A/N: If you've come this far, then you should already know: a) that I own none of the characters mentioned herein, and b) that this story was written some two years ago, or at least begun. I wish to put the rest of it out so that it might bring someone other than myself some manner of satisfaction.
Watson wandered the streets of London for a time, trying to lessen the anger he felt, but all his walking did was make his leg ache. He reached intersections and turned at random, knowing that the only place he wanted to be was the one place he could not go, not until enough time had passed to make it acceptable to him. But he did not have the sort of time that that would take.
'Leave it to Holmes to ruin our last night together,' he thought sourly. But he did not think it in anger, for it would have been foolish of him to expect any less. He was never angry at birds for flying, or at the sun for its brightness, and so he could not be angry with Holmes for his awful behavior. It was simply his way, just as it was Watson's to forgive and overlook his various slights. 'But not now, not this time. He'll never learn.' That last was true enough. Holmes would never learn, never change, and he wouldn't be Holmes if he did. And Watson wouldn't forgive himself if he tried to change that.
In his own way, Watson admitted (begrudgingly, and only to himself), Holmes had been trying to do the right thing, and it had been Watson who had brought the subject up in the first place. What if Holmes had been trying to tell Watson the truth, what if he really did–? Watson collapsed onto the curb of the road and tried to think. What had happened, and he couldn't even admit to himself what it had been, would change, had to change, everything. There was simply no way things could return to the way they had been. Watson sat in the gutter.
Watson had often wondered in the past what Holmes had done before he'd come into the man's life, as it seemed so often he relied on Watson for the most basic of purposes. But it had never occurred to him before to wonder what would happen after he had gone. Until so very recently, it hadn't seemed like an issue. He had deluded himself into believing that things would never change between them, that he and Holmes would continue solving cases and living together as bachelors until…. Well, that was just it—he had never had to find a way to finish that little fantasy before. And now that he had to, he wasn't sure he liked the prospects at all. What was worse, he had given Holmes his unspoken word that he would always be there to shut off the stove and retrieve his revolver, and now, he realized, he felt like he was breaking a promise he'd never given, and it was truly awful.
Watson tried to turn his mind from such depressing and shameful thoughts. He considered their argument for a while, thinking of the terrible things he had called his friend, both aloud and in his head: petty, arrogant, selfish, egotistical, child, bastard, brat, ass, immature. He was a terrible, awful man who needed, at all times, to be distracted from his own overwhelming misery. And, indeed, wasn't that all Watson had ever provided him? A simple distraction, a deviation from his life's routine? It was certainly possible, and Watson did his very damnedest to make himself believe that it was true. He sat in that gutter for well over an hour, trying to build back the rage he had felt not so long ago, or at least stoke the embers of indignation wearily glowing at the hearth of this line of thought.
But there was no good to come of it. Deep within him, in a dark part of himself Watson refused to believe was his heart, he knew that no matter how callous his friend could be, he did, in fact, mean something to the detective. Something special, something important, the same way Holmes had meant something to him. Still did, he corrected his line of thought. Watson doubted very much that he would ever be able to run from that deep vein of respect, pride, and various others that needed not be named, that he would always feel for Holmes. He lifted himself from the gutter, aware fleetingly that he had likely ruined his trousers, and headed for home.
Watson was not at all sure what he had expected to find upon his return to their flat; perhaps a man sprawled, half-conscious, across the couch in the sitting room, having finally succumb to his need for the poison in which so often was found a shelter from his botched reality; or, perhaps what he had thought to find was an angry drunk, staring into the fire, a brandy in his hand, waiting for a certain young doctor's return (for the sole purpose of finishing their argument, of course). Some small piece of him had even, he supposed, expected to find all of his belongings tossed out into the street and the door's locks so swiftly altered. Whatever it was Watson had expected, the note he found on the small table near the main door caught him completely by surprise.
It read simply:
Watson- I'm quite sorry I upset you. In my quest to relieve myself of a burden I have carried these many months, I clearly gave you cause to feel a personal slight, and perhaps sullied that great occasion upon which you find yourself so ready and willing to embark. If you have, in fact, found this note, I trust you have surmised by this point that I have gone out. I felt I needed to clear my head, as I suppose you must understand, given the circumstances of the preceding moments, wherein you yourself made quite the exit. In any case, I should be very much surprised if I do not find myself back by the dawn. There are things I believe you and I should discuss, matters of which I feel I should not need to remind you at this moment, but if I find, on my return, that you have left, then I am not at all sure I would have slightest cause to blame you. –Holmes
Watson considered his options, completely unaware that a small, wistful smile played now across his lips. Holmes had been obliging enough to offer him a way out. He said himself that he wouldn't be upset, or indeed even surprised, if Watson were to gather his things and be gone by morning. He could leave without having to face the issues before him. But that would mean the end. Of everything. If he walked away now, he would be walking away forever. Or he could stay, have a long, loud, uncomfortable conversation with Holmes, likely wake Mrs. Hudson in the process, and then what would they do? How could either possibly explain anything she was like to hear? And how would this affect his life with Mary, if she should see Mrs. Hudson on her way up the steps, or even if she didn't, what would confronting Holmes about…everything do to his feelings and future with Mary?
Watson glanced out the window and into the dark of another London night. It seemed he would have some time before the dawn, at least, to think it out.
At least one more chapter in it, I think. Reviews appreciated.