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It started with a simple but persistent cough, mere weeks after Holmes’ seemingly miraculous return from the watery grave of the Reichenbach Falls. At first, Watson wasn’t so concerned. His dear friend had been on the run for so long, tracking Moriarty’s criminal network in all kinds of places and circumstances. And he’d hardly cared for his health properly when he’d been living with Watson previously; he couldn’t imagine Holmes looking after himself any more efficiently in such stressful situations. It was only natural for his body to finally allow itself to process whatever maladies it had been accumulating, now back in the relative safety of Baker Street. When the invitation from Reginald Musgrave came, Watson was relieved that Holmes accepted, though the man hardly got enough rest on that adventure. The cough only barely retreated, and then returned.
Then, the great detective started sometimes rubbing at his right ear, as if it ached. And though Watson questioned him on it, Holmes insisted he was well enough, and Watson reluctantly accepted it. (How he wished he’d stood firm.)
Then came the faint hoarseness in his voice, shortly after the dreadful business at the Priory School, and the intermittent difficulty swallowing what little food he could be persuaded to consume. At that, Watson insisted on examining him, over protests. He found dissimilarly-sized tonsils, and upon a probing medical touch, a small subcutaneous lump below the right side of Holmes’ lower jaw. He immediately began sending inquiries to his colleagues.
Dr. Agar agreed with Watson on Holmes’ need for another holiday, and off they went to Cornwall, only for Holmes’ attempted recovery to be halted by the matter of the Traegennis family. Though solving the murders had bolstered his friend’s mood, it did not improve his physical health. (At least he thought not at the time. After their return, and Watson had risked to remark his gladness at not having seen Holmes inject himself with cocaine since their holiday, Holmes casually revealed that he had abandoned his vice before their departure, burying both chemical and instrument on that rocky beach. Watson found he could have kissed him in that moment. He’d had to consciously withhold himself from doing so.)
Shortly after, Holmes coughed up blood one morning, and Watson immediately bodily dragged him to the Royal National Throat, Nose, and Ear Hospital on Gray’s Inn Road. A tense silence reigned over the hansom ride, his pulse drumming with anxiety beneath his skin. He tried desperately not to catastrophize; it was useless to a doctor.
But he did not now possess the professional distance a doctor required.
They were admitted to the clinic with courtesy and compassion, and the physician’s assistant took down notes of the symptoms Holmes listed (with Watson making additions when he felt Holmes was understating the matter). Watson told himself it was most likely a simple malady with a standard treatment. Even if, heaven forbid, it was the dreaded tuberculosis, there was still hope. Notable strides had been made in recent years.
Then the attending physician, through manual examination and then the still-novel endoscopy, which Holmes showed great trepidation for but cautiously accepted, presented one of the worst pathological threats of the modern age to take its aim at Watson’s heart. THe words sent a clammy chill of dread upon him. That dark, mysterious ailment that humble general practitioners as himself perceived as an unspeakable monster.
Cancer. Esophageal.
The doctor gave Holmes a medicated honey to add to his daily tea to ease to his throat pain, along with the prognosis. He offered sympathy to go with the expected time remaining (six months, if that, dear God), but horribly little in the way of hope.
“The study of this class of malady is still so recent and limited - there’s simply too much about its cause and its propagation that we don’t understand,” the slim, bespectacled man explained apologetically. “You’d be lucky to find a surgeon within Britain willing to risk it, and luckier still to survive the attempt.”
Holmes, after taking in this terrible news, thanked the doctor far more graciously than Watson felt capable of. He put himself back to his usual impeccable presentation, accepted the prescribed pain-relief and cough-suppressant tinctures, shook the man’s hand cordially, and took his leave. Watson could barely look his fellow professional in the face, only grasping his hand lightly for a half-second before all but fleeing to catch up to the most important man in his life.
************
The return journey was as silent as the first had been, and Watson had not idea how to break the hold. His mind seemed to be imploding upon itself.
He had no idea how his dear friend was appearing so calm, when he himself wanted to rage.
To weep.
When they finally made it back to 221B, and removed their coats and hats, and Holmes’s fingers hesitated to take up his violin, twitching as if in yearning for his syringe, Watson finally made himself speak.
“We must not despair yet,” he ordered of himself as much of Holmes. “This is merely the outlook of one physician. I’ll make new inquiries at once.”
Holmes looked to him. “My dear Watson, let us not indulge in futility. Surely your efforts would be better spent on your own patients.”
The doctor went still. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard the man,” Holmes replied quietly, staring into the fire warming their sitting room. He coughed into his handkerchief briefly, before taking a breath. “It is still largely a mystery. And one that I, for all my skills and knowledge, am not equipped to unravel.”
