221B times 5. AU of Doctor's and Their Uses

As irritated as Watson was at the medical discharge, his grin of excitement spread nearly from ear to ear, no matter how he tried to hide it, as he stood on the Sussex platform once more. It had been over a year since his enlistment, and while he had felt it his duty to enlist in the war effort, his discharge meant he could return to retirement with Holmes in their Sussex cottage.

He looked around the station, searching for a familiar face. Telegrams were running slow with the war, but he knew Holmes would be at the station if he had gotten the message.

Very few others stood on the small country station's platform, however, and they soon disappeared.

He shrugged and set off walking. The cottage wasn't far, and he hadn't seen his dearest friend in nearly a year. He could wait the few minutes' walk to the cottage.

The countryside was beautiful, but he saw very little of it, walking as quickly as his leg allowed in his haste to get home.

Home. He smiled at the thought. He was home, or he would be in a few minutes.

The road twisted and turned, eventually coming to a small two-bedroom cottage that overlooked the sea. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, and he watched carefully over the grounds. Holmes could be anywhere this time of day, and Watson grinned at finally being able to surprise his friend. He had rarely been able to over the years, Holmes' deductions giving away every attempt before it could play out.

With no sign of Holmes anywhere outside, he headed for the front door, barely noting the window that had been left open. He debated letting himself in, but thought better of it and knocked.

No answer, and no movement from within. He frowned. Had Holmes run to town? He knocked again.

"Holmes?"

The door remained shut, but he heard something through the open window. He knocked again.

Still no answer.

Now beginning to worry, he dug his key out of his valise and let himself in. Had Holmes injured himself, somehow?

The sitting room was dark, as was the kitchen. The curtains were still drawn completely over the windows despite the afternoon sun. He walked in further, leaving his bag by the door.

"Holmes, are you here?"

Another faint noise reached his ears, and he realized it had come from the sitting room. He threw open the curtains and turned around.

"Holmes!"

The retired detective sat in his chair, apparently unaware he was no longer alone. His gaze remained locked on the paper he held in a trembling hand. Watson moved closer, leaning over as he tried to get Holmes' attention, tried to figure out what was wrong.

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

Holmes started that time and slowly looked up into Watson's worried gaze.

"Holmes?" Watson asked. "You're beginning to worry me, Holmes. What's wrong?"

Recognition crossed Holmes' face mixed with confusion, then horror, and he leapt out of his chair, stopping a few steps away in the middle of the room. He nearly shied away even as he stared at Watson, as if unsure whether he should stay or run. Watson's worry grew and mixed with concern.

"Holmes?" What was going on?

Holmes stared at him for a long moment, then he swayed, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Wrenching his shoulder and straining his knee in the process, Watson barely managed to catch the detective before his head impacted the floor. He was more focused on his friend than his injuries, however. What could have caused Holmes to drop in a dead faint? Had he been skipping meals again?

Limping his friend over to the settee, he caught the paper that fell out of Holmes' limp hand. It was a telegram.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP JOHN WATSON REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPT 7TH 1915 STOP DEEPEST CONDOLENCES FINAL STOP

Watson's heart dropped. The telegram had beaten him here, yes, but his friend had received the wrong one. A brief thought crossed his mind wondering if Private Watson's family had also received the wrong telegram.

Discarding the telegram for the moment, he pulled his medical bag closer to the settee and grabbed an ammonia tablet, waving it under the detective's nose.

Holmes flinched, then slowly blinked his eyes open and focused on Watson, who was kneeling painfully in front of him.

"Holmes? Can you hear me?"

Grief crossed Holmes' face, and his gaze strayed to the drawer where his cocaine had been in Baker Street. Watson easily deduced his thoughts.

"You're not hallucinating, Holmes. You received the wrong telegram."

Holmes' gaze focused again on Watson, and Watson nearly flinched at how empty it was. The spark in Holmes' eyes was dead, dimmer than any Black Mood had rendered it over the years.

"Holmes?"

"Watson."

The normally confident voice was hoarse, lost, and Watson's worry grew. How long had Holmes been sitting in a dark room, staring blankly at a mistaken telegram?

"Holmes, I'm not dead, and you're not hallucinating. You received the wrong telegram."

Slowly, so slowly Watson had begun to fear that Holmes was too lost in his grief to hear his assurances, Holmes' expression began to clear.

"Watson?" He slowly pushed himself upright, his gaze never leaving his friend, who was still kneeling painfully.

"I'm here, Holmes."

Hope sparked back to life in Holmes' eyes, and his hand came to rest on Watson's shoulder. A moment later, the largest smile Watson had ever seen spread across Holmes' face.

"Watson."

Watson found himself clasped in an embrace so swift he had no time to return it before he was being held at arm's length as Holmes' keen gaze scanned him for injuries.

"What did you do to your shoulder?"

Watson nearly laughed as Holmes studiously ignored his own reaction by calling out Watson's injury.

"You know," he answered, "for all that you're thin as a whip, you're surprisingly heavy."

Surprise crossed Holmes' face at the comment, and Watson gingerly levered himself into the nearby armchair.

Surreptitiously massaging his aching leg, Watson glanced up to see Holmes' face furrowed in concentration, obviously trying to figure out what Watson's comment had to do with the question.

"You cannot seriously think I would let you hit the floor?"

Holmes' furrowed brow relaxed into a sheepish look, but Watson cut off the forming apology, directing Holmes to a package in the top of his valise.

Upon seeing the package's contents, the awkward discussion was tabled for another time in favor of filling the room with a playful banter.