From YoughaltheJust: Sherlock Holmes in [your country or a country of your choice].

Yeah, I went the simple route and chose England as my country of choice. However, current states include grief, worry, and fearful introspection. If he wandered through denial, he refuses to tell me about it. :D

This takes place shortly after Pieces/Curiosity and references (in no particular order): Reality of Dreams/Somnolent Warnings (ch 1), Pieces/Curiosity, Brothers in Arms (ch 5), and Sparks

Slow steps finally halted in the same place his friend's had so many times before. Unlike his friend, however, Holmes stood silently, head down.

"You obviously did not need me."

He shifted his feet, gaze firmly on the ground beneath his shoes. He wanted to be here, needed to be here, but he also desperately wished to be anywhere but here. The pervading silence unnerved him.

She would listen, though. He knew she would listen. She would hear everything he said, everything he could not voice, everything he wanted to voice, and she would know how to help. She would know what to do to help his friend.

Their friend. Watson was their friend, for she cared about him just as much as he did, if in a different manner.

Had. Had cared about him.

But she could still help. Watson's words still rang in his mind, painfully truthful for all that Watson had voiced less than half of his thoughts.

"Why do you throw out newspapers after you have transferred their information to your indices?"

Not the same. Not the same. Watson was not a piece of paper read once then used for firestarter! He was Watson. He was Holmes' colleague. Holmes' friend. Holmes' brother. Holmes'. Holmes would do anything for his Watson.

Had done. He had done anything, all to keep Watson safe. He had faced danger alone. He had protected Watson's family. He had shielded Watson's house. He had left Watson behind.

And he had seen the consequences on his return.

Stunned disbelief shone in place of the joy he had expected. Watson's hollow gaze stared uncomfortably through him rather than at him. Long seconds passed before he managed to speak.

"Holmes?" that empty voice finally murmured. A hand tightly gripped Holmes' arm.

He barely smothered a flinch at the memory, at the feigned hope failing to conceal desolate grief. Holmes had returned to find a shell of his old friend, but only a late-night conversation years later had explained Watson's actions that day.

"I thought you were a hallucination at first, then a dream."

One finger traced a leaf though he continued staring through his feet. By Watson's own admission, he had thought Holmes an illusion, a figment of imagination better to end in collapse than accept as reality, and even Holmes' continued presence had not changed that assumption until well into the next day. That same wariness had bled into his every moment for years.

And still did, to some degree. Watson had failed to hide just how much of his quiet answers applied to the present in addition to the past. Watson had convinced himself that Holmes did not want him, was better off without him, only kept him around for "convenience." Holmes needed to find a way to refute the belief. Needed to show Watson just how much his presence mattered.

But how? How could he convince his friend of everything Holmes could not voice?

"He did not look at Mary for at least another fortnight."

He had no idea. Watson had been ill for months after Switzerland, and he had never fully recovered, as evidenced by his steady decline after Mary's death. The second loss had taken his sole reason to face each new day, but while Holmes' return had provided the motivation to keep going, even his presence had not eased the wary distance permeating every word, every action. In trying to protect his friend, he had nearly lost Watson instead.

And he could not even apologize for it. Not to Watson, who would never allow the conversation anyway. Not to that revitalized practice, where he had last seen Mary and where Verner still thrived. Not even here, with only a simple stone marker. He finally gave up, simply staring at the rough, impersonal words cut into cold stone.

Mary Morstan Watson. Wife. Mother. Beloved.

The dates spanned far too short a time. They should have had decades together, not six years. They should have watched their children grow and have children. They should have taught the young ones to call Holmes some irritating pet name. They should have balanced family time with cases. They should have argued with a young man about joining Holmes on a case. They should have argued with a young woman about joining Holmes on a case, for Mary had put no more stock in gender roles than did the Irregulars. Their children should have run the streets with the Irregulars, learning every alley, every corner, every safe and dangerous place in their city. The Watson children should have grown surrounded by far too much family to count.

Instead, they would never be, and Holmes fought only to keep his Watson from fading away, too. From withdrawing into the realm of guilt and grief born from Holmes' and Mary's deaths. Bad enough they had lost so many. He could not bear losing one more.

"My first memory is over three months later."

As he already almost had—more than once. That burning fabric shop pushed itself to the front of his thoughts yet again, painful in its recollection yet honest in its implications. Watson had thought Holmes taken by the flames, and by the time Holmes had found him again, Watson had retreated so far into grief that he had failed to note the heavy smoke compromising his breathing.

"Doesn't matter."

And he had not cared even when he had noticed. The resulting lung infection had kept Watson abed for nearly a week, but that had paled next to the many deductions that had stemmed from Watson disregarding his own health. The lack of self-preservation had loudly declared just how lowly Watson thought of himself.

"I was not the greatest company."

Not true. Entirely not true, both then and now. Holmes had always preferred Watson's company. Had since that first winter. Would for the rest of his life. Watson made the perfect company, but Holmes would never be able to tell him as much. He could only show it, display it in every action of every day in the hopes that Watson would one day see just how important he was.

"The threat I had become outweighed the few uses I possessed."

But over six years had not yet conveyed the message.

It had started to, though. Partially. He hoped. Watson would never have voiced as much even a single year ago, nor would he have let Holmes ask his questions. Between that and other small changes, Watson had made progress. Small progress. Frustratingly hesitant progress. Occasionally roundabout progress, but progress. Watson did not show the same degree of wariness he had last year. Holmes must be doing something right.

Right enough, however, he could never be sure. Watson had grown far too skilled at disguise. Disguising his thoughts. Disguising his actions. Disguising his words. Every sentence held multiple meanings—all of which remained "true enough." "Eating supper" might constitute two bites. "Sleeping" might reference two thirty-minute naps in the entire night. "Fine" meant simply that he still breathed.

That had been the hardest deduction to accept. Probing questions never earned anything more than a simple "fine," but on the bad days, the days where grief or worry or hesitance of any kind stole the light in Watson's eyes yet again, "fine" meant only that he still lived. When added to the many times Watson had hidden some more-than-minor injury…

The progress might be a deeper knowledge of disguises rather than the true results of healing.

No. That flinch refused to stifle, but he shoved the thought away. Not necessarily. Watson may not have volunteered everything, but he had not simplified the truth this time. He had improved, at least somewhat. Holmes simply had to continue doing what he had started so many years ago.

Such as spending as much of the day in the same room as he could. Another moment of silence studied an equally wordless headstone, then he turned on his heel. Watson should have returned from his errands by now.

Perhaps he would play Holmes a game of chess.

Thanks to those who reviewed! :)

W. Y. Traveller: I think Watson and Mrs. Hudson would agree with you, lol. That flat must had top-notch construction-and they probably went through a lot of drapes (chuckle)