EchoValley26809 has given me very kind permission to take a few of the sentences from the recent fic, Forty Years, Fifty Sentences and use them as ideas for drabbles. This is based on number 17:
17. Formal
Never once did they refer to each other by their first names, but nowhere else in London were 'Holmes' or 'Watson' uttered with such intimate care.
I felt my brows knit as I stood silently, watching the Doctor check Sherlock's pulse for the dozenth time with a rather unsteady hand, examining his wounded shoulder. I was glad that insufferably impersonal surgeon had left the remainder of the work to Watson; he was the only man I would trust to look after that reckless brother I called mine.
I started forward as I saw Sherlock's eyelids shiver for the first time and he moved his head slightly. In an instant the Doctor was sitting on the bed, holding my brother's hands tightly, his voice shaking more than his grip.
And as I saw Sherlock respond to his voice, whispering his name, I slumped back with relief. He would be fine, then.
But I turned a rather interesting fact over in my mind – those two had known each other for over sixteen years now, and were closer than Sherlock and I had ever been. Why the deuce did they still hold fast to that formal habit of addressing each other by their last names?
"Watson, what –" my brother moaned feebly.
"Shh, Holmes, you have to rest now," the Doctor interrupted gently, pulling the blankets up round him.
It appeared that that old-fashioned formality had brought a sense of affection to them that no first name ever could bring.