Watson stared, his face reddening. “He said the odds were slim, not impossible. Advancements are always being made, either here or on the continent. Do not give up hope, old fellow.”
Holmes gave a small, solemn half-smile. “He said, if you recall, that it would require my being quite lucky. And you know how I feel about relying upon luck.”
Finally, Watson could contain himself no longer. “Damn it all, Holmes! Why are you so calm about this?”
His friend finally looked up, startled at his outburst, before he settled, his expression bizarrely sympathetic.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” he began, his strained voice full of gentle resignation, “do you not reason that something of this nature was surely to be in my cards at some point? You know my habits and vices, the environments I have put myself into. You always warned me against the risks I took, and now they have come to inevitable fruition. In fact…” He put an ernest hand upon Watson’s good shoulder, giving gentle comforting pressure when he should have been receiving it. “...My dear Watson, it seems a foregone conclusion that your good influence has indeed prolonged my life, beyond what it likely would have ever reached without your care and expertise. And your companionship has certainly vastly improved the quality of the time I’ve had.” He gave a wistful sort of smile. “To pass at even this age, as content as I am, with the reassurance of your presence, is more by leagues than I could have hoped for, if the man I’d been twenty years ago had thought to ponder ahead. Oh, Watson! I beg of you, do not distress yourself so,” he implored, observing his now rapid, heavy breaths and repetitive blinking to clear his eyes.
He guided the doctor to sit upon the settee, and Watson wanted to laugh like a madman at the situation he found himself in, if only to beat back the crushing wave of despair.
“I cannot accept it, Holmes,” he ground out, after wrestling back control of himself. “It goes against all that I am.”
Holmes tilted his head in questioning. Watson swallowed, before continuing.
“You’ve only just returned, after being dead to the world for years. I can’t–” he hastily cut himself off, clearing his throat. “It wouldn’t do for treason of the body to claim you now. You certainly have many more mysteries to lay to rest,” he finished staunchly, ignoring the way his eyes burned from withheld moisture, ignoring the knot in his stomach.
Holmes, it seemed, did not know what to do with this outpouring of sentiment aimed at and devoted entirely to him, and he sat quietly, his hand still on Watson’s shoulder, as the doctor slowly calmed himself in the minutes that passed.
“I am not accepting defeat yet, Holmes,” Watson declared with renewed vigor, looking up into that thin, pale (beloved) face. “I will find someone with the knowledge and skill to treat you, either through surgery or other methods. I shall not surrender hope, and I beg you to not surrender either. If not for yourself, then for me.”
Holmes stared at him, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Finally, he silently nodded. Watson gave one in return, relieved beyond measure. After processing this shift for a moment, he gathered himself, and rose to fetch his folio of names and addresses of his medical contacts.
***********
With such a hellishly short approximate deadline facing them, Watson wasted no time in casting his net of inquiries to fellow doctors and surgeons both domestic and abroad. He sent telegrams and letters, and sent telegrams to long-distance couriers asking them to be ready to receive and carry his letters as quickly as they could. He employed interpreters in town to translate the messages he sent to the continent, so that his requests could be understood as clearly as possible; this he started with reaching out to their old acquaintance Mr. Melas. The recent reward Holmes received from the Duke of Holderness for the recovery of his son meant they were able to live quite securely enough for Watson to take a formal sabbatical from the surgery, referring his patients to trusted contemporaries so he could devote as much time and focus as possible to his mission.
So as not to drive himself totally mad, he aimed to sort through the medical community as efficiently and carefully as possible, telling himself to apply a version of Holmes’ methodology of elimination, despite his own intense anxiety clouding the matter. He started with his own colleagues and former classmates in good practice, but none of them claimed enough surgical skills to be confident touching a blade to such a delicate region. From them, he expanded and gained further contacts.
It was a more exhaustive process than he would have thought, prior to this distressing discovery. Normally, Watson kept himself abreast of published developments in medical research, even if he did not have the time or resources to conduct his own. However, in the excitement of Holmes’ return and the chaos that came with Watson’s return to his side in the pursuit of crime-solving, that awareness had fallen by the wayside, and now he was racing to catch up in the specialties that gripped his mind now.
With each apologetic refusal Watson received citing the risk of such surgery, his frustration mounted. His closest friend and companion (and the greatest criminal detective of their age) would likely be dead in less than six months regardless if they did nothing, could they not see how little there was to risk? But of course he could not make such impassioned appeals to fellow medical men.
