Title: The Singular Affair of the Aluminum Crutch

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: violence, cursing, angst

Summary: Because the beginnings are easy, maintenance is hard, and nothing is without its problems.

It was a quick succession of knocks then a rather disgruntled female voice saying, "Mr. Holmes!" that woke him up about a month and a half after the two had moved into Baker Street, Watson having recovered and been put into the area with Holmes. The landlady, a young widow named Mrs. Hudson, seemed nice enough unless crossed, when she took on a very tyrannical and almost masculine attitude. Holmes had learned after a check that her husband had once driven aeroplanes and been lost during what should have been a routine stunt flight, and that she had met him while she was flying.

In other words, a force on any good day, and on a bad day…

"MISTER HOLMES!"

"WHAT?" he finally shouted back, opening the door to reveal that he was only in his nightshirt, as well as remembering that he'd already told her that he disliked being disturbed for any reason, especially by his landlady.

She glared at him for his rudeness then sighed, motioning to the room. She had, even in the month, gotten accustomed to him being able to notice the slightest thing, and thus often communicated a great deal of her aggravation at him through it.

Holmes looked around, back to his landlady, and groaned. "AGAIN?"

"He's your responsibility, Mr. Holmes, and this is the second time in as many weeks. I won't have it."

There was a quick weighing of the consequences of not dragging the former Army Surgeon and currently only half-human and incredible stubborn man known as John H. Watson back to their lodgings, but it was soon replaced with the much more fruitful thoughts of how he might either get Watson back to Baker Street, or to stop being such a stubborn man and simply accept the new station in life as everyone else was.

Dressed and ready to head down to the lower parts of the city, Holmes paused only to get some money and head out, walking a little ways away before heading off to a side alley and spotting the tell-tale sign of the area being inhabited.

The young boy who appeared before him was called Wiggins. Like many of the Street Arabs that came under the name of Irregulars, he was dirty and wore clothing that either would fit at one point or had a year ago. He was getting towards the age of twelve, and like many of the Irregulars, was one who carried no respect for either Human or Denebolan, all of them orphans or forced to the streets due to either the Human resistance or some government interference, as well as the few Denebolans that simply did not tolerate orphans as part of their cultures. They had been a small band and Holmes, with Wiggins, created the group into a sort of unofficial police force, the group that could go anywhere and see nearly everything in the metropolis.

It was one of Holmes' many ways of repenting. He had only taken on the role of freelance consulting detective to pay for his own means, while the money he'd inherited before leaving that particular group would be used to help the Irregulars however he could.

"Hullo sir," Wiggins said simply, giving Holmes a smile as he came up. "Has he run off 'gain?"

"I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't just pay for your schooling and adopt you all," Holmes muttered, "save that I heard Mrs. Hudson and that other woman…Mary something…did it already. Would you and the others mind helping me find him?"

Wiggins sighed. "Sir, 'e's where 'e was the last two times!"

Holmes mirrored his sigh and paid him the fee anyway, plus an extra. "You need better shoes. If Mrs. Hudson sees you in those she'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." With that, Wiggins and the other disappeared to the various back-alleys and dark ways they lived in, probably to divide up the pay, and Holmes left for Whitechapel and the area of beggars where he'd found Watson a week ago.

Lestrade was waiting for them when they returned, frowning upon seeing the clothing that Watson had. Despite his luggage and many other things being delivered back to him after taking lodging at Baker Street, Watson was never quite as comfortable in a suit as the two men thought he should be, though he would wear one at their insistence and had at least three good ones and one dress suit in his wardrobe now. As it was, he wore his hand-down clothing and what had possibly been his old Army trousers as well as boots, though they were far more worn then even the hand-down jacket, shirt and waistcoat he wore.

"Glad to see you both decided to join me," Lestrade muttered, pulling out his notebook. "I have a rather interesting case for you, Holmes."

Watson started to leave when Holmes grabbed his hand, motioning for him to sit in his normal chair as Holmes said, "Tell us."

