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“Useless!” exclaimed Holmes, throwing himself into his wicker chair, “Completely useless! I don’t know why I brought you along!”
“I beg your pardon?” Watson had stopped next to the settee, his hands curled into tight fists, his heart wrenching in his chest. Holmes shot him a filthy glare and for the umpteenth time that week Watson wondered why he even bothered to stay.
“Nothing,” Holmes said turning back to the fire, “We got our man, even if it was under such wretched circumstances, and I suppose that should be enough.”
He should defend himself, he knew he could. But that had proven to be quite fruitless, as Holmes had a nasty way of taking every piece of defence and crushing it with his own staggering logic, leaving Watson shattered and uncertain. It was better to be insulted on merit, than torn apart from the ground-up.
So he kept silent, he’d weathered this foul mood for over a week, and he knew that Holmes was trying to drive him out. He also knew why.
“Will detective Jones be joining us tonight?”
Holmes lit his pipe and sat back, “One can only hope.”
Watson did not slam the decanter, he did not throw his glass and he most certainly did not punch Holmes square in the jaw. Instead he poured himself a whiskey and asked, “Would you like a tot?”
“No.”
They were both saved from a vicious argument by the timely arrival from Mrs. Hudson. She raised an eyebrow at Holmes’ dark demeanour and quickly came up to Watson. “Here’s a message for you, doctor,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “I also spotted Detective Jones down the street, he should be here shortly.”
“Ah!” said Holmes, his mood lifted. “Some good company after this abominable case should be just the thing.”
Watson ignored him and opened the message, barely registering Mrs. Hudson leaving or her angry glare at Holmes. He scanned over the words, and his heart sank. Reverend Bloosmbury, a tuberculosis patient, had taken a turn for the worst. It was never pleasant to know one’s patients were getting sicker, but he quite liked the Reverend. He was a hands on Pastor in White Chapel, with a teasing soul and the kindest of hearts.
Placing the note on his desk, he turned back to the door. At the very least he wouldn’t have to be here when that blasted Jones showed up. “I’m going out.”
Holmes turned around to look outside, “It’s raining, Watson.”
“I know.” A bout of thunder rumbled, as if to emphasise this fact.
“You’ll catch your death!”
He did not let the rage overwhelm him, nor the sudden hope that Holmes did care, he did not turn to begin an argument that would raise the roof. Instead he put on his hat, grabbed his cane and turned to Holmes with a sharp little smile, “One can only hope.”
And he left.
The rain was a good medicine for his burning temper. It spurt and rushed down from gutters and sky, creating pools of water on the side walk which Watson splashed through without thought. Not ten minutes in and he was shivering already, but he couldn’t go back. Detective Jones would probably already be there, and Watson couldn’t bare the thought of being with him in the same room.
His hands, one buried in his coat pocket, the other gripping his medical bag, bunched into fists hankering for a first round knock out. He wanted to hit something, he wanted to hurt someone. But one does not let one's temper get the best of you, that is one lesson his father impressed upon him as a boy.
“When you lose your temper,” he said, “you always lose more than that.”
He did not wish to insult his memory.
But Jones was now a name which bred so much anger within Watson it almost frightened him. The man was insufferable, hanging onto every word from Holmes like a love-sick damsel. Following him around like a puppy, and doing everything he could to make Watson the fool.
How he hated that man!
A bout of lightning slammed across the sky, making him hasten his step.
But his anger crumbled and faded away in the face of self-realisation. He was much the same as Jones, he ran after Holmes like a puppy, hung on his every word, praised him and adored him just as much, if not more. The only clear difference between them? Holmes preferred Jones to Watson.
It was that cold reality he tried to bury under mounds of anger and indignation. That awful realisation that Holmes had examined him, and found Watson lacking.
And why wouldn’t he?
Jones was smarter, younger, sharper and better at just about everything. A young private investigator, they shared not only interests, but occupations, a love for the macabre. Honestly, Watson couldn’t rightfully blame Holmes for choice.
Just like Watson's father had preferred Harry, as had his mother, as had his friends.
And just like Lara had preferred Donald.
