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You’ve always been painfully aware of it all. The entire world is a treasure trove of sensory input waiting to be disseminated into facts. You see it all, every minuscule detail from a missed stitch in a handkerchief (indicative of a philandering husband) to the conspiring gaze exchanged by two men in a darkened street (small-time con men; a father and son team).
It’s rather an asset in your line of work, of course. No one would hire a detective who was unable to deduce, and you are the finest of your kind. Consulting keeps your mind busy, and there is the added bonus of compensation.
And yet, despite their favorable aspects, your abilities can be detrimental in other settings. Most particularly, social settings.
*
“Watson, where are you going?” you demand, before he’s even risen from his seat.
The good doctor’s eyebrows pull together in consternation. “How did you even--”
“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” you interrupt and he huffs. You imagine his lips are pursed in annoyance, but are thwarted in confirming your assumption by the moustache which obscures that particular feature. Sometimes you suspect he wears his facial hair this way to deny you the additional clues the exact twist of his mouth might provide.
Your musings about Watson’s mouth are cut short by the doctor himself as he stands and picks up his cane. “My business is my own, Holmes.”
“Even when you conduct business that is damaging to the financial security of the household that we share?” The words are out of your mouth before you bother to think about them and Watson flinches. You feel an instantaneous pang of regret, but allow nothing to show on your face.
“I am not going to the tables,” he says in an even tone, “And I can assure you that what am I doing with my evening requires neither your company, nor your knowledge.”
He sweeps out the door before you can protest. You already know where he is going. Shined shoes, his least threadbare hat, a touch of cologne--the doctor is going to call on a woman.
Your only uncertainty is why you still so vehemently feel that this information is your business.
~*~
You never bother to correct the misconceptions people have about you. It’s often advantageous to be underestimated, especially if the one doing the underestimating is a criminal who means you harm.
True, some of the misunderstandings come from less...villainous quarters, but you try not to let it affect you. If Mrs. Hudson chooses to see you as unfeeling stone, or Lestrade mistakes your confidence for egomania, these are their shortcomings, and you have no responsibility to enlighten them. You constantly preach the importance of looking deeper than the surface; it’s hardly your fault that others cannot follow instructions.
There is only one person in all of London who seems to understand you in any capacity.
*
“Holmes, when was the last time you ate?” If you had a shilling for each time Watson had asked this very question, you would be a wealthy man indeed.
“No time, Watson. The killer must be apprehended before he strikes again!” Four tiny bodies have been found in the sewers in the last fortnight, all of them under the age of five. You clutch a book tight in your hands and endeavor to focus. If you allow this to register emotionally, you will be too overtaken by rage to function and their murderer will escape justice.
Watson is watching you, you realize, and there’s a softness in his blue eyes. “Very well, old boy. What can I do to help?”
Something hard and grateful catches in your throat, but you swallow it down and strive for indifference. “Hand me that microscope, would you?”
~*~
You believe that it is important to be aware of one’s strengths and weaknesses. In your line of work, refusal to acknowledge your shortcomings could have disastrous effects. Humility is not something you enjoy, but it does occasionally serve a purpose.
Developing friendships has never been one of your strong suits. Even as a child, you were often left to your own devices by your brother, as well as other children who deemed you too unusual to associate with. This makes the particulars of your relationship with Watson all the more curious. Generally speaking, you would rather be left alone than have to stoop to the intellectual level of those around you. But from the first moment John Watson came into your life, you have never wanted him to leave.
*
“You are my friend, Holmes,” the doctor says, exasperation creeping into his tone. “You simply must meet her.”
“I cannot, dear man, I am far too busy,” you protest without looking up. Spread before you on the table are several bunsen burners, each with a smoking beaker atop. “I am working to create a gas that can render pursuers unconscious when I am in need of a distraction.”
From the corner of your eye, you see Watson pass a hand over his face and allow yourself a tiny smirk at his clear frustration. “At any rate, I see no reason to waste my evening listening to the mindless palaver of the fairer sex.”
“Mary is very important to me, Holmes.” Watson says, and his tone is serious enough that you look up from your notes.
“How important?” You ask, and watch with interest as a red stain spreads across the doctor’s visage.
“Holmes…” he starts, using the same placating tone as when he is trying to convince you to eat or sleep or something equally useless.
“Quite meaningful, then?” You press, an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of your stomach. It feels curiously like someone has removed your innards and there is nothing but a hollow emptiness remaining. “Good god, man, have you proposed to this girl?”
“No!” Watson’s moustache bristles in his agitation. “No, I have not, but.” He pauses, and looks directly into your eyes. “Holmes, I mean to.”
There is resolve in his blue eyes, more steel than cornflower, and you drop his gaze and return to your notebooks. Your voice, when you find it, is nonchalant.
