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Watson hated him.
The thought wasn't something he'd plucked from thin air, not some fancy he'd concocted over months. No, hard evidence clung to the room, where beakers and broken bottles still lay strewn like his thoughts, spilled chemicals etching away at the wooden floor. But the most pressing was the clear absence of his friend in his usual chair at this time of night.
Holmes stood in the now dark room, the hands behind his back gripping a small piece of paper. The rain had slowed, leaving a drizzling mist in the wake of the thunderstorm.
He’d never seen him that angry, never dreamed Watson’s kind face could contort into something so vile and twisted – pure rage, directed only at Holmes.
Below a lone hansom trotted by in the cold night, Holmes noted the ease of the horse's stride, there was nothing in the carriage – the driver was heading home. He sighed and turned away from the window to collapse on the settee and stare into the dying embers of the fire - the only light in the dark room. Only moments before Watson had gone up to his room, still shaking from rage and pain, and Holmes wondered how everything had gone so very wrong between them.
His hand tightened around the note. He knew how, and it had been of his own damned doing.
With a little help from Detective Jones, and his honeyed words.
Flattery would get you everywhere with Sherlock Holmes. He knew this well, his own vanity had been his downfall quite a few times in his short life, and Mycroft made sure he never forget it. But it had to be said, there was something wonderful about being acknowledged for one's brilliance. The very idea that someone not only recognized your work and intelligence but actively acknowledged it made him shiver all over.
He craved it like he craved music. It fed his soul to the bone.
Watson was a good food source for that part of his persona. He was never beggarly with his praise, eager to give it and he gave it truly, honestly, never a hint of irony nor sarcasm to be found. But Watson also came with a healthy dose of reality. He praised Holmes when he did well, but would often rein him in if he went too far.
Holmes knew he needed this too, praise without temper could only create a monster. At the same time if Holmes did make a mistake Watson was the first to sooth, and never to gloat – except of course when he was teasing. It was through these honest, grounded actions that Holmes realised Watson was what one would call a true friend.
A mix of spice and sugar, never too sweet, but never too harsh either.
He came to adore him, believing he would never find another creature of his ilk in his life.
Then detective Jones came into the picture. A smart man of 26 years of age, only 5 years his junior, with a bright mind and kind face. At first Holmes treated him as he treated all new acquaintances, he used him for information and then left it to Watson to deal with the niceties. But as the days drew on, and the case turned more complicated he found in detective Jones a sort of brightness he never thought he'd ever find in anyone other than in himself and Mycroft.
The man was brilliant, with a wide range of interests, so wide Holmes doubted he would ever reach the limit to their conversations. He understood Holmes methods almost instantly, and followed him religiously. Their partnership flourished, and Jones was never too far away with praise or awe.
“You're absolutely amazing, Mr. Holmes!” Those were the first words of praise Jones had given, Holmes could still recall the warmth and pride which had taken root in his soul. More would follow and coming from a man such as Jones, he'd never felt more fulfilled, and Watson's own praises became pale in comparison. They hardly mattered anymore.
Then a trickle of comments started, just small notations here and there, but things that set Holmes' mind a whir – all focused around Watson. Comments on his ability, on his background, on his support of the military, and sometimes of his motives.
Holmes had mentioned the romanticized nature of the stories Watson wrote with some exasperation, and Jones had said, “You should tell him if it bothers you so.”
“I have,” he took a hard puff from his pipe, “But he insists that writing it in such a way will 'please the audience'!”
“Then he does not understand the nuance of good detective work.”
Holmes had turned then, feeling a jolt in his stomach at the slight to his friend, “Pray explain what you mean?”
“Only,” he said, replacing The Strand, “that romance can never be more important than the chase.”
Holmes had laughed, “Yes! It is pleasing to hear someone understand this!”
And it was. Watson and Holmes often argued over this point. Watson pushing for the softer sides of their stories, while Holmes wishing to reject them outright. It was a sore point of contention in their relationship, and one Holmes often wished could be done away with.
He'd often entertained the idea of telling Watson to stop writing, but he also knew through Watson he accumulated quite a bit of fame. Those stories brought in a lot more work than word of mouth, and Holmes was grateful for it. So he let his friend be, and let it be a point of contention between them when it did decide to rear its head.
Jones wouldn't mention it again for some time, but then he would drop a light word on it, curious about the new story, or a blunder from Watson, and Holmes would find himself angry again.
