Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes could never see the point of friends.
Through his years of school and university, friends had seemed like such a waste. They either couldn't keep up, or slowed him down, and to Holmes all that mattered was his life's work. But Mycroft, although cold, calculating, and even cruel at times, was the only person Holmes could remotely call a sort of companion and confidant. Which, for a very long time, had suited him perfectly.
But time brought with it a piercing loneliness, and despite his bond with a brother so well suited to him, he found often a need to share the things Mycroft could never appreciate. Culture, kindness, humans and life. He was far more disconnected from humanity than Holmes, a carved statue staring down at the masses with no empathy nor remorse.
Holmes burned with passion, fire, light and a brightness which stood ready to show its use to the world. But through his years of isolation he soon discovered the ability for crafting friendships had died, and he struggled quite heavily to form bonds with anyone.
Then Stamford brought Doctor Watson to him.
“Doctor Watson,” he’d said, smile easy on a face burned as brown as a nut. He took his hand in a hard grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
For Holmes, his first impression of Watson could not have been more dull. Despite his tour in Afghanistan, and his war wound, Holmes had seen countless others like him. He looked and acted like any other ordinary gentleman. Boring, conventional and dull. Just a simple man wrapped in a plain brown wrapper, with nothing truly interesting at the centre.
Part of him was convinced Watson would be consumed by his flame, and like all the rest, would leave before long. But still, they shared quick introductions, each giving their poorest qualities. And then Watson said a sentence he would never have thought to have such a drastic impact upon his life;
“ I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours.”
The statement had seemed neither important nor significant at the time. Certain gentlemen at the university had made comments that many of the returning army doctors often struggled to readjust into society, as was the case with most soldiers. These comments were usually accompanied by a certain amount of sneer, or pity, neither of which Holmes paid mind to.
All-in-all, it seemed like a good match, and even if its wasn't, Holmes didn't care – the man could leave and he would be no worse for it, just in need of a new rent-partner. And that is as far as he thought about it before they finally settled in together.
But Holmes quickly realised that ‘all sorts of hours’ encompassed just about all of them.
The doctor never slept. Or at least it never seemed like it. There wasn’t an hour he would wake that he did not see light under Watson's door, hear the soft rustle of a book or the pacing of a man trying to tire himself out. His companion’s sleep was non-existent, and within the first week he could see the toll it took on him.
The man was barely awake at the breakfast table, he would doze in his chair and would be startled by a passing carriage or sudden cry from the street below. Clearly the doctor was trying to sleep, but something was keeping him from doing so. Memories or nightmares or some other reason - insomnia could take many forms.
But Holmes refrained from commenting, it was not his concern, it did not affect him and he was acutely aware he was not exactly the man’s friend or companion. They were strangers forced together for convenience sake. But he still watched, sharing not one, but quite a few worried glances with their landlady as his disposition darkened and the exhaustion became almost tangible upon his person.
And then one morning he didn’t show for breakfast, and an awful feeling of dread had coiled in his stomach. Desperation could lead to incorrect doses, and a man might kill himself just by accident. So Holmes had silently crept up to the doctor’s bedroom door to listen. Only to feel his breath leave him in a rush when he heard the soft snoring from the other side. He had no idea why it had affected him so – perhaps relief he didn't have to find a new rent partner, but he was at least somewhat glad that sleep seemed to have finally caught his companion in its web.
After that morning (whereupon the doctor only rose just before one that afternoon) Holmes watched with some surprise as his colour and energy returned with a vengeance. The man’s positivity and kindness bloomed like a spring forest after a long winter sleep. Eager, vibrant and so welcoming. Holmes was quite bemused – especially by the man's appetite, and not two months later their first case came knocking and they found themselves becoming fast friends. And fast friends would be a painful understatement.
Holmes had never met a man who understood him as well as Watson. He was beyond grateful for his understanding and compassion, his quick wit and true interest in his work. Watson was a music piece he'd never thought he'd want to hear, and ended up cherishing. It was played on an instrument Holmes would probably never master, but one that was ready to sing at the least provocation.
And despite Holmes' own inability to show this gratitude, Watson did seem to value this new friendship enough to stay. But in the back of his thoughts, Holmes was aware that the reason could simply be that Watson didn’t have anywhere else to go. It was simply more convenient to stay, which did worry him.