Instinctively his hand touched the outline of his pocket watch, nestled under his coat and vest. Funny, that the person who had been preferred by everyone had somehow preferred Watson. They’d been brothers, one pressured to perform, the other left forgotten. They’d helped each other through their battles, they’d been there for each other as two siblings were wont to do.
A sudden pang of loss made his eyes sting with emotion. He always missed him, but never more so than in this moment.
Harry had always made him feel wanted.
But he couldn't touch the watch without also remembering his father. The cool aloof machine he'd known in an abstract sort of way. A thing rather than a someone which had offered no warmth and through action and sometimes words, had made it clear; Watson was obsolete in his life.
A cab trotted past, and through the sleet of rain he quickly waved it down, hopping in before it came to a full stop, he called the address and sat back.
A reason had never been given for this treatment, perhaps that was just as well. Although angry and frustrated as a youth for his father's complete indifference to his existence, age had tempered that anger and made him realise that a reason might just be worse than not knowing. At least this way he could still convince himself it was all his father's fault and not his for simply being born.
His brother though, through kindness, laughter and life had soothed that wound, he had fixed him and kept him strong, turned him into the man he was now. And then Harry died.
Watson knocked on the green door. Moments later it opened to reveal a timid young maid, and he was quickly ushered in where, for the time at least, his thoughts were preoccupied with something a little more pressing.
Two hours later he weathered the storm back to Baker street with a lighter heart. The Reverend although not cured, had responded well to the new treatment tonight, and Watson was optimistic he might even make a recovery of sorts despite his age. A little light on this bleak day.
The rain continued to press down and he kept walking. With the late hour he doubted he would see a cab any time soon.
“Evenin ‘guv.”
The voice penetrated a thick oily darkness. Watson stopped moments before a man slid clear of the shadows into the edge of a pool of light from a hanging lamp. Instantly his guard went up, and without a word he stepped around him.
“Not so fast –“ Watson, not even remotely in the mood for this, slammed the tip of his cane into a waiting knee. The man swore, collapsed, and Watson kept walking.
A hard fist crashed into his side from another, darker shadow. He hit the ground with a bone-shaking thud. Without really thinking, he turned and kicked out, catching the bastard in the stomach. Rolling he grabbed his cane in a puddle of water, spun and flung upwards, spraying water and forcing the two men back. His side was aching – cracked ribs, he was sure of it. But these bastards would not take him down.
“I’d stand still if I wuz you, guv.” The cool metal touched his soaking neck. Knife, he thought. He raised both his hands and the man grabbed his cane. “We just got a message fer yer boss.”
Watson snorted.
His ears rang when the butt of the knife slammed into his head. Everything spun, he blinked, once twice, thrice – trying to make everything stop spinning please, now, stop! The man grabbed his hair pulling his face up from the ground, when had he dropped to the ground?
“I’m slippin’ it in yer coat pocket,” he said, voice dripping with joy, “Make sure he gets it, there’s a good chap.”
Watson felt him press something into his pocket, then he was turned around, watching the rain filter down through the beam of light. Someone was touching him.
“Nice watch.” The voice said, “Think I’ll take it.”
No! He wanted to scream, but all he could do was groan, loud laughs and footsteps faded into the darkness and rain, and then everything was quiet. It took some effort to drag himself up from his position. Even more to come erect. After another full moment he grabbed his bag and staggered onwards, heading home.
By the time he came to the door the rain had eased some, he struggled a moment to get into the door, and dropped his medical bag in the foyer. He was in too much pain to even attempt to pick it up again so he didn't bother. With hard, heavy limps he made his way up to the sitting room, a warm fire and a bed, that’s what he needed.
Upon entering the warmth of the sitting room, Holmes looked up from his pipe and in a flash of three expressions he settled on annoyed. “I see you’ve been mugged.”
Watson grit his teeth, he would not scream, he would not argue, he would not punch his lights out.
“It’s your own fault,” his pipe gasped, and he removed it to look at the stem, “You shouldn’t head out into the night like this.”
His hands tightened.