When he once defended that Watson's stories did help him build a reputation, Jones had surprised him by laughing.
“Yours or his?”
“Pardon?”
Jones knocked back his whiskey, “Seems to me he's the one building a reputation as a respected writer, and you're left looking like the fool in the stories.”
It would mark the first time he would be angry at Jones, “For the sake of this friendship, I will ask you to either explain or retract.”
And he did explain. How the stories made Holmes look 'queer', 'odd' and 'strange' how Watson did not follow the line of Holmes' detective work, but instead chased his own romanticized style. Watson, he declared was using Holmes to become famous, and Holmes was left looking the fool.
No. His first and only reaction before he warned Jones to leave the matter entirely. But the idea would not stop mulling in his head, and he couldn't stop feeling like there was some truth to it. To test the theory he inquired at The Strand what they paid per word.
An old gentleman would inform him of the rate, but also explain to him that reprints were also possible, if the stories were popular. He even used Watson's A Study in Scarlet as an example of a story which had been reprinted three times already.
It did not take much of a calculation to realize Watson was making a tidy bundle out of the whole affair.
It was around this time Holmes became truly angry at Watson, and when he mentioned it to Jones, the detective sadly agreed with his conclusions, wondering if perhaps that was why Watson had taken a dislike to Jones. He might be pushed out, and lose his easy income.
The anger manifested in the most vindictive and cruelest of ways. He firstly shunned Watson, consciously making him feel unwelcome in his presence. This was followed by sharp insults to his character and ability. If Watson blundered, Holmes was the first to point it out, and to make him feel the fool. He felt he had the right to, as Watson had done so to him in those damned stories on so many occasions.
And if he should remember that Watson had often wrote Watson himself as the fool in many of his publications, Holmes simply told himself that at least some parts of those wretched stories were true, and Jones – of course – would agree.
Only once did Watson defend himself, righteous and angry at the insults and degradation – he'd defended himself with fire and anger, but Holmes had turned on him with a vicious tongue and tore him down from the ground up. That expression of hurt-anger and self-deprecating shame had pulled on his heart and he felt a fierce uncertainty at the appropriateness of actions. But Jones was good fuel for his anger and bitterness, and he soon felt justified in all of his interactions with Watson.
When Jones was there Holmes was calmer, almost happier and he noted Watson was notably unhappier, which only served to make him feel even better. When Watson was out of earshot, Jones noted how jealous the man had become of their friendship, now that he couldn't have full access to Holmes and his brilliance.
It felt good to be acknowledged.
Through the course of little more than a week their relationship deteriorated into solely Holmes' insults and Watson taking the brunt of his anger, with barely concealed fury.
And then tonight, Watson had returned from an urgent errand. Holmes took note of his state of dress, his missing medical bag, his limp, his bruised face and hands, and then the missing watch. The awful sense of enjoyment he felt at his misery should have been a signal of how far he'd been poisoned by honeyed words. But he didn't heed the warning, and instead listed his conclusions and said to Watson in a smug tone;
“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.”
Watson had not taken kindly to that.
He had never imagined John Watson could keep the rage of a rabid bear contained beneath such a kind smile. He had noted a temper in an offhand sort of way; seen it lurking just behind polite words and restrained kindness, and sometimes peaking out from calming breaths and a slight tremor to the hands. But he’d never imagined the self-control Watson sported to keep that anger in check.
Tonight that self-control had shattered. The first strike through the wall had made Holmes jump up from his seat, he noted the heavy breathing and red face. Before he could voice a word against the show of aggression, Watson had grabbed his beakers and tossed them at his head.
He ducked and weaved, barely avoiding the projectiles. And then Watson had grabbed the table and upturned it, sending beakers and glass and chemicals crashing to the floor in a flurry of shatters and spraying liquid.
The silence had been quite deafening. And Holmes fought to keep his breathing calm, his eyes from betraying his shock. Watson, still breathing heavily from exertion and pain had finally turned to him, his eyes expression and eyes open for Holmes to see every ounce of rage and hurt.
“A message for you.”
The damp envelope landed on the sofa in a crumpled little heap. Holmes had remained still, keeping his eyes fixed on Watson, almost waiting for another explosion. But the doctor only gave him one more glance before finally turning, heading out the door and up the stairs with heavy steps. The door closed.
He'd stood in the silence of the room, a single clear thought ringing through his head;
Watson hated him.
