Sherlock Holmes jerked up quickly so he was sitting upright in bed, chest heaving and body trembling. He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to wake up fully. It had just been a dream: there was no danger, nothing he needed to do, and no one who needed rescuing. He couldn't help himself, though, from peering at his window, watching it with a feeling of dread that was almost terror. He could have almost sworn there was a face there, a horrible, distorted face, and he clenched his teeth until his breathing had slowed and the shapes outside were nothing but the same trees they'd always been.
It was a hot night, too hot to sleep, and he decided he shouldn't have tried. He rose, wiping the sweat off himself with a rag. He'd been sleeping bare chested, and so covered himself with his thinnest shirt as he moved to the window even though there was no one around to see. It was open, letting in a slight breeze of hot air. Holmes leaned out, looking up and down even though he was on the first floor, and telling himself he wasn't frightened and was only trying to catch the breeze.
Nevertheless, he closed the window and latched it as he moved away. He splashed his face with water and moved into the living room where the windows were also thrown wide. He looked at them, fumbling in the dim light to find his cigarettes and lighting one. He smoked, thinking of a certain professor, one who had a propensity for climbing walls…
He shook himself, trying not to remember. He didn't want to think about that man or about the drugs he'd used: experimental concoctions to make him feel young and strong and worthy, to give him what he wanted just like Holmes had often wanted the drugs that took away the feelings of depression and boredom for a little while only to crash him back down…
He splashed more water on his face. He didn't want to think about the pain the professor had caused those who loved him or about the pain other drugs could cause, and he especially didn't want to imagine any similarities between himself and the other man, the 'creeping man' as Watson called him. He never liked to dwell on the pain some of his own habits had caused, but on nights like this it was hard not to.
Those days were long behind him, had ended before he'd left Baker Street. He'd been forgiven for the hurt he'd inflicted, had made right that which he had broken. His Sussex home and slight isolation from the world had made for a ripe opportunity to renew bad habits, but Holmes had resisted and formed good ones in their stead. He wasn't the man he once was, and he was better off for it. Still, it was hard to cling onto that, to not instead remember the heartache he'd caused.
He was thankfully interrupted in his thoughts by movement from the bedroom at the end of the hall where his guest room, which, either out of habit or hope, he privately referred to as 'Watson's room,' was occupied with it's namesake. John Watson, it seemed, couldn't sleep either. Perhaps it was a case of misery loves company, but knowing he wasn't the only one awake made him feel better, and he went to sit in the window without fear.
John Watson couldn't sleep. It was hot out, too hot even for him, and he lay on his bed sweating even though he was bare chested and near to his open window. He wasn't a young man anymore, and was too far removed from living in a hot climate that he was no longer better equipped to deal with the heat than any other Englishman. The breeze coming in only blew around hot air, and Watson knew he wasn't going to be getting any sleep no matter how much he wanted to. He didn't visit Sherlock Holmes as often as he'd like anymore, and he didn't want to squander this trip by being tired and irritated because he was tired.
He sat up, mopping sweat off his forehead, drinking some more water, and trying not to let himself think about another time he'd been this hot. He didn't want to recall his time in India, didn't want to remember the friends he'd lost, didn't need to feel that pain again. Somehow, even all these years after the fact, the memories were still vivid in his mind, the agony still intense, the fear still real. Not even his most thrilling adventures with Sherlock Holmes, with the exception of the Reichenbach incident, were as intensely carved into his memory as those horrible battles were.
He tried to push away thoughts of India and Afghanistan, but it was hard not to think about one of Holmes' cases in particular, one about a certain corporal who he and Holmes had come across, a man who Watson related to more than he wanted to admit.
Henry Wood, the crooked man, who had tried to do what was right yet had both suffered and caused those he loved to suffer as a result. Watson had very briefly spoken with him alone after he'd told his sad tale. He'd neither mentioned that fact in his official account nor ever told Holmes what had been said, but he suspected his friend knew. After all, how could Holmes have missed the connections between Wood and Watson? He couldn't be the best logical reasoner in the world and yet miss the desperate way Watson spoke, the need emanating from him for Wood to have a happy ending.
He'd never learned what happened to Wood, if the man had gotten that ending he deserved. It ate away at him, sometimes, the not knowing. He and Holmes had done well with that case to exonerate Mrs. Barclay from all suspicion, but what had become of them? Had they come back together at last, or was the world really such a cruel place as it sometimes seemed?
He heard movement from the living room. Holmes, too, must be unable to sleep, so at least he was in good company. Watson drew on a shirt, checking to see if he was at least decently presentable in the mirror. Sherlock Holmes, he was sure, wouldn't care one whit about the scraggly growth of a beard on his face, but shaving was familiar and steadying and so he did so anyway before leaving his room.