Finally, their prospects improved, when Felix Semon of the Throat Hospital in Westminster received them. After examining Holmes himself, he expressed optimism that a surgery could be successful, but not by his hand. He offered to reach out to the Vienna medical community himself, knowing of numerous promising surgeons there.
Almost immediately after, Watson finally received word back from a man he’d roomed with at Glasgow during his Bachealorate studies, who’d been a few years ahead of him in his schooling and actually studied with one of the other Listerians.
Sir William MacEwan. They met him together, having taken an overnight train to Glasgow to the Western Infirmary. He was of somber and professional dress and bearing, his hair graying and close-cropped, sporting a robust mustache that humbled Watson’s own. Watson’s investigation had revealed that he’d pioneered endoscopic anesthesia, which Dr. Semon was adamant would be necessary for such a procedure, though its novelty gave Watson pause.
What alarmed Holmes, however, was a different warning Sir William gave during their initial prognostic interview.
“Due to the very close quarters of tissues within the neck, your vocal cords may be at risk. If there’s any indication the tumor has spread, they may need to be sacrificed.”
That made Holmes look directly at the unfamiliar doctor, his brows furrowed.
“Removed?” he clarified.
“I’m afraid so,” Sir William replied somberly.
“I shall never be able to speak again?” Holmes asked, his hoarse voice pinched further.
“In those circumstances,” MacEwan stressed, “yes. However, if they show no signs of invasion, we would of course make every effort to spare them.”
Sir William, of course, recommended the procedure he’d been discussing with Semon, and Dr. Vincent Czerny of Vienna (formerly assistant to Theodor Billroth and now Professor of surgery at Heidelberg), since he’d been contacted. Holmes thanked him politely but cooly for his time and advice, and said he would take it under consideration.
Watson knew what that meant, and realized he would now have to fight to save his friend from his own fears.
He immediately addressed the elephant in the room when they were alone in their rented room in Glasgow. “Holmes, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but there’s hardly a viable alternative.”
“Never being able to speak again, Watson. I would no longer be able to work, or even communicate casually with any ease. I cannot fathom it.”
“You’ll also not be able to work if you are dead!” Watson replied hotly – more harshly than he’d intended. Holmes pinned him with a look mixing mild impatience and fondness.
“I am aware, thank you, old boy.”
Watson sighed, gripping the back of a chair at their small table. “You’re running out of time, Holmes. You of all people can find or devise other ways to communicate. Do you really value your voice over your life?”
The ‘ over the time we could still have together?’ went unspoken, but was still perceived clearly.
Holmes sighed in return after a moment, uncharacteristically running a hand through his hair, disturbing it from its stern pomaded shape. “You truly ask the most potent questions, dear Watson,” he said quietly. He steadied himself a moment, before nodding. “Very well. Medically and logically, your words ring true. I shall accept Sir William’s recommendation.”
Watson went to bed that night, after telegraming MacEwan of Holmes’ decision, caught between warring emotions: extreme relief, and guilt for having pushed his friend into a life-altering medical decision, for not entirely selfless reasons.
**************
Another meeting with MacEwan two days later, incorporating new correspondence from Czerny, yielded details of what the operation would entail. The process, they said, would require two major incisions: one to reach and remove the cancerous tissue, and one to insert the tracheal tube to administer the endoscopic anesthesia and respiration from the Fell Motor. Watson, knowing the method had only in recent years been accepted in the community, was apprehensive, but acknowledged that it was absolutely necessary given the disruption of the upper airway. The internal sutures would, of course, be sterile catgut that would gradually dissolve as the esophagus healed.
“I cannot in good conscience claim that a procedure this invasive is not without substantial risk, Mr. Holmes,” MacEwan admitted at the end of the briefing. “No doctor worth your time could make such a claim. But it has already been successfully done. With this, you could very well live years more.”
He pointedly did not say how many years, but Watson knew no such estimate could be made.
“I understand,” Holmes replied quietly. It didn’t take a doctor to know that he was speaking more gently these days, from the pain that was now defying all soothing measures.
Czerny would be arriving by the end of the week from Vienna, along with an interpreter, which added to Watson’s anxiety, but he knew it would be better than risking language barriers. He requested permission to be present to observe the procedure (as the doctor who knew Holmes best, and could most effectively provide assurance, of course), and was granted it. Thursday afternoon, they received word from MacEwan that the Bohemian doctor had arrived, and the surgery could take place the next afternoon. Holmes was ordered to fast other than fluid for twelve hours prior to the procedure (which they both knew would be easy for the detective, whose appetite was unreliable on the best of days and had only gotten worse with his painful, difficult swallowing), and that was that.
The final night before the day of judgment was quiet and tense, but Watson sought to give whatever comfort he could.