Lestrade glanced at Watson and gave him a smile before opening his notebook, beginning to speak to them. "A very odd sort of case, but also straightforward…it's the connecting factor that makes no sense really."

Watson seemed determined to refuse anything else that Holmes would offer in, chair included, and instead looked around the room, moving to glance at the small bit of lunch that Mrs. Hudson had put out for them, obviously certain that they would return, or at least that Holmes would return with Watson.

Holmes sighed. "Lestrade, really…could you please get the point at least? What item?"

Lestrade glared at Holmes briefly before saying, "First of all, both were either accidents that have resulted in one death and one near-death, though the doctors are not optimistic about the second case. In both cases, though, the men had aluminum crutch."

Watson frowned as Holmes asked, "Do you mean to say that they were the same manufacturer? If so…"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. As far as we can tell, it's the same crutch."

Watson sat at the table without a word, picking at the food that Mrs. Hudson had left for him, noting that none of Holmes' food had even been touched. It was one of many things the man did that annoyed him, the other being that he had not taken his money and simply rented out the rooms, and the other being that he'd not allowed Watson to disappear back into the wandering population of Earth.

He was only half-listening to the case as he drank some of the tea, considering what to do next. He knew that leaving while Holmes was on a case would only mean more trouble for him, and he disliked the idea of how the odd man might handle things when angry. Watson knew little enough about him, save that he had some past and it was because of Lestrade that he was free to get the house and watch over Watson.

He didn't want someone to watch over him. He'd not been lying when he told Holmes on their first real meeting that he'd been taking care of himself since he was thirteen. His brother and family had not had the time for him, save if he made trouble, and they'd stop monitoring him after uprooting a tree had lead to punishment, and he ended up holding in all his power until that point.

Watson rubbed his wound, trying hard to not glare at or feel the wound too much. He'd not healed it as much as he wanted to, nor had he quite gotten over the illness before he left. The whole experience had been much of what his family had told him to expect, yet having it happen had been as much of a shock as the actual shot and what came afterward that he wondered if any of it was true.

"Are you coming with us?" Lestrade's voice caused him to look up, seeing Holmes getting his coat and had back on.

"I don't think he should," Holmes said, "he looks a bit pale, and we took a very long walk."

Watson wasn't sure if he should glare at Holmes or be grateful. His shoulder and leg were hurting greatly, and while he wanted to go out, if only for the chance to slip away again, he knew that he'd possibly have to wait another week or two before he got the chance.

Lestrade frowned but nodded, for which Watson was grateful as the two headed out. He finished his small meal before beginning a mental debated on if he should try the stairs to his attic room or stay here and put his feet up.

The pain in his shoulder decided for him: he slowly moved to the settee and sat with his feet up, bundling up as Mrs. Hudson came in to clear away the tray before returning, giving him a glass of water. "You shouldn't run away again," she said, "I got worried."

"I know," he muttered as a way of thanks. He knew she cared, but honestly, for how long? Until his temper gets too hot for him to hold in, and something breaks against a wall without anyone touching it? Until he gets scared again, and rocks fall through the roof or next to the door?

"Don't make me wake him up again. He's in a dark enough mood without a case without having to go after you," she continued, cleaning up a little as he sighed, wondering if there was any way he could get her to not start. Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful woman and should be with someone, as opposed to a widow watching over two men who would, in the end, be ungrateful.

Not that he was. He honestly enjoyed Mrs. Hudson, even with her mothering, and he wanted nothing more than for her to be safe.

But so long as he was around, she couldn't be safe. No one was. It would be better if he simply disappeared into the crowd of the wandering homeless and have no ties to create dangerous situations again.

"How is he?"

"Defensive," Holmes growled out as he put down the crutch, turning to Lestrade. "How long have you held that question in?"

"Since you both returned. Are you going to tell me--?"

"He left the apartment again, though this is the second time in as many weeks. I think you won the over-under bet."

"Thank you. I have something to tell Bradley and the others now." Lestrade waited as Holmes finished up and put the evidence back. "Why defensive?"

