I don't believe I have ever been truly angry with Holmes before in my life. But now, I felt like striking my best friend. I grabbed his arms, felt those horrid holes.
"HOLMES!" I shouted at him some more- some things I regret saying and I hope Holmes doesn't remember now. His face looked back with some vague recognition- like he was seeing a relative at a funeral he had only met before at a wedding. He stared at me.
"Stop that. I'm fine, Watson. I'm fine."
He was watching me now, watching my eyes. For a second he seemed to clear. He seemed sorry. A second. I wanted to just pull my Holmes out this intoxicated Holmes. Strip them apart and banish this Holmes. Put him in a cab to The Bar of Gold on Swindon Lane and leave him there for ever. I sighed.
"Holmes…" I couldn't speak. I was shaking. Shaken.
Mrs Hudson came through, looking worried. "I heard shouting from downstairs… Are you alright, Doctor?" I must have looked worse than Holmes. "You rarely raise your voice. Would you like something to quiet your nerves? And you, Mr Holmes?"
"No," I said for him. Still holding his forearms, I led him to a chair and sat down. I accepted the brandy she handed to me, but was too worked up to sit down. She left after a time of staring from the silent Holmes to me. Holmes seemed to be coming around. I waited. Second drink. Third drink.
Holmes' eyes became slowly sharper. Finally, he looked at me. "Watson."
I didn't answer.
"Watson…" I closed my eyes. Which Holmes was speaking to me? "…What have I done?" I opened them and saw, to my surprise, Holmes with his head in his hands.
"You've shaken me. That's all."
"That's not all. You… shouted at me. I must have been…"
"I was very worried. I thought you'd… outdone yourself. You were groaning. You didn't seem-" I said slowly, distasted as I was by the word "-satisfied. You were unhappy. Scared." Holmes' eyes were wide, glittering in the light of the fire through his fingers. "This wasn't how I remembered it." Holmes breathed out slowly, hitched slightly. I was terrified he might cry.
"You know how," he said carefully, "We always argue over things like politics?"
I had no idea where this was going. "…Yes?"
"Well, whenever something that matters happens, you are always on my side. Whether I'm good or bad or right or wrong. I just want you to know that I know that." He looked up at me, perfectly serious. His eyes softened and he stared into the fire.
I swallowed.
He continued: "I've just done the most regrettable thing that I can recall. I have scared you. And for that I am truly –truly- sorry."
"You won't do it again." I stated it as fact.
"No. You have my word of honour, Watson." His voice thinned out to a whisper in those last few syllables.
I looked him right in the eye. "Then you are forgiven." We stared at each other for a long moment, before I smiled and poured him a glass of water.