If Watson had no true reason to stay then Holmes would lose something he had come to value greatly. So many people had left him in his life, a few of which he'd treasured (something which he would only admit to himself). He’d just have to hope the cases kept his friend’s sharp interest well enough.
And it did, for a whole wonderful year and then suddenly Holmes found a reason to worry again.
They were sitting in their usual chairs, each with a pipe, listening to the rain outside and enjoying the warmth of their sitting room. Holmes' eyes had drifted close and when he opened them they slid over to his friend who sat quite still, gaze pinned to the flames. The small mantelpiece clock chimed ten.
“It's getting rather late,” Holmes said needlessly, tapping out the final ash from his pipe and giving a languid stretch. “You should turn in, old chap....” he trailed off when he realised Watson hadn't moved. His eyes still transfixed on the flames, and his hand was tightening by increments around the base of his pipe.
“Watson?” There was no reply. Worried, he rose and went to stand next to him. This close he could see Watson's eyes were wide, and his breathing shallow and sharp. “I say, Watson!” he grabbed his arm to shake it and instantly regretted it.
As if being burnt, Watson sat up with a sharp cry, dropped his pipe, stumbled back and crashed to the floor. Holmes quickly went to him, heart in his throat, and knelt next to the trembling man. His eyes were still wide, unfocussed, seeing something in the room Holmes couldn't. Unable to bare that haunted expression, Holmes grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard, “Snap out of it!”
And instantly the raw fear and bewilderment fled, leaving anger and embarrassment to rise in the usually kind and open face. Watson shook Holmes off and stood, “I'm fine.” he said, voice tight, refusing to look at him.
“You're most certainly not - !“
“I said I'm fine!” he snapped, pulling away when Holmes reached for him again. He turned and stormed to his room but halted at the door, shoulders stiff. After a moment he said, “Forgive me, Holmes,” and he turned just enough to finally meet his gaze, his eyes now only tired, “Truly, it was just... an episode. I'm fine.”
An episode? What episode? What are they about? Why do you get them? Where do they come from? So many questions, but he settled eventually for; “But you are al right?”
His smile was soft, “Yes, I am.”
“Have you had them before?”
Watson didn't reply immediately, and Holmes could see the uncertainty and touch of fear on his face. “Yes,” he cleared his throat, “But please believe me when I say, I am fine.”
His eyes were pleading, begging Holmes to let it be. Every single inch of him wanted to pursue this, wanted to dig his teeth in and bite down until Watson relented and told what this was all about.
But he couldn't. Not when Watson's eyes were so wide, not when he was so desperate for Holmes to drop the matter. Eventually Holmes yielded with no fanfare, knowing he should do something more, but having no idea where to even begin. “Then good night, my friend.”
“Good night,” and he slipped into his room without another word. Holmes stayed in the same spot for a good few minutes, mind a whirr with worry. Slowly he took in what he knew, what he saw, and what all of it could possibly point to. But he’d never seen anything like this, he’d never witnessed such a strange reaction, especially not from someone as steadfast and strong as his friend.
Still deep in thought he went back to his chair, lit his pipe and settled down next to the fire, sleep now a distant thought.
Sure enough the following days showed the same symptoms of acute insomnia, and Watson's disposition began to slip into downright murderous. Unlike last time where he'd almost tried to hide it, this time he seemed more frustrated than tired, anger always just at the edge of his words. Holmes let him be, his own uncertainty from that night still prevalent.
Watson now took to wandering into the sitting room in the early morning hours, and Holmes, silent in his own room, listened as his friend lit a lamp, ruffled a book, sighed, shifted, wrote, or paced. Still he didn’t approach him, fearful his friend would be angry or frustrated enough to finally leave should he push.
What kept Watson by his side?
The promise of adventure, certainly, of grand cases and intrigue. But Holmes was no fool, he knew he could be cold, cruel even vicious at times. He knew he abused his friend's good nature, and he also knew Watson had every right to cast him aside, to treat him with anger and resentment. He never did, and for that Holmes cherished Watson so tightly he often thought he might break into a million pieces, and then Holmes would be left alone again.
