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Holmes closed his eyes as the pounding headache reminded him that he had drastic amends to make, and soon.
It had just gone two in the morning when John Watson gently cracked open the door to 221B. He silently shut it and paused on the doorstep, listening for any sounds. Mrs Hudson was currently away, visiting her sister, and Watson couldn't hear anything that would suggest Holmes was still awake. Yawning, Watson quietly limped up the stairs and noiselessly entered the living room. He hung up his coat and rested his cane against the wall. The room was pitch black and he felt around the furniture until he reached the couch, and he settled down on it, remembering Holmes' words and trying to be as quiet as possible. Exhaustion tugged at his consciousness, but he cast it aside. He had hoped the fresh air would awaken him a little, but if anything it had only made him drowsier. That said, he had been running on anger during the first hour away from Baker Street, and the chilly December air had continue to torment his leg, shoulder and now his chest. However, three hours later he was dead on his feet; all of his emotions dissolved away and he was left feeling empty and hollow, with an aching chest, shoulder and leg.
Now, as he lay upon the couch, once again thinking of something he could do to keep his senses alert, he couldn't help but reflect upon Holmes' words. Was he being cowardly about his nightmares? He knew that wasn't what Holmes had said, but it still left Watson thinking that perhaps he was taking this a little too seriously. It was, after all, only a dream, and dreams couldn't hurt you, could they? But this one had. Seeing young Collins' face every night had re awoken demons that he had struggled to keep hidden, and suddenly he was remembering all the men he had failed to save in India. And it hurt, knowing that then and now there was nothing he could do to save those innocent lives. Why should he be allowed to live and not them? What did he have that all the other brave, fearless soldiers didn't that permitted him to return home, with only a scratched shoulder to show all the pain and suffering he had caused? Holmes was right. He was a coward. He didn't deserve to live. Holmes didn't deserve him, a crippled doctor and a moping widower. He couldn't even save his own wife! What did that say about his skills as a doctor? 969 soldiers, British and Indian, had died at the Battle of Maiwand, and over 177 had been wounded. He had done what he could, but that had not been nearly enough.
Turning into the couch, he let out a shaky breath as he pressed his face into the soft cushions. Everything hurt, physically and emotionally, and he closed his eyes and welcomed the demons that haunted his dreams.
Sherlock Holmes sat on his bed with his head in his hands, pulling at the strands of hair and also feeling the effects of no sleep. He had heard Watson enter, and the only reason he had heard him in the first place was because he was listening for him. No doubt Watson had taken his cruel words to heart, and had attempted to be even quieter than he usually was, even though the original level of volume he had used had not been a problem for Holmes.
Gently, Holmes lifted himself from his bed and entered the living room. He was determined to apologise to his friend, whether he listened or not, but he stopped when he saw the figure of Watson lying on the couch, apparently asleep. Holmes frowned. Watson never slept if he could help it. He had heard him pacing his room in previous nights, obviously trying to stay awake.
Holmes moved over to the doctor and studied his face. His features were screwed up in pain, and now that he was looking closer, Holmes could see through the dark that Watson was shaking and fidgeting ever so slightly, clearly trying to fight whatever troubled him. Holmes could tell that Watson was about to reach the climax of his nightmare, by the way he bunched his hands into fists and shook his head every now and then, visibly becoming more and more agitated.
Uncertainly, Holmes reached out a hand and grasped Watson's good shoulder, shaking it gently. Watson murmured quietly and attempted to bat Holmes' hand away.
"Watson," Holmes whispered, "Wake up. It's just a dream." He shook his friend more vigorously, and Watson winced and twisted away from Holmes' grip.
"None of that now," Holmes said as Watson continued to squirm. "Watson!" he raised his voice, causing Watson to jump as at the same time his eyes flew open and he grabbed Holmes' wrist. He bolted upright on the couch and looked around him wildly, gasping for breath. As he adjusted to the dark, his eyes fell on Holmes, and he abruptly let go of his wrist, breaking his gaze from him as he did so. Eventually, he lay back down on the couch and closed his eyes.
"What do you want, Holmes? Was I preventing you from sleeping? Did you wake me to tell me to move?" Watson's words were laced with venom as he turned away from the detective.
Holmes winced and he placed a hand on Watson's shoulder. The doctor flinched but he did not attempt to remove Holmes' hand. "No, my dear Watson," he said softly. "I – I wanted to apologise."
Watson turned abruptly to face Holmes. "What?" he asked. The last thing he'd been expecting was an apology.
Holmes took a breath. "I'm sorry. I should never have said those things to you. They were malicious and cruel and I did not mean a word of them. It was unkind of me to mock you and I can promise you that I shall never, ever do it again."
Watson's features softened. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I'm sure you had your reasons for not telling me about Silverstone, and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself rather than face the more pressing matters at hand. What's done is done. Quits?"
Holmes grinned at him, and Watson returned the smile, before replacing it with a yawn. "Though I'm afraid," Watson muttered as his eyelids tried to slide close. "You'll have to return to bed promptly. The whole half-two-in-the-morning look really doesn't suit you, and I fear the image shall be implanted in my memory if you are here any longer."
Holmes chuckled and began to walk his room, before another thought crossed his mind. He paused at the doorway and looked at Watson.
"You are not to blame." he told his friend. He had noticed that Watson had watched him go and realised that yet again, the doctor had no intention of sleeping that night. Now, as he saw his friend staring fixedly at the ceiling, Holmes knew his suspicions were correct.
Watson made no move to answer. Instead, he continued to gaze ahead.
"I mean it," Holmes said, walking back to Watson, "It wasn't your fault."
"Don't, Holmes." Watson twisted again to face the back of the couch. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Listen to me, Watson. You are the best doctor in the country, and there was nothing you could have done to save that boy."
"There should have been." Watson murmured.
"But there wasn't," Holmes said firmly. "Are you listening? Good. The bullet hit his heart, Watson. We all knew he wasn't going to make it, heck, even Collins knew it. But you were the one who tried to stop the inevitable, and calmed him when he began to panic. I doubt myself, Clarky or Anstruther would have had the courage to sit by a dying man and continue to talk to him in his last moments. You have a great heart, Watson, and no person can ever take that away from you. Do you hear me? Watson?" Holmes peered over his friend's shoulder to see his eyelids closed firmly and his breathing become more regular. Holmes rolled his eyes
"Nice to know I'm appreciated." Holmes muttered, though he knew Watson would have heard him out. He entered his bedroom and flung himself on top of the bed covers. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep off the anxiety for what was yet to come.
A/N: I know this was a bit of a slow chapter, but I felt the need to add it. By the by, the facts about the Battle of Maiwand were completely true – 969 men did die, and more than 177 were injured. Next update soon ;)