“And I see you’ve left your medical bag downstairs.” Holmes stood to get tobacco from his Persian slipper, and Watson concentrated fiercely on his breathing, “You’ll need it. I can see you have lacerations on your face, neck and hands, suggesting not only a thorough attack, that you did at least try to fight back, but clearly came out the loser.”
He closed his eyes.
“You are missing your cane, broken or either stolen, and you have at least a few cracked – if not broken – ribs.” He lit his pipe, “And I can see the missing watch from its usual spot, bad luck on that. But perhaps it will teach you a lesson in running out on nights like these to go and help whoever has called you away for a case of the sniffles.”
Forgive me father.
His hand flung out, crashing into the wall beside him and straight through the plaster. The crack was satisfying, but he was still angry. Ripping his hand free he grabbed one, two, three of Holmes’ beakers and flung them at his head. The man had enough sense to duck, they shattered in beautiful shards against the wall, mantel and chair. Finally, he turned back, grabbed the chemistry table and upturned it, the sounds of glass shattering was music to his damned ears.
He stood in the silence, letting his breath calm, listening to the fierce silence, the slight hissing – from the mess on the floor – and the soft rain outside.
With a trembling hand he pulled out the message and dropped it on the sofa. “A message for you,” Holmes’ expression was cold, indifferent, aloof – Watson did not think on it further. Instead he turned to head up the stairs, dragging with him not only the pain in his body, but the knowledge that he had lost his friend.
His room was cold. Even under the blankets he could bring no warmth to his rattling bones, but he couldn’t move. The second he laid down he knew he would not get up again. Everything hurt.
He listened to the rain. Somewhere out there some bastard was selling his watch, they were pawning the only memento he had of his brother for quick cash. He should go look for it, he should find them, and maybe ask Holmes for help. Watson held back a snort, after his abominable display downstairs he doubted Holmes would even wish to speak with him, let alone help him.
Watson pressed into the pillows, listened to the rain and held back the wave of tears which threatened to fall.
The next time he woke the rain had stopped, but it was still dark. His body ached, his ribs pounding where he placed unneeded pressure on them. He struggled, but managed to roll over and spotted his medical bag on a chair which had been moved next to his bed within easy reach. For a moment he wondered who could have done so, but the pain pushed the thought down and he quickly reached out with trembling hands to take some of the bitter medicine.
Grateful he laid back down, and waited for relief to come.
He woke up three more times. All three from pain. Once he saw Mrs. Hudson creep up the stairs with a tray, but he fell back into a painful sleep before he could see what she’d brought...
“John!”
He turned just as Harry ploughed into him, pushing them into the muddy flower bed. John pushed himself up and quickly scrambled away from the crushed flowers. “Mum’ll be angry.”
Harry laughed and plopped down next to him, “I’ll tell her it was me, then she won’t mind.”
And John was shoved backwards in another tackle.
He had a fever. He realised this when he couldn’t remember one thought from the other. But everything hurt when he came to, he didn't want to wake up yet...
John stood outside his father’s study, holding a piece of paper declaring that his 9 year old self was doing exceptionally well at school. He wanted to show it to him, but John knew he had to wait.
Moments later Harry stepped out, holding his own report card which showed a less than favourable grade. Harry let out a heavy breath then grinned, “Went better than I thought!”
John laughed along, “I’m sure it did.” he smiled, “What did he say?”
His brother’s expression fell, he turned around, paused then, “He said you could show him later.”
John looked down and nodded, they both knew later meant never.
More hands, touching him, moving him....go away, please go away. I don't care what you need! I don't want to leave yet!
“Dumb-bell! Dumb-bell! Dumb as a cow-bell!”
The children laughed, but he refused to look up, keeping his face pressed to his knees where his arms tightened further. A stray piece of manure slapped against his head, making him wince. A boy picked up another piece;
“Here’s your pile, dumb-be-” his hand was grabbed from behind, and a second later he hit the ground. The two other boys cried out in pain, each on the receiving end of a vile temper and a hard stick. Bruised and battered, the three barely managed to pull themselves upright.
“Get the hell out of here!” Another hard slap to a knee, “Or you won't be able to walk home!”