He was not well versed in friendship, Watson being the soul creature who stayed with him for so long. And it might just be for convenience sake. He couldn't risk pushing that boundary. Not even when his friend suffered, almost especially so.
But when a few days turned to a full week, and Watson’s temper turned from murderous to sheer despondent, he couldn’t hold his tongue a day more.
Holmes stepped out of his room at three that morning, having heard his friend enter the sitting room only moments before. The room was cast in a soft glow of warm light from the oil lamp, he couldn’t see Watson in his usual chair and so he carefully padded around the settee. Watson lay curled up in a dressing gown, arms around his head, breathing heavy and laboured.
“Oh, my dear Watson...” Holmes said, moving closer. Watson didn’t reply, nor did he respond when Holmes carefully sat down next to him. “Have you tried everything, old boy?” this would mark the first time he would openly discuss his insomnia, he half expected Watson to stand up and leave. But his friend sighed and said, in a voice thick with exhaustion;
“Yes,” his voice was muffled by his arms, “From drugs, to exercise, to reading, to counting sheep, nothing works!”
Holmes said nothing. Having suffered from it himself he knew how futile books and counting could be, and he would not insult Watson’s medical knowledge by insinuating he had used the incorrect dose. He knew Watson wouldn’t waste his time on drugs that wouldn’t work. “Then the cause must not be physical,” he said at length, he hesitated but then pushed on, “What keeps you awake?”
And he watched as his friend tensed, as he pressed his face deeper into the crook of his arm and for a moment it seemed as if Holmes had been dismissed. But then Watson’s voice broke through with a single muffled; “Fear.”
It took some effort to keep his hands to himself. Never in his life had he wanted to touch someone so desperately, to sooth the hurt he knew he was feeling. But with no point of reference he did not know if his friend would welcome it. So instead he did what he did best, he gathered information, “What do you fear?”
“I don’t know.” he said, voice as broken as his tone, “I just know that if I sleep something terrible will happen, that I will die, or you will die, or we will be attacked by a vagrant. I just somehow know if I fall asleep ...”
You'll be back in the war, Holmes finished, feeling his heart break a little. Finally his restraint buckled and he reached out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. Watson sighed and relaxed under the light pressure, “But surely every night you stay awake - and the morning comes - it should be proof that nothing dreadful will happen?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding so resigned, “It’s true, if nothing keeps happening then surely nothing will happen.” finally he pulled his face away from his arm, revealing eyes red and thick, “But what if something should happen tonight?”
And Holmes’ heart broke even further. He rubbed his hand up and down his arm, watching Watson relax under the ministration. Distantly he thought he should scold Watson for being ruled by nothing but assumptions based on no evidence. But he couldn’t, not when he could see with his own eyes how this looping thought process was breaking him. So instead he kept rubbing his arm, and let the problem mull in his head, hoping to find a solution.
But as his hand kept running gentle circles he noted how Watson’s eyes fluttered, and his entire body relaxed further and further into sleep. Holmes blinked. Watson was falling asleep, quite easily as a matter of fact. After another moment of thought he felt a small smile tug on his lips. Could the solution be this simple? If someone watched over Watson to ensure nothing would happened, then surely it should break the loop.
Taking heart at the steadying breaths, Holmes sat a little closer and said, “Rest easy, my friend. Nothing will happen....”
Watson shifted.
“I promise, Watson.”
And the rest of the tension fell away, leaving him a boneless pile of pure exhaustion, and Holmes smiled as Watson finally succumbed to sleep.
Holmes stayed up for the remainder of the night to watch over him, and the following morning he made sure to keep Mrs. Hudson quiet when she came in. She understood well, and only left the tea, leaving breakfast (or possibly lunch) for when the Doctor finally woke. He didn’t mind, even as he felt his own eyes droop from light fatigue his chest was light with joy that his dear friend was sleeping soundly, that he’d found a solution (as simple as it was), and that Watson would stay, at least for now.
After one that afternoon he sensed movement, and looked up to see Watson lying on his back eyes closed, but clearly awake. He waited, letting him set the pace. It would take another 10 minutes to the clock before he moved again, and this was to sit up and stare intently at the carpet beneath his feet.
