I was the obstacle. Despite my overwhelming desire to remain by his side, I decided to offer the possibility of my absence.

"No, Holmes," he said softly in response, causing me to sigh with relief. "I… would be very appreciative of your presence."

"Alright, dear fellow - but don't restrain yourself on my account. The expression of grief for a loved one is not weakness."

Watson turned to look at me, as if not certain such words had sprung from my mouth. Indeed, I had surprised myself. I expected the words to sound counterfeit, for how many times had I suppressed my own emotions in times of hardship and woe? It was little wonder that Watson felt that I would not be approving of displays of emotion on his part when I did not do the same for myself.

But my friend did not point out such obvious conclusions; instead, he nodded in understanding, returning his gaze to the tombstone. For several long moments we stood there in utter silence, until the expected, albeit quiet, sob came. My Boswell kneeled before his wife's resting place, venturing to caress the horrid date of death with a shaking hand. I let my shadow over the gravestone speak of my continued company, so intensely private did the moment seem that I could not join him on his knees in bereavement. Even so, I would not leave him, for I do could nothing else in the way of comfort but proffer my apparently valued presence.

For exactly how long I stood as audience to my friend's grief, I know not. I was quite prepared to stay with him for the entire night if necessary. After a time, however, Watson recovered himself, stiffly rising to his feet. His face was streaked with tears; he mumbled a word of gratitude as I handed him my handkerchief, mumbling something or other about needlessly subjecting me to a matter that would make me uncomfortable.

I'm certain readers of The Strand will be aware of Watson's description of me as insufferable, impossible, a man who will try one's patience, etc. At that moment (and many moments before) such titles could have been applied to my faithful doctor. So unerring selfless could he be that he delved into stubbornness, and then there would be no swaying him in whatever opinion he had formed. Now he believed that this whole matter had been a great affliction to me, promptly forgetting that it was I who brought him here, who assured him there would no shame in a display of grief. Still, however, he thought only of me. It was a frustrating business to know that I could not possibly alter Watson's disposition so that such devotion, as much I valued it, would be gone. That placed an odd responsibility on my shoulders, one that I had never borne - the burden of being a friend. I realized I would have to take care of Watson just as much as he took care of me. The concept was entirely daunting.

Watson showed signs of wishing to leave, his eyes avoiding the tombstone. I realized we would be coming here again until Watson had healed, and I would accompany him every time, case or no.

My friend suddenly grasped my hand, trying to shake it but failing as a result of his nerves. I took both of his in mine for a moment as he looked up at my face. "Thank you, Holmes."

"Do not worry, Watson. I promise this will not be the last time we visit her together."

The corner of Watson's mouth turned upward in gratitude. "I will hold you to that, Holmes."

"Good fellow," I said quietly as we slowly began to leave that accursed cemetery. "Now, if you're feeling up to it, would you like to accompany me to Simpson's? I would recommend ordering a broil, a stew, or something of that sort - if I remember you correctly, they were some of Mary's favorites, were they not?"

"…yes, Holmes. Yes they were."

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A/N: Complete!