“Oh yea-” the stick cracked across his neck, forcing the ring leader backwards. He hesitated and then quickly said, “Let’s go!” the three ran down the path leading back to school, one halting to yell, “He’s still a dumb-bell!”
John grabbed a rock and tossed it, hitting the boy in the centre of his back, he stumbled and fell but quickly recovered and kept running. The receding yells quelled the lingering anger. After dropping the stick he went to Harry who was still on the ground, slight tremors racking his body. “I didn’t provoke them.” he said softly.
“I know.” John sat down next to him, and wrapped him in his arms. Harry pressed closer, pushing a tear stained face into John’s neck.
“Don’t tell father.”
He held him tighter, “You know I would never.”
Strangers came and went, Mrs. Hudson came and went, and he saw nothing of Holmes. The loneliness bit down, drawing up pain and fear, but mostly regret.
“John, I need your help.”
“Can this wait, Harry?” he added his name to make sure his brother understood he was always welcome, but this was a bad time. John and the team were heading out with the coach to celebrate the day’s victory.
“Good ta see ya, Harry” Behind him George slammed the locker shut and with a parting pat to John’s shoulder, heading up the stairs and leaving the two brothers alone in the locker-room.
John turned to Harry with a patient smile and his brother quietly pulled a book from his bag. “I’m writing an exam tomorrow, and I need help.”
“Science?” he asked, with a sudden laugh, “Come now! You’re much better at it than I am!”
But Harry wasn’t laughing, there was no tease in his voice, no glimmer in his eye, just a clear exhaustion and desperation. Slowly he lowered the book, “The words swim.”
“What?”
“The words, on the pages...” he blinked suddenly as if holding back tears, “They swim, I can’t focus on them... I get sick.” and then he was crying, “Please help me.”
He plunged into a fitful misery, wishing he could somehow fix the awful mess he’d created. He struggled against sweat and pain, fighting when hands held him down, suddenly for a terrifying moment back in the war, but his brother wouldn’t allow it ...
“There are three rules to life Johnny!”
John continued reading, Harry could not be deterred once he got rolling, and he was enjoying his book.
“The first...” he stopped, “Are you listening?”
“No.”
The book was yanked from his grasp, “Harry!”
Harry held out a finger “Number one, never lose your temper.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, trying to retrieve the book from his brother’s hands. “You always lose more than your temper, father’s told me before.” He finally grabbed the book back with a triumphant cry.
Before he could return to his bed, Harry yanked it back, and tossed it on top of the dresser. “Two. Listen to what is not being said!”
John groaned and got a chair. “How can you listen to something that you can’t he-ah!” he crashed on the floor, book in hand and chair toppled over. A hand was shoved into his face showing three digits, “Three,” John glared, but Harry continued, unphased, “Never be too proud to apologize, and always forgive when asked.”
“That was two rules.”
“You can’t have apologies without forgiveness.” he picked up the book and held it out to him, “And vice versa.”
John managed a smile, took the book and promptly slapped Harry over the head.
You should have made a rule against drinking! He screamed this at the top of his lungs, or he tried to, pushing the sound through a voice that was raw and burning.
“Apologise to her!”
“I’m not the one at fault!”
“You lost your temper!”
“After she humiliated me in front of everyone!” he stuck his finger under Harry’s nose, forcing him to step back. “Why should I fix a mess she made?”
Harry smiled, that patient wise-ass smile he always had ready when he thought John was being particularly dense, “Cause we Watson’s are good at fixing things.” he smiled again, “Not everyone is, Johnny.”
“Just because I'm good at something, doesn't mean I have to do it!”
He would never apologise to her, it’s one of his many regrets.
He missed Holmes, he missed his brother, he desperately needed at least one of them. Day in and day out they remained as far away as the stars.
“Join me!”
“No!” John yelled above the roaring winds and clapping thunder, “It's freezing!”
Harry laughed, free, open and over-joyed, “I thought you enjoyed the adventurous!”
“In my books!”
Harry grabbed his arm, which was wrapped tightly around his chest where John huddled under a small covering. Harry pulled, unrelenting, but John stood firm, shaking his head.