Watson found Holmes sitting in the window seat, smoking idly. He joined him, and Holmes silently offered him a cigarette. Despite the heat and his usual dislike of smoking before breakfast, Watson lit it, and the two sat in silence for some time.
"I suppose you never heard," Holmes murmured after he'd finished his cigarette, stubbing it out on the windowsill, "that she married him."
Watson raised one eyebrow, taking out his cigarette and blowing a long could of smoke into the hot air. "Who are you referring to?" he asked.
"The couple you're thinking of," Holmes replied. "Nancy Barclay and Corporal Henry Wood."
"How... never mind," Watson sighed. "Tonight, I really don't care how you read my mind. So, she really married him?"
"Yes, Watson, and it won't surprise you to hear that they moved far away to avoid the rumors and looks and live their lives in peace." Holmes seemed to hesitate, then, for just a moment before continuing. "Henry Wood didn't last very long," he admitted. "His body was wrecked, his health was ruined, and he was back in a colder climate among all the dirt and diseases of our fair land. I have no reason, however, to believe that his last days were filled with anything but love and happiness."
Watson took another long drag of his cigarette, taking in the news. "And Nancy Barclay?"
"Nancy Wood," Holmes corrected him, "is, as far as I can gather, still a good Christian woman, if a sadder one than before, who continues to give her time to charities."
Watson looked out into the night. The sea wasn't visible from the cottage, but he could hear, very faintly, the crash of the waves against the rocks. Overhead, the moon was the kind that the poets liked to write about. Holmes lit another cigarette.
"I thought you were cutting back on smoking," Watson murmured distractedly.
"My dear fellow," Holmes replied, "it is too hot a night to do anything else. Besides, I've eliminated most of my other bad habits."
"You have," Watson said softly, and he grabbed Holmes' shoulder, giving it a small shake as if in congratulations. "You certainly have, Holmes…" he sighed. "How different we are now from the men we once were.
"And yet the world remains," Holmes said, almost to himself. "We will be forgotten, Watson, by those who will come after us, but I like to think that we've made a not insignificant change for the better while we've been here. The seasons are changing, my friend: soon this summer heat will give way to Autumn's frosts, and so will we, too, give way to what comes next. But for this moment, if you are content to sit here with me, then I will be happy to sit here with you, and we will leave it to history to sort out all the rest. What do you say to that?"
"I say, my friend, that I am happy to sit here with you."
"My dear man, I never doubted it for a moment," Holmes decreed, and the lights of their cigarettes glowed in the darkness until the sun rose and a new day had begun.
For the prompt from: Michael JG Meathook: The Creeping Man vs the Crooked Man.
Watson speaking with Wood after hearing his story occurs in the Clive Merrison BBC radio dramatization of "The Crooked Man" (and, my goodness, it really is the best!).
I thought first, of course, of pitting the two men against each other in a fight... but that wouldn't quite make sense. The line of thought did make me think about when the story should be set, which led to a deep dive into the chronology... so here is a long note on chronology, which may or may not interest you:
Quick aside- The chronology of the canon stories poses many more questions than it helps answer. I will not, of course, pretend that the research below is my own. I am standing on the shoulders of giants; the book I like to use as my first reference point was first printed 20+ years before I was born, and it itself references some books that have been out of print so long I can't find them anywhere!
My reference book: "The Date Being—?" a Compendium of chronological data by Andrew Jay Peck.
Peck does not create a new chronology, but rather compiles some of the works of great Holmes scholars to see what conclusions may be reached (the agreement rate between the chronologists he chose never reached more than 60%). The dates he compiles are from:
Dr. John H. Watson
W. H. Bell
T. S. Blakeney
Jay Finley Christ
Gavin Brend
William S. Baring-Gould
William S. Baring-Gould (revised chronology)
Earnest B. Zeisler
Rev. Henry T. Folsom
Rev. Henry T. Folsom (revised chronology)
The Crooked Man's dates are:
Watson- Summer, Wednesday
Bell - August, 1886
Blakeney - July or August, 1889
Christ - Aug. 28, 1889, Wednesday
Brend - August, 1888
Baring-Gould - Aug. 6, 1889, Tuesday
Baring-Gould - Sept. 11, 1889, Wednesday
Zeisler - June 26, 1889
Folsom - Late summer 1889, Tuesday
Folsom - Late summer 1889, Tuesday
The Creeping Man's dates are:
Watson - Sept. 6, 1903, Sunday.
All others agree (thank goodness!)
...
Please, feel free to let me know if you'd like to know more.
Based on this information... I gave up. I couldn't see Wood and the professor ever meeting. Watson's 1903 wedding, Holmes retirement, and Holmes' move out of Baker Street would likely mean no more visits to their old rooms, and so I set the story during Holmes' retirement just to be safe. Hope you enjoyed!