“Marriage is the refuge of the uninspired,” you announce. “I simply cannot come into proximity of this lady for fear of damage to my creativity.”
Watson makes an undignified sputtering sound, “Holmes, you’re being ridiculous!”
“And you’re going to be tardy if you don’t get a move on. Isn’t Miss Morstan expecting you at six?” You can feel his glare, but you don’t dare look up. Finally, he heaves a sigh and moves to the door.
“You will have to meet her eventually,” he warns, and then he is gone. You count out the twenty-nine seconds it always takes him to get down the seventeen steps to the door before you release your grip on the edge of the table. Your hands are shaking, and you know if the good doctor had seen, he would worry that you’d fallen ill.
But it’s probably just due to exhaustion.
~*~
You’ve never seen the value in readily expressing your emotions. If one responds too emotionally to something (or someone), they are less able to apply the laws of logic to that particular aspect of life. There is nothing worse than illogical behavior in the face of emotion. True, to have no emotion at all is unreasonable and would most likely cause you to be labeled unstable by those around you, but there is no cause for allowing it to overrule your higher thought processes.
Though typically a level-headed man, Watson wears his heart on his sleeve. His emotions are written across his face for anyone to read, but it isn’t often that he loses control of his temper. Usually, it is you who are the cause (whether by accident or intention) of any emotional outburst the doctor might have. Oftentimes it is anger, but concern and worry are fairly regular occurrences as well.
You do not fault the doctor. After all, he seems to be the only person capable of causing you to lapse from your hard-won stoicism. You are working on a hypothesis as to why this might be. Again, it is best to be well aware of your shortcomings in the case that they are used against you.
*
After your inauspicious introduction to Mary Morstan, you finish your solitary dinner at the Royale and you take a hansom cab back to Baker Street. Your peel off your wine soaked cravat and go to wash your face. This done, you throw your jacket in the general direction of your room and take a seat in the study, fingers steepled, staring contemplatively into the middle distance.
Take Watson, you had said.
I intend to, she’d replied.
You know that the decision you made in that moment had not been made in a logical manner. The confident entitlement in her voice had grated on you and the next thing you knew, you were determined to find something about her that would remove Watson from her side, even if it meant twisting the facts to fit your theories instead of vice versa.
It had ended as well as one might’ve expected, with a wasted glass of Bordeaux and a lonely meal. You doubt the doctor will come home tonight.
You don’t like feeling this way and worse yet, you still aren’t entirely certain why John Watson is able to engender these emotional responses in you.
Obviously the best course of action is to ignore the issue. You are a consulting detective after all, which means you get to decide which cases to take. The curious case of your fixation with your flatmate is one best left alone.
You lever up out of your chair and head to the boxing ring instead.
~*~
You don’t have a strong understanding of women, as there haven’t been many in your life. You mother’s most defining character trait was being absent, in mind if not always in body. There is Mrs. Hudson, of course, who seems mostly to panic and make tea and flutter about. The only other woman you have had significant interaction with is Irene Adler, and she is more noteworthy for her ability to keep up with you than because of her gender.
Either way, you’ve never been particularly interested in women, either in a general way, or in a baser, physical way. It is just one less thing to distract your focus from your work. You choose to believe that the majority of females are like their male counterparts: vapid and blind, unworthy of your attention.
There are, of course, exceptions.
*
“Is that the best you can do?” She recognizes you and the realization propels you out of the room. She follows, apparently an equal in tenacity to her affianced. The man whose death you were very nearly responsible for today.
“Please!” she cries and you stop, more out of defeat than any desire to respond to her. Your perfect memory keeps showing you the explosion on repeat, all shrapnel and ringing ears, and you feel adrift, insensible with worry. It takes you a moment to realize Mary is still speaking.
“I know you care for him as much as I do,” she says and you nearly turn. This woman, who you’ve only met once, is not only clever enough to see through your disguise, she’s bold enough to cut to the heart of an issue you’ve been staunchly refusing to address for more years than you’d like to consider. For a moment you almost realize what Watson sees in her.
“He’d say it was worth the wounds,” Mary says when it’s clear that you aren’t going to respond.
All you can manage is a choked sound before you dart off down the hallway.
“Solve this,” she calls after you, “Whatever it takes.”
She doesn’t have to say it for you to hear the unspoken: do it for John.
~*~
Your moral code is decidedly more...flexible than average, but then, average has never been an adjective with which your name has been associated. Despite the taboos, you are aware of men who prefer the company of other men, women whose preferences lean towards the more feminine. None of this is of any consequence to you. You are not beholden to any God or church, and it does not interest you to waste time judging people’s private lives. If someone is murdered, or prized jewels go missing, then, perhaps, you will delve into their clandestine affairs, but without cause there is no reason.