"Really, Lestrade, I don't see why you're so interested."

"I am because while I know you wouldn't hurt a Denebolan unless they broke the law, there are others who don't. On top of that, at least one person seemed to have heard of the half-human, and wants to do tests on him. If you don't get him to trust you and open up, he's in danger of finding himself under someone's knife."

"So I guessed. He knows that as well, but there's added things to it, such as the fact that beside the problem with Hope, which he knows caused it, he seems ready to hide within the general homeless population."

Lestrade looked upward. "About that…are you going ever going to bring that up against Mr. Stamford? I don't see why he has to go unpunished for it."

"Lestrade, there's hardly enough evidence or even reason to do so. The man is an idiot and I'd much rather just keep Watson away from him than take him to court."

Lestrade gave in, saying, "So what did you see?"

"A solution to the case."

"MR. HOLMES!" Watson slowly opened up his eyes, frowning upon seeing that what appeared to be the London fog had entered into their sitting room. He heard Mrs. Hudson coughing and a window opening, sitting up to see Holmes off near the now-opened window, one of his pipes slowly spewing out the thick atmosphere.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Hudson, but I didn't realize you'd come in to check on Watson," he muttered, standing to move her out of the area. "He's perfectly fine, I'm making sure he's fine, now leave before your cough returns."

Watson looked around as the door closed again, Holmes coming back and knocking out some of the ash into the grate. He gave Watson a small smile as the air started to clear. "Are you doing better?"

Watson nodded slowly, looking around the area. "You were smoking?"

"Yes. I would be surprised but then again, Titan has an atmosphere that's slightly…thicker…than Earth's."

Watson glared at him as he put the pipe away before continuing. "It wasn't a test, dear boy, simply I was thinking. When I do, I tend to smoke a bit much. It's the case."

"I thought you'd solved it."

"I was able to figure out that the doctor didn't know what he did, as well as that the crutch appeared there quite by accident. The question is who put it there and why they wished to frame that doctor."

Watson rubbed his shoulder lightly, considering, "So what have you thought up?"

"Only that this isn't either a Denebolan or Human conspiracy," he said, "the specific hospital targeted serves both and doesn't keep a record of anyone there, leaving it one of the few where any sort can go to get treatment." He paused as Watson frowned at that, obviously attempting to figure out if he knew the place.

"Do you need me to do something?"

Holmes considered this for a long moment. "Not so much, unless you feel up to volunteering at the hospital. It might be very dangerous, though."

Watson glared at him. "You're more worried I'll run away, aren't you?"

"It's not that, so much as I dislike the idea of endangering anyone. I spend more time worrying over others then I do about myself, so it makes it easier for me if I simply go in on my own."

"That's a dangerous attitude," Watson said, trying to not make himself care. He shouldn't care about the case at all, and should just stop asking questions.

He shouldn't be worried at what Holmes said about going in alone because it was easier for him to deal with danger that way.

"Are you so sure that's for the best?" Watson finally asked.

"No. But it's all I can think of to do right now."

The hospital was, at least on the surface, a very uninteresting piece of architecture and on Hambury Street, one of the dangerous areas in London and a rather interesting blend of the middle class working up and the lower class doing what they could to survive.

The hospital itself was a small enough to be unnoticed by anyone not looking but large enough to suit a purpose, he had to guess. There was nothing else for him to do, then, but go in.

The woman at the front looked up as he walked in. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I'm Doctor Watson," he said, "I came here to speak to you about something."

Holmes woke slowly, then finally looked up to see that the clock read a much later time then he wanted.

In fact, it was far into the afternoon, and…

"DAMN HIM!" he yelled, sitting up and then putting a hand to his head. He'd not taken any of his cocaine, but apparently the good doctor had seen fit to slip something into his drink.

Holmes stood up slowly, hearing something echoing and realizing it was a knock on the door. He groaned, finally able to yell, "Come in!" and seeing Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade at the door.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson muttered, going over to help him stay up as Lestrade walked in. "He gave you more of it, didn't he?"

