Title: The Letter

Author: Pompey

Universe: ACD alternative

Rating: PG

Warnings: alternative timeline

Word count: 956

Summary: An unexpected letter causes Watson some big feelings. Holmes investigates.

Prompt: July 11 – brother

A/N: Endings are hard and I'm rushed. Please excuse.

It was silence that caught my attention. There had been the soft shuffling of papers as Watson sorted the mail, then absolute stillness. I looked up in time to see a perfect symphony of emotion – shock, confusion, fear, hope, anger – play across his face before settling into a carefully neutral expression. With slow and deliberate movement, he picked up the letter opener and sliced open the envelope he held with rather unnecessary force.

Said envelope was addressed to Watson, written in black ink and in tolerably good penmanship. I did not recognize the writing but clearly my friend did. Someone he knew, someone whose very writing roused a myriad of strong emotion in him. Not an old friend. An old enemy, perhaps? Or a friend turned enemy?

I watched Watson remove and begin to read the letter. Almost immediately he paled and finally pain and anger broke through the mask he had set. For a terrible moment I wondered if it could be a blackmail letter. I can only blame my profession for the uncharitable thought but at the time it seemed terribly possible. This thought was only further supported when Watson suddenly crumpled the letter in both hands, closing his eyes and holding himself very still.

"Watson?" I called softly, now thoroughly alarmed.

His eyes snapped open and he glared at me, or rather in my general direction. Without a word, he strode towards me, tossed the now-crumpled letter into my lap, and continued on to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him with some vehemence, though not quite a slam.

I picked up the letter, gently smoothed it out, and began to read.

I needed only the salutation of "Dear John" and the ending, "Sincerely, Harry" to understand the force behind my friend's reaction. My poor Watson. Just over a year since my resurrection and now this. I had, since learning of the existence of Watson's brother, had the impression that they were not on good terms when word of said brother's demise came. I could well understand his strong and mixed reaction to the news. I still thanked my lucky stars that Watson had initially greeted my return with shock and joy rather than justifiable outrage.

At any rate, I resolved to allow Watson the solitude he so clearly desired. I went so far as to redirect Mrs. Hudson as she brought up the supper trays a few hours later. However, after the dishes had grown cold and a growing resolve appeared in her eyes, I finally admitted that Watson had received some upsetting personal news and did not wish to be disturbed.

Our worthy landlady immediately nodded sympathetically and whisked away the scorned supper trays. She appeared about a quarter of an hour later with a fresh pot of tea and two cups.

When I reiterated that Watson did not wish to be disturbed, Mrs. Hudson merely shook her head and replied, "A good cup of tea is just the thing for a troubled soul." She then refused to leave the sitting room until I promised I would at least offer Watson the tea.

I knocked quietly on his door. For a few moments there was no response. I could have tried the knob to see if it was locked, could have picked the lock if it were, but I did neither. I merely waited.

My patience was rewarded when the knob finally rattled and the door opened a scant inch. As far as invitations went, I have had more promising ones, but it would do. I retrieved the tea tray and entered.

Watson was sitting on his bed, back against the headboard, watching me silently. He looked calm but thoroughly tired. I placed the tray on his small writing desk and offered him a teacup, which he accepted with a nod. Rather than drink from it, he merely held it between his hands and fixed his gaze into the depths of it. I settled myself into his writing chair and waited again.

After a long enough time that the tea had stopped steaming, Watson finally gave a small sigh. "I am," he said slowly, "becoming rather tired of these returns from the grave." The attempt at a wry smile did not override the bitterness of his tone.

"Will you write back to him?" I asked gently.

Watson sighed again. "I don't know. Possibly. When I am less angry, perhaps."

"You were not so angry with me when I returned," I observed.

"You were running for your life," Watson snapped, finally looking up from his tea. "He was running from his debts and responsibilities. You were taking down an entire criminal network. He was a drunken coward."

And there it was – the fathoms-deep pain that both Harry Watson and I had caused with our respective, feigned deaths. One he rationalized and excused, the other he blamed and despised. Yet we both had abandoned John Watson. We had both hurt him deeply. I wondered, too, how much of Watson's anger at his brother was anger toward me, only redirected.

"He appears to be trying to make amends now," said I.

"Homes, I really don't wish to discuss this any further. Not tonight." As if to emphasize the closure, he finally took a sip of the hitherto ignored tea.

I nodded and took a sip of my own tea. "The Wetherford case has taken rather surprising turn with the appearance of canary feathers now. Your assistance tomorrow may prove invaluable."

Watson looked somewhat surprised at the rapid change of subject but was amenable to the idea. I elaborated upon the details, somewhat out of character for me, but it was a safer subject than the abandoned, crumpled letter still sitting by my chair.