“Please,” he said, “Please share this with me. It's wonderful.”
It was still cold, it was still freezing, but John felt the warmth pool in his chest at those words. He shook his head at his own madness, ripped off his jacket and hat and stepped into the rain, the clear bright smile on Harry's face making the enduring discomfort worth it. The cold knocked the breath out of him, but Harry laughed and pulled him along up the fields to where the lightning stripped open the grey sky.
And then they were running, Harry in front laughing with the storm, John behind barely keeping up, despite his few years of rugby training. The wind picked up, the rain turning into sleets of ice and it turned contagious, the energy and fire bursting in the rain. And soon John's own laugh joined in with the thunder and wind.
We were sick for a week, but you would do it so many times again, and dragged me into it for every one.
Harry was still saying goodbye to mother, and John was climbing into the train compartment, luggage packed and excited for the new chapter in his life.
“Goodbye son,” said his father, and John had spun around so quickly he nearly tripped. In the last two years they hadn’t spoken a word, not a single breath to one another. But then again he was leaving for university, his father was still a gentleman.
So he smiled, a little stiffly and said, “Goodbye father.”
That same cold expression stared back, but then he said, “Be safe.”
A wrench of uncertainty made him hesitate. Did he mean it? Was it common courtesy? Should he throw it back at him? Pretend he didn't hear him? After all these years why would he give a damn now? Why even try? But John was not a cruel man, if it was nothing more than courtesy, he could at the very least set his father's mind at ease. “I will.”
His father stared at him a moment longer, as if wanting to say more, but then turned and went back to mother who was standing ready to watch the train leave.
When they were alone in the compartment and John shared the exchange with Harry his sibling had laughed, pleased and wondered if father was growing senile in his old age.
The next time he returned home it would be to bury his father.
Watson struggled against more hands, he lashed out and kicked, desperate to rid himself of their trappings. He suddenly didn't want be here anymore, he was tired of fighting.
“I'm not you John!” Harry screamed, “But he wanted me to be you!”
“And he didn't want me at all!”
“Oh! What an awful thing!” he sneered, voice thick with sarcasm, “Little Johnny doesn't get love, little Johnny is left alone, little Johnny isn't forced to be something he's not, little Johnny doesn't have to worry about being perfect, and yet he still manages to do so!”
“I'm so sorry he gave a damn about you!”
Harry laughed, that awful cruel one he kept hidden under all those layers of kindness, “Stop pretending like you're the victim. You only ever saw that stoic cold side of him. You never had to endure his cruelty!”
“He is dead!” John yelled, his fury swelling like a flooding river, “I will not let you -”
“Let me what?” he said, breathing heavily, coming to stand right in front of John, “Defile him? Show you what he really was? The only thing you were missing John was the back side of his hand, and the hard end of a stick. He was a right bastard-”
He threw the punch without thinking, knocking him back over the desk and onto the floor. Harry sat very still, staying stiff and quiet, refusing to look at him, and John didn't know how to apologise. They shot apart after that, ignoring each other for months on end, before John finally cracked and found the words he needed. He would later learn it was during this time his brother started drinking.
His dreams turned vile, from kindness and acceptance to the war fields, fear, blood, tragedy after tragedy, with only letters from his brother keeping him sane through the carnage. And then he received the final message from home.
“Doctor John Watson,
We at the Royal London hospital, regret to inform you that Harold Watson, your brother and sibling, has passed away on this morning, 12th April 1880 ...”
The words would sear themselves into his soul for the remainder of his life. He barely had enough time to stumble outside before he threw up in the sand, and even during that he cursed Harry for all he was worth.
And if the vomit was mixed with tears he ignored it, and held onto his rage.
Watson woke up. The fever was gone, the pain still prevalent, but everything was clear and soft and bright. It was daytime, he could tell more so by the bustle from below, than the light from his window, which was drawn shut.
He lay still, enjoying this moment of peace. His mind cleared slowly through the murk, leaving him wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, and bereft of a past he dearly wished to recapture.