Holmes managed to moan and slowly, with Mrs. Hudson's help, stood up. "He probably went to the hospital." He moved to his closet on his own, quickly looking through his clothing before settling on some of the more workman-like clothing and turning to Lestrade, blinking and wondering what it was, exactly, that Watson had used to put him to such a sleep. He also wondered briefly how long Lestrade had been there.

"Do you have any idea what to expect?" Lestrade asked as Holmes got ready and started to head out.

"I'm not quite sure…but it's not fully Denebolan, nor Human. Still…this can't be good."

"I'll call in Gregson and that new boy, Hopkins. Can you get there on your own?"

Holmes was able to nod without feeling so horrid before racing downstairs, Lestrade close behind him.

Watson walked slowly after the nurse, frowning as he looked around the area. He had a strange feeling about the place, and it only grew more as he walked further into the hospital, as if there was something pushing on his mind and attempting to get in but finding no cracks.

The nurse brought him in further, Watson flinching at the feeling of that odd invasion doubling it's efforts.

"Doctor Watson?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, taking in a breath. "Please, lead on."

The nurse gave him a smile that seemed forced, as if it was a mockery of a real human. "You seem to be a rather hard nut to crack, Doctor Watson. Perhaps it would be better if you simply met the group, so they might find out why they can't touch your mind."

Holmes sighed as he waited, rubbing his forehead. The area around the hospital was becoming thick with some odd tension, and more people were avoiding the area then before.

What is in there? Holmes wondered briefly, frowning as he saw Lestrade, Hopkins and Gregson coming over to him, a small group of Denebolan policemen behind them.

"I take it you have a general idea of what's going on?" he asked, frowning as he looked at the men and Lestrade gave him a small tablet he realized was a quick psychic-blocking chemical.

"We can do some policework without you," Lestrade grumbled as Holmes took the tablet, "but the problem is also that the man there might be a Titan, or similar to the Doctor."

Holmes growled in annoyance. "We haven't any time to lose, then."

Watson managed to get inside of the room and even stayed up after he felt the intense pressure, attempting to push him down, glaring up at the man before him. He was standing with a filtering mask over his mouth, glaring at Watson as he looked him over.

"I have heard that someone used some of L'ers' genetic material," the voice that issued forth was both inside his mind on the surface and filtered through the voice box, giving the man a very unnerving quality. "You even have his eyes."

Watson glared at the man as he tried to stay standing, than felt it. The wound on his leg and arm, which he'd used his powers to at least cover over and attempted to heal, were started to reopen.

"I'm amazed they allowed you to live for so long," the Titan said, blood beginning to seep into Watson's clothing and the pain in his leg forcing him to his knees before the being, "Well, no matter. You're quite an abomination, you know that? Our genetics are never meant to mix with such a lowly race as Humans."

Watson gasped in pain, dropping his walking stick as he also felt the bullet inside his arm shifting, being pulled outward.

"L'ers would be horrified to find out such a thing came from his genetics," the Titan continued as Watson attempted to put a hand up to stop the bleeding and the moving pieces of metal, "such a sad, pitiful being." Pain spiked, much as when he'd been shot the first time, and Watson clamped down on his fear and wish to throw items at the man, to use that power which had marked him as something less than Human or Titan.

The tearing of his flesh as the bullets were pulled backwards from where they had been imbedded made it hard…he bit his lip to keep from screaming but gave up shortly before the bullet fragments went out through his blood-soaked suit, the pain of it going in suddenly having something to be compared to as he let out a scream of pain.

Watson was not surprised to find himself on the ground, though the dark and gray around his vision was not welcome. He didn't enjoy the idea of fainting for any reason, and had succeeded in not doing so no matter what the circumstances. He wasn't about to faint now, not when staying conscious was so important. If he was conscious, even if it meant partly and losing too much blood, then he might figure out a way to get out and warn a nearby policeman, be able to get something going before he disappeared again into the sea of homeless men in this cesspool of a city. Maybe in America he could hide…

The blood-and-flesh drenched bullet fragments were on the ground nearby, and he saw the Titan walk over to him, putting a foot to his wound to turn him over. "I suppose that you aren't about to give up, are you?" he frowned at a sudden feeling, and Watson took the moment to attempt again to pull his powers and mind into the circular shell that he'd long used to keep his powers at bay. He couldn't allow it to go wild, for all that it might save him from the immediate threat it would also harm others and brand him, again, as something not Human, as something masquerading as Human.