“I genuinely believe we can trust their skills, Holmes. Czerny has already had success in resection of esophageal cancer, back in seventy-seven. He’s a pioneer of cancer treatment, and by all accounts a master of his craft. MacEwan trained under Joseph Lister himself, and has expressed staunch adherence to the antiseptic principles. For a surgery of this risk, you cannot be in safer hands.”
He dragged in a deep breath as if pulling it painstakingly up from the earth, ignoring how the sound wavered on the air between them.
“That said… it is still your life in their hands. I have been trying to make medical choices for you that are not mine to make. If you find you must change your mind, I can get the surgery canceled. Czerny has been exploring non-surgical treatments as well. Whatever you decide, I’ll be with you.”
Holmes was quiet for a moment, before drawing in a slightly tremulous breath with a small smile. “No, Watson. We have come this far. You have shown me great courage. It is time I trust my doctor with my health fully, not merely my stories and my life on the trail of mystery, as I have for years.” He placed a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “We move forward.”
***********
True to MacEwan’s word, Watson was able to accompany Holmes the next morning in his meeting with Sir William himself, Czerny, and Czerny’s interpreter, to go over the steps of the procedure one more time, and instructions for recovery. ( Assuming he makes it to recovery, Watson’s traitorous mind noted. He did not give voice to the fear.) Czerny gave the impression of being friendly, but intensely focused, eyes darting over Holmes’ neck and keenly observing his symptoms, his German crisp but his voice soothing. The interpreter, Willhelm, clearly translated the medical terminology with practiced ease, which eased Watson’s apprehension somewhat.
Before either were completely ready, it was time for Holmes to change into the plain, loose garments for his procedure, the neck of his white shirt wide open to allow access, over which he was giving a large plain dressing gown, to not be chilled on the brief walk to where his fate would be decided. After obtaining his consent one last time, Sir William and Czerny guided Holmes into the theatre, Watson trailing shortly behind.
Entering the vast, open room, Watson’s eyes darted around, taking it all in as quickly as he could, finding nothing suspect in the atmosphere, the appearance of the surgeons’ assistants, or the instruments (he briefly lifted the cloth laid over them to see them himself). And there was the tripod bearing the carbolic spray pump, there was the anesthetic, and the Fell Motor that would provide Holmes with air until he could breathe it himself again. When he turned around, Holmes was being assisted onto the surgical table, scooting back and lowering himself into supine position, a minute trembling visible in his frame. As MacEwan and Czerny briefly retreated to wash their hands and don their gowns and sterilized gloves, Watson approached the table.
“Everything is as it should be,” he murmured down to his dearest friend, laying a comforting hand on his upper arm. “I’ll be just in the front row, there, observing. Your doctor will never be far. You’re in good hands.”
He privately commanded himself to believe that it automatically meant a guarantee of success.
He must not have done well enough at projecting confidence; the detective was now looking up at him with uncommon emotion.
“Jo–” Holmes cut himself off with a choked, flustered sound. “Watson,” he amended, face even paler than normal, expression pinched in a painfully rare show of anxiety. Watson felt those thin, scarred fingers wrap around his own, clinging desperately. “I–” The gray eyes found his, seeking his gaze as a fragile bird caught in a merciless ocean gale seeks a spit of land to shelter on. “I…” Either he couldn’t identify the words he wanted (unlikely), or he couldn’t let himself utter them – not in front of strangers, at least.
“I know,” Watson whispered, gripping Holmes’ hand and covering it warmly with his free hand, daring to give it a small pat of comfort. “I know, old boy.” And in that moment, no matter what Holmes meant to convey, he believed he truly did understand.
He looked up at movement in his peripheral vision, noting the surgeon’s assistant approaching with the chloroform. He looked back down at his greatest friend (his partner) and gave a thin-lipped smile. “Time to sleep. Let them see to you, there’s a good man. I’ll be here when you wake.”
Holmes nodded, the trembling fingers slowly releasing his, and Watson reluctantly stepped back away from the operating table. Czerny, as he approached, looked briefly between Watson and the man whose life he held in his hands, an observing sort of gaze, and Watson felt himself tense in new apprehension. But the other man’s face smoothed, and merely nodded to Watson in reassurance, and he returned it with relief, before finally taking his seat in the first row.
Those pale eyes, bright with a sheen of moisture, stayed fixed on Watson’s face until they had no choice but to slip closed.
Watson leaned his arms on the wooden rail in front of him, lacing his fingers tightly together. If anyone asked, he wouldn’t be able to say for certain whether he was merely watching in tense observation, or praying.
