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Watson was soaked. As a Londoner, he was very well used to rainy days and never forgot to carry his umbrella away. Well, almost never, he had forgotten it this morning; maybe because he was dead on his feet. Every fall, it was always the same, people didn’t cover themselves enough, they caught a cold, didn’t heal this cold and then came to the good Doctor Watson in various states of pneumonia, fly and other sympathetic things like these. Watson was born to be a doctor, a healer, he had been made to take care of the others, he loved to take care of the others, really. But, sometimes, just sometimes, he would wish his patients would listen to his advises and don’t become stupidly ill. After having looked at running noses and inflamed throats all day, after having prescribed a lot of rest, some tea with honey and warm clothes all the bloody week, the good Doctor Watson had just enough. All he wanted now was a good brandy in front of the fireplace and some quiet. All he wanted, for once, was to be taken care of.
If only it was this simple… With a lot of patients came a lot of paperwork, there were files to be completed, notes to be written to the apothecary, not to mention the preparation of his tomorrow morning round and the notes of the two last cases with Holmes which were waiting to be properly narrated on his desk… No, no rest was planned for Doctor Watson, not until the early hours of the morning. And he was soaked, which didn’t lift his mood.
If he had been in a better mood, Watson would have been very pleased to find Holmes quietly reading in his armchair when he entered their common room this evening. No experiment, no drug, no explosion, God! Gladstone wasn’t even in danger of death! But the only thing he was able to see was the enormous amount of work which he still needed to take care of. Watson was definitely in a fool mood, no need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce it, especially when the Doctor only answer a vague “Urmf” to the Detective’s greetings before heading gloomily to his room.
At first, he hadn’t felt the change in the atmosphere, it had only been when he had felt too warm to still wear his waistcoat that he noticed the door of his bedroom was open, probably to allow the warmth of the purring fire which had been lighted in the common room to reach and chase the chilly air of his room. Feeling a little comfier, Watson returned to his work with a sight… How much would he prefer to spend the night wallowed in his armchair, all warm and fuzzy in front of the fireplace…
Not fifteen minutes later, he almost jumped out of his chair when he felt someone suddenly leaning on him.
“Holmes!”
“Shush old chap! Just bringing you a cup of tea.”
Watson gave a puzzled look to his best friend. He had known Holmes for some years now, and while he had grown accustomed to the shoots in the wall, to the explosions at random hours of day and night, to the violin at equally unrespectable hours, to the frantic chases in London and to the crazy shenanigans of his partner, he was still startled by his gentleness in moments like this. Don’t hear him wrong, he had always known that Sherlock Holmes was a good man, probably the best of all (even if he wouldn’t be caught dead saying that all loud), but… “Caring” wouldn’t be an adjective he would use to describe the Detective in his writings. It seemed he still had to learn a few things about this mystery of a man, after all. Relaxing, Watson breathed his surprised thanks and felt a little warmth springing in his chest when the Detective gave him a small smile in return before quietly leaving the room. This time, he returned to his task with a little smile of his own.
A few minutes later, he heard splashing noises coming from the bathroom. Not paying attention to them, thinking Holmes had (finally) decide to take a bath, Watson didn’t lift his head from his papers. It wasn’t that the fact of the Detective deciding to take a bath without a whole session of arguing and bargaining wasn’t surprising, quite the opposite, the Doctor was simply beginning to feel too comfortable to have the strength to leave his chair. He knew that, if he left his work now, he wouldn’t be able to go back to it. He was too tired and too snug at the same time. He was still absentmindedly writing down his prescriptions to the apothecary while trying to decide if he should head to the bathroom and ask to Holmes what had gotten into him or not – and drinking his tea – when he heard him calling from him from the doorframe of his room.
“Watson.”
“Mmmh?”
“I ran you a bath, if you would be so kind to follow me.”
Watson was agape. Sherlock Holmes had run him a bath. After having make him a cup of tea. That was even more incredible than Sherlock Holmes willingly washing up! There must be a problem somewhere…
“Did you put something in my tea?”
The Detective answered with a roll of eyes.
“Yes, tea leaves and boiling water. However, it would have been an empty cup. And some honey. I know you like honey.”
“Did you break something? Lost our rent?”
This time, Holmes looked a little upset.
“I beg your pardon, but I’m not usually the one who loses the rent but the one who pays it with his earnings. And I didn’t break anything; maybe my back while searching for this damned soap which had slipped under the bathtub.”
Watson wasn’t offended by Holmes’ words, he was right. The Detective might be a lunatic, Watson wasn’t a saint either. But, still, this display of kindness was doubtful.
“And would you, please, close your mouth? You look like a fish out of the water.”
Ah. That was already more like the Holmes Watson knew. The idea of a hot bath was very tempting, really, as much as the idea of coming back to his work after was insufferable.
“Thank you very much, that was very kind of you, but I have to finish my work, and…”
“Shush! I saw your prescriptions earlier, nobody will die from a cold and you already reviewed the poor ones who have the flu. You will plan your round tomorrow morning in front of a pile of toast, some jam and a steaming cup of tea. Come on, now.”
“But…”
“Watson, don’t make me come and get you. You’re reversing the roles, dear, I’m the one who must be compelled into the bathtub! Stop acting out of character, the water is cooling down.”
Watson was soaked, but not because the icy rain of November was rolling down his neck. The Doctor was so astounded, he wouldn’t be able to explain how he ended in the tub for dear life, but here he was, almost asleep in a tub full of warm water and lavender bath salts; the one he used when his leg were threatening to cramp. Holmes had even thought about it… His eyes closed, Watson let out a sight of contentment, delighting in how dizzy he felt. He would have really fall asleep in the water if Holmes hadn’t put the role of Mother Hen on tonight.
“Hey! No, no, no, no, not drowning in the bath! Out of there, now.”
His voice was gentle and, when Watson managed the strength to open an eye, he saw Holmes was holding a fluffy towel and that he didn’t seem to want to leave. Watson knew he should ask the Detective to leave the room while he exited the tub, or at least feel a little uneasy to be this exposed before his friend, but he wasn’t. He was far too used to live in close proximity with the other man, to the little touches on the knee or the shoulder, to be groped to be put out of danger and to grape the Detective in return for the same purpose, to the little whispers, to the knowing smiles, to the… Stop. Not the right place nor the right moment.
Lightly flushed from these thoughts and the heat of the water, Watson let himself be wrapped in the towel before putting his dressing gown on and being led to the common room. There, he found a chair, back to the fireplace, on which a blanket was keeping warm for him and a glass of brandy waiting on the table next to his armchair. In a matter of seconds, he was luxuriating in warmth, cosiness and happiness. Holmes was lightly babbling about an article he had read earlier that day and Watson though he was the nearest he could from Heaven. When the Detective took a pause in his rambling to serve a second drink to his friend, Watson finally said:
“You’re spoiling me.”
The other man turned slowly around before kneeling an instant to put the glass on the table between their seats.
“I am.”
The Doctor blushed slightly, shifting a little on his chair.
“Why?”
And the Detective to answer quietly, smiling, before getting up to return to his seat:
“Because you deserved to be spoiled, from time to time. And especially today, my dear Watson.”
Maybe it was the heat from the fire, the brandy, the exhaustion, all of the above that made Watson’s inside melt. Or maybe it was the sweet, loving gaze Holmes was giving him. He was too tired and far, far too comfy to think about an answer right now.
A couple of hours after that, Watson probably fell asleep on his armchair. Almost unconscious, he let Holmes leading him to his room and felt a little, light kiss being pressed on his forehead. All these little gestures made him felt… Love.