I am like a rubber ball. I bounce, but don't harm. Nothing gets in or out. Like my brother told me to do. Like I should have done during the battle of Maiwand, instead of worrying about others when all those Ghazis charged at us…instead of worrying about what might happen to Holmes after what he told me about that damned crutch. I am alone, and must be alone. Everyone and everything else must bounce and stay off of me, must instead ignore me as something common and not at all unusual.

"So that man found me," the Titan said, more to himself as it was only spoken and not echoing in Watson's mind, "I must see what I can do about that Human Resistance Deserter busy-body and his gang that claims the law on their side."

Even through the pain, he recognized that. That meant the police were here…but then…

Something seemed to be inside his mind from that, and he got an image of Holmes and the others, Lestrade and Gregson giving orders to evacuate the hospital as he heard the female nurse from before speak.

"You'll not last long, even with that drug," the woman said in the odd area, and he saw Holmes glance at her in anger, "that half-breed perversion of nature is going to die soon…even you cannot reach him in time, though I'd think, considering your background, you'd be happier to kill him off, wouldn't you…Defective Guy Fawkes?"

Watson struggled to be released, and suddenly pain flared again in his body from his shoulder, forcing him back into his own mind to see the Titan stepping on his shoulder, forcing him back down to the harsh stone ground and reminding Watson of how weak he felt, as well as attempting to think straight.

The Fawkes, or Guy Fawkes, was the term used for the Human Resistance people, especially those who had taken some action, often violent, against Human or Denebolan (but just as often both) and those that failed or attempted to go back into society were called Defective…

Then…Holmes was…

"You're not about to save them," the Titan spoke only in his mind, "You're a freak of nature with nothing of merit to you."

Watson already knew that. He attempted to breathe without crying out in pain, the thick rubber skin he'd imagined around his power now started to crack like an eggshell. Holmes was a Guy Fawkes. Holmes had lived with him for a month, and saved him from Hope even after he knew the truth. Holmes had found him twice. Holmes had not told Mrs. Hudson his secret. Holmes didn't bother him, instead attempting to ensure he was fine. Holmes was here. Holmes was looking for him.

Holmes was going to die because of him.

The rubber ball around his powers suddenly burst, and out of it came a maelstrom.

The only warning that Holmes had which told him he had to find Watson now was the quite sudden movement within the hospital, and had he not been near a door, he might have thought it was a simple earthquake, as they were described from parts of the world that had such things.

But the fact that he could see out a door, he knew instead that the feel of movement and shaking was actually the fact that the house, which served as a hospital, had actually risen about three inches up from its normal place on the street.

Lestrade cursed loudly, and Hopkins looked quite sick suddenly until the house crashed back down, surprising and scaring most of the patients and hospital staff, and upsetting a good amount of the items on shelves and paintings on the walls.

"The bloody--." He heard Gregson start as Holmes stood unsteadily, then ran down the way that the nurse had pointed towards.

The woman had been dead, her body being manipulated by an obvious Titan that had been responsible for the doctor's use of the aluminum crutch and the death of two people. Whatever his…its…motivation behind the crime, Holmes needed to find out.

At least, he might…if what had happened was the Titan's fault or Watson's. He'd read the official report from Maiwand, mostly because the official had called in Murray in order to find out his side of the report and Holmes had been asked to help. Murray had spoken that the odd 'rock storm' had started before Watson was shot by the jezail bullet, and had admitted, rather in a neutral tone of one uncertain if their act was correct or not, that he'd shot at Watson and forced him to run, calling him 'unnatural'. Holmes had, for his own reasons, explained what he could of Watson's current mental state, and Murray seemed to take on the blame for Watson's current sad state, and wanted to speak to him.