His memories from his past had been a comfort and a bane to his stinging soul, he so wished to live in them forever. To hide in that pocket of happiness Harry and he had shared as children. The terrible fever had brought it all back.
The fever, his cracked ribs, the attack - oh God, the argument. A stab of pain cut through his heart - he had almost forgotten. But how he had come to be in this position in the first place was not easy to dismiss. When he stood everything would crumble into dust. What an awful thing to wake up to; a weight he could not shake. His temper had cost him a friendship he’d so cherished, in a fit of anger and hurt pride. But the worst of it was he struggled to find a reason to regret his actions. Holmes’ actions and attitude had only served to exacerbate his own frustrations. This had been a two-way street.
He was still angry.
But Watson had still lost an item of immense value, beyond the friendship. He must have fallen sick from the rain and cold. From the pain in his body and heaviness in his limbs he could tell he'd been laid out for at least three to five days. Days, dear God, the chances of finding the watch would be impossible.
Dammit.
Slowly he turned, and his breath hitched, all anger suddenly dissipating into nothing. On the small table, gleaming in the softest light from the window lay a silver watch. His heart stuttered and with a careful hand, he reached out...
The second his hand brushed the familiar texture of scarring, weight and engraved initials he felt his throat contract and it took a herculean effort to stop himself from crying right there and then. He drew the watch closer with a shaking hand and held it close to his chest. It was back, back in his hands, back where it belonged.
And then he did sob, only once and let the moisture gather for a moment, before wiping it away, already hearing Harry tease him for being such a softy.
“God I miss you…” he said softly.
But relief gave way to heavy realization. There was only one person in the world who could have found it.
Go and fix it, you're good at that.
Of course, that’s what the Watsons were good at. We fixed what we broke or, sometimes, what others broke. If anything the Watsons were, at the very least, good at making amends. He stood on trembling legs, biting down against the wave of pain from his side.
Dressed in a gown, and foregoing the slippers, he padded barefoot down the steps, feeling his anger begin to rise once more. Despite his conviction to make amends, Watson knew he couldn’t let Holmes off the hook this easily. His friend had been cruel.
But he did find your watch.
Yes, he thought holding it just a little tighter. He did.
When he stepped into the sitting room, he spotted Holmes in Watson’s chair, legs curled up, violin in his lap an eyes closed. It took Watson but a moment to note the circles under his eyes, the gaunt look of a man who hadn’t eaten nor slept for some time and the mud on his clothes.
And there and then all anger fled, leaving only the same old admiration and adoration he carried for Sherlock Holmes. He shook his head, a little angry at himself, but unable to chastise himself too much. It wasn’t difficult, a blind man could see the hell he’s been through, and it was so easy to admire him. With careful steps, he picked up the small blanket on the sofa, pulled the violin from his grasp with care and, placing the violin down on a small table, carefully draped the blanket over his shoulders –
Holmes stirred and his eyes opened.
“Sorry,” said Watson, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
His eyes were slightly blurred from sleep, but he kept Watson’s gaze with a fierce intensity. Watson let the blanket go, dropping it in Holmes’ lap, and stood back, uncertain of what to do under the circumstances. Holmes, as always, was a step ahead of him.
“Mr Jones and I shall not be working any further cases together.” His voice was surprisingly raw, as if he’d been shouting. Watson stared at him dumbly, the words muffled in his head.
“But why?” he finally managed, “You enjoyed his company! And…” here he hesitated but quickly pushed on, “You worked well together.”
Holmes too hesitated, then he sat forward, tenting his hands over his open knees to stare at the floor with fierce concentration. “Even I have to admit that I am still learning in many ways,” his words were chosen carefully, concisely, each one plucked and examined before given. “I have learned these last few days, comradeship built on the admiration of one and degradation of another… does not make …” his throat went tight, Watson could hear the struggle with which he swallowed and quickly poured him a glass of water.
Holmes swallowed it in one go and said; “Does not make for a good friendship.”
With some effort he sat down across from Holmes. “What do you mean?”
Holmes wiped his brow, “I was a fool, Watson.” Here he chuckled, bitter and cold, “I fell into the trap of listening to a mix of honey and poison. I swallowed both, I realised too late the poison was against you.”
