I was going to update this yesterday. Then I looked at my file, and realized that it wasn't completed, and worse, remembered that the fully finished one was on my high school account... which is now gone since I graduated. Ugh. So I typed up a quick ending, winced at how the other one was way better, and crossed my fingers in the hope that you'll still like it anyway.
So, Holmes's POV on John. He was, in a way, easier to write because I knew what I wanted to do, but he was also harder, because he's so complex.
Hope I did him justice...
Subject: A young man, around my age, walking with a cane and a limp.
Analysis: There is stiffness in his left shoulder which points to a wound of some kind that also exists in the right leg. A brown face and white wrists shows that he has spent some time in the sun, and his stiff, neat, formal appearance shows that he has been in the military- no doubt where the wounds have come from. Yet there is softness in his eyes that did not speak of the soldier, but of a doctor. Wounded in the line of duty, and discharged honorably from Afghanistan. He has been wounded in spirit as well, however, for the haggard, haunted look on his face and thin, unnatural weight shows that battle did not do him any favors.
I do not pity him. He chose his own life, and there is nothing I can do now to persuade him on a different course.
The above picture, admittedly, isn't a flattering picture of Watson, yet I shall always remember it clearly in my mind. To think that our companionship developed from such strange and whimsical beginnings is remarkable in its entirety, for I never did imagine myself to know this man for so long and on such intimate of terms. I had merely regarded him as an extra hand in finance while my career developed further, but now I know that I should have known better. After all, no ordinary fellow could be a continual interest to me, even if Watson was precisely that when we first met. Brown hair streaked with dark gold, brown eyes, sturdy and of average height gave little to distinguish him from others. But his mind, his soul, his heart, is what set him apart from everyone else. He had compassion for everyone, even men who would have happily killed him had they been allowed to. Though he was no great logician, he had a practical and sensible knowledge that curtailed my more extreme thoughts. His ordinary features hid a strong, stout constitution, one that did not fail in the face of danger nor abandon loyalty when the odds were against him. A better man I have yet to meet.
Funny how I, who prides myself on my observation and deduction facilities, failed to deduce what was most important on that first fateful day of our acquaintance.
Watson, however, was not a difficult man to figure out. He was simple, practical, and methodical in his ways, and although he had the occasional nightmare of his time in Afghanistan (I never relayed this information to him, for he would no doubt be horrified that I could hear his cries even all the way downstairs), he was an easy man to live with. He was quiet, stayed out of my way, and put up with my eccentrics. The violin soothed him, my (then-secret) work intrigued him, and my ways puzzled him. His leg and arm ached during bad weather, more due to his malnourishment and the last traces of a previous sickness (and perhaps of his own preference and volition) than otherwise, and he seemed as skittish and nervous as a kitten in large crowds when he did persuade himself to go outside for some sunlight. He seemed equally content to sit in his chair as well as eager to rejoin civilization again, so the two conflicting emotions settled on deciphering me from the safety of his armchair. I didn't necessarily mind, as he didn't ask questions and let me be. In a way, it was refreshing, for I worried that he would be a nosy busybody that was bent on making my life more insufferable than the half-wits from Scotland Yard. I was mildly surprised that he thought himself worthy enough (more like stubborn enough) to figure me out.
Even back then, he was always writing in that battered, worn brown leather notebook that seemed to be permanently glued to his pocket or his hand. I do not know what he was writing at times, but I knew exactly when he was writing about me- his curious, quick glances in my direction, the way he questioned about my knowledge and skills, his attempt at subtly going through my books and papers. This was common even when he confined himself to his chair, but more so whenever Lestrade or a client came to visit. My social life seemed to interest him no small degree, for he assumed correctly that I was hardly a social person.
Asking him to join me during our first adventure was, admittedly, a test. He intrigued me in his own way, for I wanted to see if there was a side of the doctor that I had overlooked. And indeed there was. He kept up admirably, physically if not mentally, and did not get in my way. He trusted my judgment, and didn't back down in a fight. Seeing him and Lestrade haul Hope away from the window, putting forth a valiant effort even with his sickly countenance, made me realize that the good doctor had a stout heart and a brave soul. I didn't hesitate again upon asking him to join me.
The first test had been passed with flying colors, and after that Watson was no longer an unfortunate army surgeon whose mental health worried me. Now that he had a purpose, he recovered much more swiftly than I had anticipated. That purpose varied daily- nursemaid, listener, biographer, gunman, companion- but one thing remained the same: His compassion and ever so useful practical nature and common sense (not to mention his obvious skill with a gun; even I couldn't hit a target dead center every shot). He had a far better head on his shoulders than any of those at Scotland Yard, and as I soon realized a fast learner as well. He never will gain the natural instinct for deduction that I and Mycroft have, but that is not from a lack of trying, nor from a lack of encouragement on my part. He is too emotional, too romantic, and too keen on the idealistic and not the realistic. It infuriated me- and still infuriates me- to think that he had ruined a lesson in deduction and lost it amid excess frippery and sentimentality. And yet, I cannot help but agree that without the extra income from his stories, my fame and therefore my clients would have been reduced, and our funds would not be nearly as large in reserve as they are now. Watson would have been working more at his practice and unable to join me as often, and I would have no legitimate excuse short of giving in to emotionalism for him to accompany me. And, in a way, the stories amused me. It was always an interesting study, seeing how romantic frivolities could so warp and obscure the lessons that were evident in my investigations.