Holmes had refused, on no other ground then he distrusted the man due to his action when Watson needed help, and that had been the end of it.

He caught himself on the wall as the house shook again, the wood instead groaning and creaking while some of the plaster began to flake and turn into dust. Holmes had luckily been only a few feet away from the actual final hallway, because at that point the door, a solid wooden one and quite old, was thrown to the end of the hallway, crashing against the far wall with enough force to make the plaster and stone behind it crack, the door broken in half and more plaster falling on Holmes' person.

"I should speak to Watson about this…" he muttered to himself, slowly walking alone one side, looking into the room that was on lower end of house. He could smell blood, and saw that most of the room had gone from ordered, as most often were, to chaotic. One side had what appeared to be a cave-in, and Holmes only paused a second to wonder if, under the rubble, was the Titan's body.

He managed to get in and next to Watson before another sudden movement, not only around the room but along the whole house. Holmes managed to cover Watson's body mostly, noting that his leg seemed to have a small wound that was already starting to clot. The one on his shoulder, however, had him worried, as Watson was now quite pale, his breathing quick and the blood still seeping out enough to even start to pool under him.

Holmes managed to get off his coat and used it to stop some of the flow, Watson looking over at him as he did, his eyes so blue that Holmes was suddenly quite aware of the color and also realized he wasn't quite sure what type it was. It wasn't any color he'd known, and if it was, he would still claim that Watson's eyes were the first occurrence of it anywhere.

"why…why are you…" Watson started, his voice weak.

"Shush," Holmes said, managing to find a still-sterile roll of bandages, "You're in no--."

"g-guy fa-fawkes…you…your…"

Holmes sighed, slowly doing what he could as far as first aid, wincing upon seeing the wound that had been reopened. He wondered, briefly, if the original wound had been real or not. "So I am. I am defective for a reason, though."

"why?" the question was quiet and Holmes gave him a look as he continued to wrap up the wound as tightly he could and such.

"I met the Irregulars," he said softly, "I suppose you've heard of them…that group of Street Arabs. They're all orphans, and most of it is the fault of that Resistance I believed so much in it. I also questioned the thought of hurting Humans as well as Denebolans. My brother had left early on, but I was far too stupid to join him at the time. When I was told to kill a Human, I took offence, but had little choice. The man's crime was falling in love with a woman who had adopted a Denebolan child, and instead I helped them. Lestrade found out, and I am in debt to him. Because of what I did, I decided to be a consulting detective, and so far I am the only one of my kind here…much like you."

Watson sighed. "no…far too--."

"We will talk about your unique and wonderful abilities later. I intend to ensure this doesn't happen again."

"t-the titan…he…"

"Tell me later. Calm down now. We need to get you to another hospital again."

Watson frowned at Holmes, as if confused, but the whole of the area stopped feeling and acting so chaotic. Watson seemed surprised at this as Holmes got to his uninjured side and helped him stand up, yelling up quite loudly, "We need a doctor!"

"t-titan is.."

"Again, quiet. Is he alive?"

Watson finally nodded slowly. "barely…"

"Good," Holmes managed as Lestrade came down with a few men that had a stretcher, and Holmes began to order them around, Lestrade backing him up and soon, Watson was taken upstairs and the body of the unconscious, half-dead Titan was recovered.

"If you continue to get hurt, I must ask that you at least warn me of it," Holmes muttered as Watson ate his soup, Mrs. Hudson hovering over him. It had been a week and Watson had been in such a state of mental and physical unrest that Holmes was beginning to think that simply working on him from the ground up would be the best approach. He'd had to tell Mrs. Hudson after Watson had experienced a vivid nightmare that resulted in all the doors not opening for a good hour, and despite Watson's fear of how she would react, the difference had only been on her seeming to make more of his favorite foods and also trying to help him.

"I will try to not to save you from possibly danger situations next time," Watson replied, glaring back at him.