The thought had been like a splash of water to a dirty mirror, and for the first time in a long time Holmes could see himself clearly, what he had turned into. And what he saw had made him go cold.
Holmes had sagged into a nearby chair, his head falling into his waiting hands.
He was not a cruel man, at least he'd never felt he was a deliberately cruel man. Holmes knew he could be hard to work with, hard to live with, and at times hard to be around. But he always prided himself on his ability to accept Watson as easily as his friend had accepted him.
When had everything gone so wrong?
Somewhat calmer he'd stood to retrieve the crumpled envelope. What message could he have brought? Still too rattled, it took him a full moment to make the connection between the assault and the message. Only when he tore it open did he realise his error.
“If you continue to investigate into the Ferrymen case, we will be forced to put down your dog.
Pleasant evening, Mr. Holmes.”
He collapsed again this time on the settee, his throat tight and hands trembling. Watson, his dear Watson – when had he stopped being that? – was attacked by people who could have killed him. Who would have killed him if the orders had been a little altered.
His heart had stuttered at the sudden thought that he might have found his body in the rain tonight with their last interactions being so bitter.
And now here he sat, lounged on the settee, listening to the quieting of his city as she went to sleep and wishing all of this was some sort of terrible nightmare.
Dear God, Watson hated him.
The revelation didn't lesson the burn or sting. The repeated thought didn't seem to dim the impact. instead it spun and burned through him, smothering so many of his usual bright, fiery thoughts into nothing but smoke. Not a month ago they'd been friends, dear friends and Holmes had valued his opinion, his input and companionship above all else.
And now Watson was up in his room, he was hurt, he was beaten and he'd lost his brother's watch.
Holmes blinked, of course.
He stood, anger coiling and mixing with cool indifference to the lives he would ruin this night. Holmes grabbed his hat, his cane and coat and flew down the stairs.
But came to a sudden stop in the foyer. Watson's bag still stood next to the stairs where he'd dropped it. In the next second he grabbed it and charged back up the stairs. He did not knock when he stepped into Watson's room, he never did, but this would mark the first time since their acquaintance that he would feel like an intruder.
Carefully, softly he crept in, picked up a nearby chair from the desk, eased it down next to the bed and carefully placed the bag atop it. Watson was already asleep. Holmes watched him for another moment, wondering if anything he tried could fix this.
Perhaps not, but he would still do what was right.
And he left into the cool night air, into the drizzle and cold, heading straight for Scotland Yard.
Lestrade was only too happy to help, and even sent a constable to patrol the area around their home. “We're all fond of the doctor, Mr. Holmes,” he said as way of explanation. Holmes didn't comment, and threw himself into the investigation, Lestrade following on his heels.
The first night proved a little fruitless, with so little information and no descriptions of any of the attackers, Holmes had to fall back on what he knew of the case, and who would hire someone to attack his Watson.
His Watson, he knew this not to be even remotely true anymore, but he couldn't let go of the small liberty. For now, before his friend woke up and left for good, Watson was his.
Tavern after tavern was searched, each one bringing no more information than the last. When Lestrade made noises of being hungry and tired, Holmes sent him home with a promise to meet up again later that afternoon. He stepped into Baker Street at 08:00 that morning, having checked in on two more places before calling it a night (or day).
“Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson called just as he stepped into the sitting room. She was coming down the steps, tray in hand and eyes filled with worry. His heart stuttered, “What happened to the doctor?” she asked.
Oh, he relaxed, “He was attacked last night, he has a few broken ribs, but rest assured I'm working around the clock to-”
She shifted the tray and shook her hand to silence him, “You should have told me,” she scolded, “he slept cold last night and now has a fever. But I've sent for doctor Gimble, and he should be here soon to tend to him.”
“He's ill?”
“Very,” she said, a sharp expression of worry marring her features before it smoothed back to her usual exasperated expression, “Shall I bring you something to eat before you go gallivanting off again?”
“Tea,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice, “Please.”
She nodded and went down the stairs, leaving Holmes in the sitting room, his mind spinning like a top. When he sat down he barely noticed that he was seated at the breakfast table, and didn't look up when she brought in the tea, nor when she poured him a cup and placed it in front of him with another flash of worry.
His mind ran with various degrees of guilt and anger, and bitterness, all fighting for prime position. Watson was ill, somewhere out there his watch was being pawned, and the bastards who had put him in this position was running free. He wanted to get up and run outside again, to find any lead he could, to bring them all to justice. Mostly, he wanted to find Watson's watch, he wanted to bring it back to him. He wanted to right this damned wrong.