“Good morning, Watson.” he said, keeping his tone light. Whatever was going through Watson’s head would have to be approached with care.
“Holmes.”
A tone of voice he’d hoped never to hear from him; emotionless. It stabbed through him in such a sudden way that for a moment he couldn’t think. He folded the paper and stood, taking careful steps to his seated friend. “How are you feeling, old fellow?”
“I'm fine.”
Again that same tone, emotionless, yet lined with desperation. Invokding the same hope that Holmes would simply leave this and move on. His eyes narrowed, grabbed a chair, pulled it closer and sat in front of Watson. “You don't have to say that.”
His answer was only a tight frown, then “If it's true, I'll say it as much as I please.” he made to get up, but Holmes quickly stopped him with a gentle hand on his knee.
“But it's not true is it?”
“Don't do this.”
“I want to help -”
“You can't help!” Watson snapped, surprising Holmes, “You have no context, no understanding of what I go through. You have no experience, nothing you can draw upon to understand this Holmes!” He stood, pushing Holmes away, “I thank you for last night, but I will implore you to drop this topic.”
“And when it happens again?” Holmes said, standing to follow, “What then? Do we simply keep repeating this and ignore the actual cause? Nightma-”
“Leave it be!” he spun on him, and for the first time in a very long time Holmes found himself stepping away from someone. Watson's anger and frustration burned in his eyes, and with one final glare he turned, shoulders sagging. “Leave it be, Holmes. I will be fine.” he headed towards the door with heavy steps, “I always am.”
Holmes didn't think he was supposed to hear that last part. But he did, and it only served to make the unease grow.
The day was spent avoiding each other’s company. Holmes took to focussing on experiments, and Watson headed out to his club, remaining there well into the evening. His experiments could only keep him entertained for long, and soon he was pacing the sitting room from settee, to fire-place to breakfast table and back.
If this kept up, he would lose Watson to his sheer inability to express how much he meant to him. He would have to apologise.
Holmes collapsed into his chair, starring into an empty fire-place. Apologies did not come as easy to him as to others. He didn’t even know where to begin. He’d never tried it, not with someone that he truly cared about. Apologising for small mishaps or missteps were easy, but deeper or truer ones, they were never his forte. His pride rarely allowed it. But he wanted to, he wanted to try for Watson.
No less than twenty minutes later, the door opened. Watson walked in with a polite ‘Holmes,’ which Holmes returned with a light ‘Hmm’, and almost instantly winced. He wasn’t good at this! He couldn’t even look him in the eye, how was he supposed to conjure up an apology?
A small pouch came into view. Holmes blinked and turned a tight frown on it. It was being held by Watson, who was staring at him with a most queer expression; a mix of fear and regret. “I remember you mentioned your tobacco was low.”
With a hand, not completely under his control, he reached up and took the small pouch. He noted the label and his eyes went wide, “This is an expensive brand!”
“It is.”
Holmes looked at him. Watson looked worries, his eyes conveying only regret and a sliver of hope. Dear God, he was apologising? How does that even work? Holmes had been quite certain he would have to make amends. And yet here Watson stood, beseeching and kind, fixing something he hadn’t broken.
Eyes still on the pouch Holmes decided to go with his first impulse, and reached out with his other hand to touch his arm, “This was not necessary,” he smiled, another uncertain gesture and quietly squeezed his arm, “But thank you.”
Watson’s shoulder slumped a little, a relieved smile pulling easily at his lips. With a quick nod, he collapsed on his own chair, clearly tired from the days events.
Still a little uncertain, Holmes reached for his pipe and gently stuffed the leaves into the mouth. He made to replace it, but paused, a sudden thought occurring.
He held it out to Watson.
His friend blinked, surprise written over his features, but it quickly faded under the onslaught of another smile. And he grabbed his own pipe, filling it up with the wonderful tobacco. Lighting their pipes the two sat back and started a conversation which took up most of the evening and part of the early morning hours. Passing tobacco two and fro.
Holmes might not have been the one to fix it, but he had learned something incredible, the value of a gesture without words. And despite the rocky start of the morning, he was certain they had made great strides by that evening.
But only six months later Holmes found that these episodes would test the friendship he was fighting so hard to keep.