Ah, Watson. A more singular and unique man I have never met- I fully expected him to bail upon our living arrangements before I did, and you can imagine my surprise and amusement when he didn't. Hidden under his gentlemanly, kind, inquisitive, romantic nature is a man of steel, fire, and bravery. The average looks and temperament on the outside hide the true being within.
As our companionship developed, I found myself enjoying his company more and more, unwilling- or unable- to picture him somewhere else. When he met Mary, I admit to feeling somewhat . . . jealous, perhaps, though more resigned. I had known that it was only a matter of time. It would be he who left me, though I had not imagined it to be in that fashion. Up until the actual day of his wedding, he was more than willing to accompany me on more cases and problems, and out of thanks I took him out to the opera for one last performance before his bachelorhood ended. After that, it was simply fear that kept me away.
I saw the changes that Mary made in him, changes I could never hope to make nor even come close to achieving even if I had tried. With me, he became stronger with a purpose, but now he had a reason. Mary, had she known just how much he was wrapped around her finger, and had she been of a different temperament, would have been able to get him do anything up to and including die for her had she wished it. I had seen the ruin of many a man in this situation, but Mary was not like the other woman. She and Watson were of the same mind, sweet, giving, caring, and open. They both had a taste for adventure, and she was equal to Watson in her logical skills and had a sense of forethought and practicality that the others of her gender were lacking. With her, Watson was more alive than he ever seemed in Baker Street; only the sense of excitement that he felt while on a trail seemed to equal that eagerness. Now, he had that feeling whenever Mary was on his mind- which was every hour of every day. He had no use for me. Mary was his life, now.
My work, as you know, is my life. And if Watson was not a part of my work, he wasn't a part of my life. The thought, of course, unsettled me. Watson was the first person outside my brother who I trusted implicitly, and when he left, I felt like I had been abandoned, betrayed, and forgotten. The realization of this was . . . unsettling. I tried to fight it, of course, but my adventures weren't nearly as exciting or satisfactory without Watson there to bounce ideas off of, or to portray that perfect balance of amazement and pride. And he was proud of me, although his pride was mostly misdirected. Though I would never admit this to anyone, especially Watson, it is because of him that I stayed in this business for so long. For although I always said the work itself was the reward, after a time, I was frustrated that I wasn't given credit. It was I who did all the work, who found and drew the facts together, who set up the plans to capture the criminals. I was the brains behind the operation, and all I got was a thank-you and go-along-your-merry-way. I was taken for granted. And if Watson hadn't begun writing the truth of those excursions, I would have eventually stopped working with the Yard altogether; and who knows? I may have eventually killed another or myself out of sheer boredom or stupidity (Yes, I will admit to idiotic pastimes; even I fear what dangers I am capable of while in one of my 'black moods', as Watson calls them).
Eventually, I couldn't stand my good Boswell's absence any longer. I had frequently caught myself turning to speak to him, only to realize with a start that he wasn't by my side. Lestrade, to this day, swears that I occasionally asked a question directed to Watson, seemingly unconsciously, for I did not act as if anything was wrong nor did I mention it afterwards. I deny this. I am in complete control during my work, and I would have known if I had asked something of Watson- I would have wondered why he was silent, since he is always so prompt as to put forth an opinion. His absence, however, did take its toll, and it was with great relief and something of a burden to my pride that I asked for his help once more months after his marriage. To my intense relief, he agreed to come with me.
Once more, I was privy to that excited gleam, the barely suppressed energy waiting to be expelled as we raced against time to put the criminals behind bars. His exhilaration was infective, for I, too, enjoyed the chase more than I had expected. With him there, everything seemed . . . not brighter, but different. It was as if I was on the hunt for the first time, straining at the rope, in my proper place and element. Hearing the scratch of his pen as I talked was the most welcoming sound I had heard in a long while.
With a great sense of guilt, I realized how much I had taken my biographer for granted. I had always assumed that he would always be there to watch my back, to curb my temper, to pick me out of that dark depression that haunted my unemployed hours. Even Mycroft had never achieved what he has done . . . for although I do have a familial connection of sorts with my older brother, it is only Watson who I inexplicably and utterly trust. In many ways, he became the brother Mycroft could never become.
Brotherhood. What a foreign idea so long ago, now something I couldn't live without! Here was a man who I could argue with all day and yet be laughing with just before bed, no hostilities lingering for days or weeks. We looked out for each other, supported one another, and were loyal to a fault. God help the criminal who dared hurt my Boswell; and neither Heaven nor Hell could protect the man that dared injure me in the line of duty. Watson had been placed on a pedestal that Mycroft would never dare approach, and I know that in Watson's eyes, his own blood never came close to the affection he reserved for me. Only Mary- sweet, patient, Mary- came higher. How I wish I could have been there during her funeral; how I wish I had been there for a lot of things. Moriarty is dead, and I never will regret the events that led to that conclusion; and yet, I wish that I had been able to change the events afterwards, that I could have told Watson that I was alive and well and thinking of him at every new adventure. Lying low in various foreign establishments simply didn't have the same novelty as it would have had he been there to make some effort at a joke or offer his opinion on the suspect and motive. I missed him during those dark months of running, and dearly hoped he would forgive me upon my return.
No doubt Watson would be waxing poetry over how I changed his life, but in the truth of the matter, he changed me. He made me see the importance of my career, showed me the human buried under the shell. Though I will never breathe a word of this to him, I owe everything to him. Everything.
Watson is many things- doctor, husband, author, helper, friend, soldier, marksman, nursemaid- but the most important title is that of brother. I cannot imagine life without him there to support me, to watch my back, to offer his opinions.
He is my brother. No more, no less. And that is the picture of how I will see him for the rest of my days.