But he might come back to a tragedy.
Foolish! He scolded, Watson was ill, not dying. But he knew how things could turn, he knew how badly things can go and how quickly everything can fall apart. He had seen this first hand with his mother. Watson was very ill now, it could be dire when he came back.
But above all else, he wanted to go up to his friend, he wanted to tell him what he was doing and hear Watson praise him like he used to.
And with a start he realised Watson hadn't praised him in over a week. Not a kind word, or 'well done' or 'excellent Holmes!' to be found anywhere. He knew he hadn't deserved it, not in the slightest, but it made him acutely aware how reliant he had become of his friend's good opinion.
More valuable than music, it was as essential to him as breathing.
But he knew Watson would not want him up there. Even if he found the watch and returned it, the chances were slim that his friend would even forgive him.
For the first time in his life he didn't know what to do.
Thankfully not too long after, Lestrade walked in with a pleased expression. He greeted Holmes and seated himself, thanking Mrs. Hudson for bringing a warm pot of tea. Holmes picked up his cup and felt surprise at the fact that it was empty, not even remembering drinking it.
“I think we found them.”
The words were music to his ears, “Tell me.” Holmes said, a wash of revived energy coursing through him. Lestrade had done as Holmes said and had asked his men to inquire at the pawnshops for Watson's pocket watch. Although it had not been found, a gentleman had tried to pawn a watch very similar to Watson's.
The broker had not accepted it, fearing it might be stolen goods, and offered not only a description of the man, but a name. Jeffrey “Rusty” Blake.
They had him. By God, they had him, now they just had to find him. Holmes gulped his tea in one go and stood, Lestrade following without a word. The two had just stepped onto the landing when a gentleman walked down the steps from Watson's room.
It took Holmes a full moment to realise not only who it was, but also that the doctor had managed to walk in without Holmes even noticing. It shook him to the bone.
Lestrade stopped instantly, and after greeting doctor Gimble, quickly asked “How is he, doctor?”
Doctor Gimble was old, with round little spectacles, a balding head and a smallness to him which belied the long years he'd spent on battlefields. But Holmes had a great respect for him, if only for the fact that Watson spoke so highly of him.
He turned and said in a rough voice watered down through years of shouting in a war zone; “He is very ill, I'm sending for more medicine, and I shall be staying for the day.”
“Will he be alright, doctor?” Lestrade asked.
Doctor Gimble looked at them, and for a brief moment Holmes could see the commander resonating through a gaze glinted with steel, “Rest assured, I shall do everything I can.”
Was Watson that sick? But Gimble didn't offer anything more, and quietly continued down the steps, Holmes watched him for a moment and slowly he let the coolness consume him once more, “There is some tea in the sitting room,” he said, composure in place, “Please help yourself, doctor Gimble.”
And he walked on, leaving Lestrade to catch up to him outside.
The day was spent looking for Rusty Blake, Lestrade wanted to enlist more of the police force, but Holmes quickly deterred him, realising if he got wind they were looking for him specifically he might go underground and they would never find him again.
So instead Holmes became Bill Dudley, the streetwise chimney sweep, with a sordid past, and set about finding the man with far less obvious inquiries. Rusty was a hitman of sorts, and Holmes just had to let him know he was looking for a man to do a very specific job involving a lady. Rusty had a reputation for hurting women, and enjoying it.
It had just gone one that morning, the heavy ring of Big Ben falling across London. Holmes pressed himself further into the shadows and took a hard drag from his cigarette. His feet ached, and his eyes drooped from exhaustion. He was so tired, but he couldn't stop now. They were so damned close.
He quietly snuffed out his cigarette before making his way over to the warmth and music. His gaze caught a familiar figure coming down from the other side of the street, and Holmes quickly dropped his gaze to focus on the uneven cobblestones.
Detective Jones walked past without a word, a light sent of alcohol and tobacco followed and Holmes let out a light breath. When he was certain the man was far enough he stopped and looked back watching him disappear into the fog. Did he even feel regret? Had Jones even been aware of what he was doing? Deep inside he desperately wanted Jones to be innocent in this, he wanted him to be a simple bystander, to change his ways. Because despite it all, he had been a good friend, and he still didn't want to lose him.
Holmes clenched his teeth and went into the tavern.