"I did not ask that. Simply that you stop getting hurt, or at least warn me when you do. You are a very interesting and intelligent fellow, and I would be loathed to find another person to share digs with me. It's harder for me to make friends and losing one that I just found would create a rather black mood in me for quite a number of days."

Watson had paused at one point and Holmes frowned at it, thinking he was simply annoyed with Holmes' words, but noticing that Mrs. Hudson was worried as well, Holmes moved to the table and sat down. "Watson?"

"You…you shouldn't lie so. I'm no friend."

Holmes considered if hitting him upside the head would throw out that undesirable belief that Watson seemed to hold of him not being worthy of anything. Yet another reason he didn't want either Murray or Stamford to be near him again.

"Rubbish," Mrs. Hudson said, "Mr. Holmes only lies to his landlady and clients…since you're neither, he's obviously telling the truth. And if you're going to sit there, then you're getting food as well."

Holmes sighed, accepting his punishment for being slightly nice as he watched Watson, his mind obviously attempting to get around the idea that he had two people who not only didn't care about his powers, but encouraged their use. Those two people were also filling the role of being friends and family.

It was only after Holmes got his soup and Mrs. Hudson left with the empty tray that Watson spoke. "I'm sorry…I don't…"

"If we're to be friends, I request you don't apologize. In fact, I quite like it when you're being annoyed at me, or at least questing my judgments."

"You don't seem to accept that I will, at one point, act like this."

"I do, I simply discourage it. You've a strong mind and have untold potential. I fully believe that you're a person who should find that potential and work on your mind. Lestrade knew you were a smart man from that paper you wrote in college, and I know you simply because I've gotten to know you. Keeping in your power will not help at all…if anything, it's only caused you more problems than mastering it has."

Watson moved the remaining soup around with his spoon, then let it go, apparently not noticing that the spoon continued on its way without his physical assistance. "I cannot! Why should I attempt to do the impossible? All it's done is hurt others…"

Holmes sighed again. "Hardly. The 66th survived when most had been destroyed, and a few of the other religions believe you to be an enlightened being, or at least a god. It's your lack of practice which makes things hard, and while I do not claim to enjoy learning or relearning something, I will say it can be done." He finally pointed to the spoon, which stopped abruptly when Watson noticed it. "You moved it unconsciously yet can stop it consciously. Wouldn't that suggest you can move and stop it consciously?"

Watson sighed. "I…" he paused again, then said, "For a few years, I did what I could with it. It was simply something that I could use, like an extra set of hands, but then…a tree was falling. I stopped it, saved the life of a boy. We had to move, though. They…my father and brother blamed me for it, because the boy would say something, and people would notice that I was different, and then Uncle's work would be taken away and I would be…harmed, or killed, or bring more harm to them. Another time, I got angry and a loose brick nearly hit someone. After that…I had to control it. I couldn't allow it to hurt people, just because it…it feels natural to me. It isn't, though…"

The spoon had started moving again, and Holmes smiled as Watson ignored it. "Perhaps it is, though, at least for you. I would enjoy very much to have an extra set of eyes or hands, though with you I suppose that is taken care of, and I must admit that anyone who tells you to hide a power rather than master it, so as to hide it better, is a fool. I know it was your father, but both of ours seems to both have been fools in their own way." He gave a small smile to Watson as the spoon stopped. "If not for me, then at least for Mrs. Hudson…if you don't, she'll become quite annoying and I'll have no peace. Of course, neither will you, but for me it will be very disturbing."

"You're a selfish bastard, aren't you?"

"You're only now figuring that out?" Holmes asked, packing his pipe, "I am offering to help you learn to control a power that, so far, has won a war and solved a case. Gregson reported the Titan was sent back, apparently being something of an outlaw and one to cause problems." He waited and lit his pipe. "You're the one person I can stand, and I find it both ironic and quite helpful that you are who you are. So, my dear Watson…let us learn to live together, and figure out how you can make those extra hands of yours listen to your demands."