Nonetheless, you find you are no more impressed by the thought of carnal knowledge of the same sex than you are with the opposite. This unfortunate attachment to the doctor remains exclusively in the realm of the mind. Even there, you do not know how to categorize it. You shudder to even think of using the word “romantic” to describe your inclinations. “Irrelevant” is the more apt term, considering Watson’s determination to marry the indomitable Miss Morstan.
*
“What if I don’t go through with it?” Watson says abruptly.
You start, taken by surprise. Moments ago, you are certain, the good doctor was fast asleep, lulled by a long evening of dipsomania. Apparently you were mistaken.
"Don't go through with what?" You ask, stealing a glance at him from the corner of your eye. The first light of dawn has not yet crept over the horizon and his face his shrouded in shadow.
For the longest moment, Watson doesn't answer and the only sound is the puttering of the motorcar as you rattle across the cobblestones.
"The marriage," he says finally and you experience the unprecedented sensation of your heart flying into your throat.
"Ah...um." You manage, at a loss for words for possibly the first time in your entire life.
There is a shuffling sound and Watson manages to sit upright, leaning disconcertingly close. You catalogue the redness of his nose and the complete lack of guile in his expression before you remember that you ought to be watching the road and wrench your gaze forward once more.
"I know you think it's a terrible idea," he continues, unaware of your atypical display of emotion, clueless of his culpability.
A laugh tears from your throat. "And precisely how often do you follow my advice?" Before he can answer, you continue, wrestling back control of your expression. "Old boy, you are inebriated; you are just getting cold feet. I'm told it's very common for grooms. Presumably it is one of the duties of the best man to ensure you don't abandon your bride-to-be."
"You've never followed through on a responsibility in your life," he retorts.
"I suppose now is as good a time as any," you respond with false cheer. "Over the last few months, you have led me to believe that you care deeply for this girl. Was I incorrect in this understanding?"
Watson grumbles, his moustache twitching, but eventually he answers, albeit with some petulance. "No."
"Then I cannot imagine why on earth you would want to leave her waiting at the alter. Very ungentlemanly, that." You marvel at your sudden championing for Miss Morstan, but the doctor had always had the unfortunate ability to make you want to be a better man.
"Can't you?" Watson says, slanting a glance at you from under his eyelashes. His gaze is fixed on yours, but you look away first, focusing on the road. Your pulse spikes and you realize with some alarm that you are afraid.
"No," you say firmly, without looking at him, "I simply cannot. Now I suggest you get some sleep before we arrive or I predict you will feel quite miserable."
The doctor sinks back in his seat without another word, but you can feel his heavy-lidded eyes on you for a long while before he finally drifts back off.
~*~
You have a firm grasp of mathematics--cause and effect, statistics; they have served you well in the boxing ring, and on cases. Despite your weaker understanding of social morays, you know the outcome of this particular equation will not be favorable for you. From the admittedly few secondhand observations you have made, you understand that favorability is not often to be found alongside unrequited love. You don't particularly like applying the term to yourself, but the facts line up, and without a definition of what is plaguing you, there can be no solving it. To deny it would be disingenuous.
Unfortunately, there appears to be no solution that would be satisfactory to all parties involved. You've weighed the advantages and disadvantages of revealing the truth, but it would, in all reality, make Watson most unhappy; he would never see you again.
The notion is intolerable.
Even more unbearable is the idea that someday you could be responsible for the doctor’s death. It very nearly happened before, during the Blackwood case. Now, with Professor Moriarty’s fixed awareness, things have gotten that much more dangerous. Watson will be much safer if he ends his association with you. This marriage will provide a noble excuse for his leaving, and he will be much happier in the company of Mary who, you must begrudgingly admit, is of the highest quality and caliber. It is the best you can hope for.
*
Watson is spectacularly hungover when you finally arrive at the wedding, and you resort to having the bagpipists play to wake him. The look he gives you is one of pure resentment, then, as he takes in his surroundings, it morphs into self-recrimination.
Doing your best to maintain a cavalier attitude, you help him from the carriage and attempt to straighten his jacket. Watson looks so lost and exhausted that you offer him your hand, without even thinking about the consequences. Much to your surprise, he takes your hand in his own. You can feel the heat from his palm and his fingers smoothing over the calluses on your knuckles. You look away quickly so he cannot see your face and lead him into the church.
It is a beautiful wedding. You give Watson a reassuring nod and straighten his cravat once more for good measure before he turns to his bride. He holds your gaze for a beat too long before he faces Mary and she peers curiously over at you. You can’t quite bring yourself to smile, but you wink at her, and the soft, sad smile she offers you in return feels far too understanding.
Thankfully, the service isn’t long. Your nerves are frayed by the end, and you don’t stick around to see the happy couple to their carriage. As you slip out the back gate, you think you feel Watson’s eyes on you, but you don’t look back. This is the right thing to do.
It has to be.