Two hours later he returned to Baker Street, Lestrade had returned home hours ago and Holmes realised, after he'd nearly been hit by a carriage, that he should head back and try to rest at the very least.
The sitting room was dark, the fireplace only small embers leaving the room colder than normal, but he didn't care. Just a few hours of rest, and then he would head out again. He pulled off his disguise in segments and collapsed on the settee, and waited for sleep.
He listened to the tick of the clock, to the soft trotting of cabs still awake at this hour, and to the singing drunk stumbling his way to a fresh last round. His mind whirred and spun, keeping sleep as far away as the moon. It would not come tonight.
“You should rest.”
Holmes was pacing the length of the sitting room, papers and books piled in various corners and lengths of importance around him. He didn't bother to look up. “I am not tired.”
Watson snorted, “Yes you are,” he lowered the paper, “You've tripped twice, and nearly knocked over a vase in your pacing,” he returned to the paper, “At least sit down before you fall down.”
Holmes ignored him, but after he nearly careened into the fire place, he relented and sat down. Watson had a cup of tea and biscuit ready. Holmes hadn't bothered to hide the grateful smile.
The loud scream cut through the night, and instantly he shot up right.
Watson.
He took the stairs two at a time, and threw open the door revealing doctor Gimble holding onto a screaming Watson.
“Hold him down!” Gimble yelled, and Holmes found himself obeying the order. He grabbed his friend's arms, Gimble let go and Holmes barely kept his grip. Watson wailed and screamed, ripping up and kicking.
“He hated me!” he thrashed, and Holmes finally relented, placing his whole weight on top of him, “Because I wasn't you!” another violent thrash.
“Doctor!”
“One moment!”
“And then you died!” he screamed again, and for a moment his eyes opened, looking past Holmes into a place and time that was too far away to see, “You sonovabitch, you died, and left me alone!” and then his eyes did focus, right into Holmes' gaze, and he leaned forward and screamed, “You should have had a rule against drinking! You should have talked to me! Why didn't you talk to me!”
Watson curled in on himself, the fight fading, “I wish you'd told me what was wrong. I might have been able to fix it...” he breathed heavily and whispered, “We're supposed to be good at fixing things...”
“Alright,” said the doctor, “He's sedated.”
Holmes let go in a slight daze. He stood next to the bed, and watched Watson fall into restless sleep, still muttering. He was soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his red skin and breath coming out fast and uneven.
“How is he?”
Doctor returned to his seat with a heavy sigh, “The damage to his ribs is not helping. He can't rest properly, and he's plagued by nightmares, which only hinders the healing process.” he stretched and sat back, “But he's tough.”
Holmes nodded, “Does he scream often?”
“No,” Gimble said, crossing his arms, “This is the first time.”
Holmes went back down the stairs into the sitting room. The sun was rising, pressing hesitant beams of light into the cold room. The mantle clock read almost six in the morning. There was so much to do, but for the moment he couldn't find it in him to spring into action. The only thing that could right this was that silver watch. Slowly he sat down in Watson's chair, taking some comfort in knowing that at least for now, it was still Watson's.
Lestrade came to get him only an hour later, bright eyed and eager. Holmes took a quick wash, had a change of clothes, a piece of toast and a quick gulp of strong coffee and the two shot out the door.
Holmes took up the character of Bill Dudley once more, pressing the taverns for as much information as possible. The few hours of rest had done him some good, as he grabbed one lead after the other, running to and fro from one place to the other.
Finally, late that day, when the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting glowing red across London, Holmes found his quarry in a small pub. The temptation to run in head first was overwhelming, but he knew if he wanted to catch them all, he would need help from the Yard. So he sent his boys along to drop them the message, slipped back to where he couldn't be seen, and he waited.
In the darkness his thoughts started running – as they were wont to do.
There was no guarantee that should he return the watch that Watson would forgive him. That was oddly of no consequence, if it took a thousand such excursions, and a thousand sleepless nights to convince Watson he would fix this, then he would do so. Because Holmes payed what he was due.
He'd never imagined what his friend meant to him until he was on the cusp of losing him. A sudden wave of sickness pulled his arms around his chest and he breathed heavily. Even if he found the watch, Watson still might not forgive him.
Lestrade arrived moments later with no less than six constables in tow. Holmes flashed a smile, the first genuine one he'd managed in days, and the two walked in to find Rusty Blake.
The man was sitting with three others playing a round of cards. Holmes walked in, feeling the eyes of Lestrade on him from outside. He'd asked him to stay outside for the time being and to come in when he called. Lestrade was not happy.