He slammed his hand into the arm rest so suddenly Watson jumped.
“I’d never had … I don't care so suddenly for people,” he kept his eyes to the floor, “You were slower, I took time to trust and accept you, but you're an easy man to live with. I forget at times not everyone is the same.”
I took you for granted.
Listen to what he doesn’t say.
“You're easy to care about, Holmes.” he said with a light smile, but Holmes would not meet his gaze. “But what on earth did he say that had you so against me?”
Holmes turned his face completely away, and Watson felt some fear snipe through his heart, dreading the answer.
“He convinced me,” he said softly, “He convinced me that you were using me for your own gain as a writer, that I was not your friend, but more a means to an end.”
Watson's hand tightened around his watch when he felt his eyes prick with tears, “Surely, Holmes... Surely you know that not to be true?” he wanted to make it a statement, but faltered at the last moment, his fierce uncertainty in his own self-worth crippling his confidence.
Finally, Holmes did turn to him, eyes bright and intense, “Yes,” he said, “I know. Even as I look at you now I can see the truth in your face like a light of clarity,” they lowered once more. “But I am a vain creature, Watson. The attentions were welcome.”
Watson chuckled, strangely relieved, “That you are.”
Holmes did not flinch, wince or curl in on himself, he knew himself as well as he knew how to read a footprint in mud. But Watson could still feel the air of despondency taking hold. His thumb traced the smooth texture of his watch, thinking of his brother and how Holmes and he shared similarities.
They were both spirits of life and vigour, unique creatures spun from a magical web that pulsed a magic you only get to see once in your life. Watson felt privileged to have seen it twice.
But he couldn't touch this watch without also remembering his father. And he thought of him then, about his coolness, aloofness and machine like nature, but also recalled an uncertainty for a second son prevalent in eyes that he'd always deemed cold. He thought back to certain exchanges, like the day he'd left for university, and the words his father had said, but never voiced;
“Goodbye son,” I will miss you.
He suddenly wished he'd listened a little more carefully.
But he was listening now, to the regret his friend wouldn't voice, to the soft plea he would never admit to, and the fierce apology he tried to convey. Holmes was apologising in his own unique way. So he reached out to take one hand in his, mindful of his aching ribs.
Always forgive. Watson’s hand tightened, “It’s fine.” He said, but Holmes shook his head, almost ready to fall on his sword. Watson would have none of that, and gently he turned Holmes’ palm upwards, and with care placed his brother's watch within it, placing his other hand on top of it.
He met Holmes’ curious eyes, and he tried to convey in expression and gesture alone that he understood the great effort and time it must have taken to find the watch again. And that he knew, even if those men had not attacked him to get to Holmes, his friend would have still done so. “All is forgiven, Holmes.,” his gaze was drawn over to the empty chemistry table, he looked back at Holmes and swallowed “I hope?”
Holmes stared at him.
The cool metal warmed between their fingers, and Watson thought about how he became protector, helper and companion to his brother. How Harry in turn became his rock, his self-worth and helped him grow his courage. And how even though he lost him, somehow he'd been gifted with a second one, also vibrant, also bright and unique, but more sensitive and fiery than the other.
Holmes slowly relaxed beneath his scrutiny, and he offered a small smile and a little nod. Watson felt his shoulders sag with relief.
In some way Watson had become, perhaps not a guardian, perhaps not a protector, but a helper and companion all the same. If that role needed to be filled, of course. Because the Watsons were good at fixing things, and Holmes, although perhaps not broken, needed a strut or two to keep going.
After another few moments, Watson finally pulled back, taking the watch with him. He looked at Holmes, feeling strange to sit on this side of the fireplace, but his friend seemed contented, so he smiled and settled back.
“Did you get the blackguards?” Watson finally asked.
In the mid-afternoon light he could see a smile crack over his face, for a moment chasing away the exhaustion and gauntness. “Every last one, my dear Watson.”
Watson chuckled and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of London's streets lull him back to sleep, and dreaming now of the new chemistry set he would be buying for his dear friend.