“Rusty?” he asked, voice still rolling thick with his cockney accent.
He looked up, face scarred on the left cheek, head shaved clean and two front teeth missing, “Who's asking?”
“Bill Dudley.” No need to frighten him just yet.
He sat back with a sneer, “And what is it that you want?”
He smiled, “I bring a message from doctor Watson.”
Rusty looked at him with some confusion for a moment, and slowly the expression turned to realisation and then naked fear, “Awe, shit.”
Holmes grabbed him by the lapels, ripping him up off the chair and slammed him into the bar counter. Moments later Lestrade and the police force burst in, keeping the people inside and forcing them away from Holmes.
Rusty struggled against the hold, “What the hell do ya want? I didn't kill him did I? Just roughed him up a bit!”
“Doctor Watson is very ill, thanks to you,” he said, keeping a cold tone. “But that is not why I came looking for you.” his hand tightened around the throat, and with the other ripped the watch from his pocket, “This does not belong to you.”
Rusty's eyes narrowed, but he smartly remained still, Holmes let go and made to leave. But stopped, spun around and slammed his fist into the man's side. He felt the tell tale crack of ribs beneath his strike and smiled.
“A returned gift.” Rusty gasped and hit the floor, gripping his side. Holmes stepped away and two constables put the convict in handcuffs and dragged him into the night.
Outside Holmes took in large gulps of breath, enjoying the coolness of the night and dank soot of his city. Lestrade came up beside him and lit a cigarette before offering one to Holmes. “Good work Mr. Holmes, as always.”
Holmes took a drag and kept silent. He didn't want to hear it from him. But the comfort of Lestrade next to him soothed some of the hurt and bitterness, so he stayed, letting the puffs of smoke say what he couldn't.
Eventually he snuffed out the cigarette and turned to leave, but Lestrade stopped him.
“You take care of him,” Holmes paused and turned, waiting for the inspector to continue, “Like I said, we're all fond of the doctor, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade shifted, “We'd hate for anything to happen to him.”
He nodded and slipped into the night. But as he walked a little voice reminded him fiercely that he was the reason for his friend’s misery in the first place. Taking the thought he wrapped it so so tightly around himself it almost made him stumble.
At home he walked up the stairs, took off his hat, disguise, coat and replaced his cane before collapsing in Watson's chair. But he couldn't sleep, he knew he wouldn't, not with so many things still pressing in from all around. His mind wouldn't let him – he knew it well enough to know when it would not give him rest.
He worried about everything; about the impending conversation, about the eventual meeting with Jones. He worried about what the future would hold, and all the uncertainties that suddenly came with it. With a sigh he removed the watch from his pocket to examine it.
“You should have had a rule against drinking!”
It was easy to deduce his friend had been talking about his brother. Within every single one of those words had been an underlining mix of sorrow, guilt and anger. There were a lot of emotions to be unpacked there, many things to discuss that he would never broach. He lifted the watch to look at the engraving, at the familiar scarring, and story which he had plucked so carelessly from it on that day so long ago.
This meant more to Watson than his friend had rightfully let on.
“I wish you'd told me what was wrong. I might have been able to fix it...”
His hand tightened around the watch, he slipped it back into his pocket, and closed his eyes, thinking of how his friend, so open, could still hide so much.
“Holmes?”
That voice, dripping with honey and sweetness pulled him violently from his thoughts. He started and came face to face with someone he dearly didn't want to see.
“Detective Jones,” he replied, realising how stiff he sounded.
Jones chuckled, his green eyes sparkling with humour and light, “So formal? Certainly not what I was expecting,” his face fell, “I heard down the grapevine about doctor Watson. Is he alright?”
“He's keeping,” he settled for, and eased back into his seat, feeling too drained to even stand, “What brings you here?”
Jones smiled and turned to pour himself a cup of tea from a fresh tray, “I've got an interesting case for us,” he brought two cups, and placed one next to Holmes who was valiantly trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “But you seem a little tired. Was it a case?”
“Of sorts,” he said and took a sip, instantly wrinkling his nose when he realised there was no sugar in.
“I'm sure you handled it with your usual finesse.”
The words slid off leaving no mark or joy. Holmes sugared his tea, “Not entirely, but it has been sorted.”
“You're being modest, Holmes.” Jones took the opposite seat and sipped at his own tea while Holmes returned to Watson's chair, “Shall I give you some details about the case and then return later after you've rested?”
“No.”
“Shall I leave it till later then?”
“I shall not be working cases with you anymore.” the rip of pain was unexpected. It was the right thing to do, he knew it. But friends in his life had been so small and few, he could count them on one hand, two fingers. Some part of Holmes wanted to retract the statement, to hold Jones as close to him as possible.
Because, what if Watson didn't want him back? Then he'd been alone. Again. But Watson wasn't only a biographer, he was his companion and dearest friend. And Holmes would do what was right by him.
“Why ever not?”
Holmes stood, replaced the cup and instantly started pacing, the motion helping him chase away the ugly feeling of fear and trepidation coiling through him. “Because our relationship is damaging the one between myself and Watson.”
Jones watched him for a moment, then he placed down his cup and said, “Are you sure this is not simply guilt over the whole assault?” Jones sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching Holmes intently, “You know he is using you -”
“He is not using me!” the rage and fury he'd kept aside through this whole affair ripped loose, “Watson is not the sort to do such a thing! And it is an offense for even suggesting it!” he turned and continued is pacing, “I should never have listened to you!”
Jones stood, “You said yourself he was making a tidy sum from your work!”
“And that's all he does, that is his income! And he never hid it from me!” he snarled, his voice picking up in volume, “But I listened to you, and allowed myself to be convinced that somehow his intentions were impure! Which they never were!”
“Don't throw this at me!” he yelled back, “I was not the one who acted like a bastard towards him!”
For a moment Holmes was silent, as if struck, and Jones pressed on, “If he's such a good friend, why treat him with such contempt? Why not stand up for him? I only noted what I saw, I made a deduction based on your methods!” he shook his head, sneering, “You did the same and came to the exact conclusions I did. How am I the villain?”
“I... because...” but he didn't know, he didn't have an actual answer as why he would do that to Watson. There was no excuse good enough, nothing that was acceptable in the slightest.
“You did it all yourself.”
No. Holmes thought. And he turned on Jones, “I might have listened to you,” he said, “But you're the one who bred it, who kept pushing it.” he advanced and Jones stepped back, “You pricked and prodded, forcing me to reexamine my relationship with Watson, and through manipulation and well placed words you convinced me that he was lacking integrity!”
He shoved him back and Jones hit the mantel, “Watson was never jealous of you!” he yelled, “He was angry at what you were turning me into!” Jones scrambled around the sofa, “You, detective Phillip Jones, are the one who is attempting to use me!”
“What are you-”
“Collaborating with the 'Great Sherlock Holmes' is surely enough to boost your own Private Investigator business! Isn't it?”
The sudden pale face was enough of an answer. “I was blinded by you, by my own damned pride! But I will not allow a sniveling little sycophant like yourself to control another second of my life!” Jones moved back as Holmes advanced, hit a chair and collapsed into it.
“And so because you used and manipulated me, I shall not be working cases with you again,” he said, surprise his had calmed, “And you are not welcome here anymore, Detective Jones. Now please get out.”
Jones stood, his expression cold, grabbed his hat and coat and left without a word.
Holmes stood for another few seconds, breathing hard and calming himself down. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson.
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, voice raw and pained. She looked him once over, closed the distance between them and drew Holmes into a quick, yet fierce hug. Holmes blinked once, shocked to the core. She released him, and with a motherly hand straightened his lapels, “The doctor's fever broke, doctor Gimble has gone home and said that he should be fine.”
“Ah.” said Holmes, still dumbfounded by the sudden affection, “That-that's good.” he cleared his throat again, “Would you do me a kindness, Mrs Hudson?”
She stepped back and nodded once.
“Please place this on Watson's bedside table?” and he pulled the watch from his pocket, placing it in her warm hands. He knew he should do it himself, he wanted to, but even now he hesitated, nervous if Watson was awake what he would say to him. He didn't want to lose two friends in one day. Her fingers curled around the silver, and she offered him a flashing smile and a quick pat on the arm before heading up the stairs.
All the tension rushed out of him in that instant, and Holmes stumbled back to Watson's chair, picking up his violin on the way, always a great comfort. He collapsed on the chair, curled up his legs and plucked on the strings.
He didn't know what Watson would do when he woke up. He doubted very much anything will be al right, for now his Watson was still his, and for now he would wake up soon. Which was, at least for now, enough.
Holmes continued to pluck at the strings, until he finally fell asleep.