At the first touch of the scalpel to Holmes’ skin, so near to so many vital vessels, Watson’s heart leapt, and his breath trembled as it had not done since his very first operations. As the first drops of blood welled up from the minute superficial veinules, he had to avert his gaze a moment, so as to not demand that they stop, like a madman. What was wrong with him? He’d sought out this surgery himself. He’d sworn to Holmes that he could trust these men with his life. Never before had his medical knowledge and outlook been so challenged by his emotions.
You know why.
Of course he did. But the knowledge did not make it any easier to withstand.
***********
The heavens may have still been looking favorably upon them, for the surgery reached its conclusion with minimal complications. Willhelm surely translated Czerny’s every observation and instruction flawlessly, and the man himself never appeared to lose composure as the hours passed. Once, an assistant had to suddenly put down an instrument they’d been holding, so that they could turn away to sneeze, and if Watson had been holding a pen then, it would have snapped in two from how tightly his fist had been clenched, even if he was well familiar with than particular stumble. In the latter half of the procedure, the Fell Motor suddenly clanked to a halt, and Watson felt that his own lungs had ceased working as well, but MacEwan barely had to bark an order before an assistant was handily working the bellows manually to maintain the airflow, while another got the machine working again, and Watson slumped backwards in his seat.
Finally, the tracheal tube was carefully removed, and soon enough the last stitch closing the incisions was made and tied off, and MacEwan’s assistant surgeon began dressing the wounds in antiseptic-soaked bandages before covering them with dry ones, and Czerny looked up at Watson, nodding.
Watson returned it, feeling a minute trembling of fading adrenaline in his limbs. He was certain his expression conveyed his gratitude, if not the underlying source of it.
As the team carefully slid Holmes’ unconscious body from the table onto a rolling cot to transport him to the recovery ward, Watson stepped down from his observation seat and followed. Reaching the surgical table, he paused, seeing the metal tin containing the removed tissue. Resting inside was the guilty blood-tinged white mass.
He felt a sudden, violent compulsion to pummel that insidious mass with his fist, or burn it, or both. He did neither, shaking his head and rushing to catch up to the still, silent detective being wheeled away.
************
Upon Holmes’ release, Watson was entrusted to check his bandages daily and change them as needed, as well as enforce the rules of recovery. Only broth and tea were to be permitted the first forty-eight hours (lukewarm, not hot, to avoid further irritation), and soft, mild food like porridge for a week after. Nothing that would scrape the tender tissues. And, Czerny insisted through Willhelm, no smoking whatsoever for at least two weeks, which he knew Holmes’ would chafe bitterly against. And finally, no speaking or anything of the sort for at least seventy-two hours, longer if possible, and only sparingly to start after. He was provided with all the diluted carbolic acid and clean bandages he could require for his duties.
It took most of a day for Holmes to regain his mental faculties from the anesthesia during the surgery and the carefully administered pain medication after. Fortunately, the keeper of the inn they were staying at had a strong teenaged son that he volunteered to help Watson wrangle Holmes up the stairs and into his bed.
Prior to leaving for the surgery, the doctor and detective had discussed the logistics of Holmes’ recovery, having already been well briefed on the limitations that would be imposed. Thus, they had already worked out how Holmes would communicate for the time his voice was out of commission.
Of course, they never traveled without paper and ink, but they both wished to avoid spending it on mundane messages. Since they were already in possession of chalk, they decided to ask the innkeeper if it were possible to procure a small portable slate upon which Holmes could write and erase his needs, and he deputized his son, Thomas, again to track one down. Watson provided Holmes a basin of water strictly for keeping the erasing rag moist, so as to not stir up more irritating dust than necessary. He also found a small bell that Holmes could ring in the case of needing immediate medical attention.
“I might ask that you refrain from ringing for me like a dog unless absolutely necessary,” Watson said pointedly, during one of Holmes’ early wakeful periods, but with humor in his expression. Holmes’ answering smile showed he perceived the affection beneath the words.
The days that followed were… unsettling, to say the least. For one thing, Watson was supremely unused to how very quiet their shared space was during the first stage of his dear friend’s convalescence. While it was true that Holmes did sometimes go stretches of time without speaking during his darker moods, in those times his expressions of melancholy could still be heard through either his chemistry experiments, or more frequently, through his violin. Now, he had not the physical energy for either.
For another, Watson was hard pressed to confidently determine either of their emotional states. Featuring heavily for himself, at least, was the great relief that Holmes had survived so delicate and risk-fraught a surgery. Close on its heels was the carefully redirected worry that such risk had been for naught – that the abnormal growth would return or spread, that infection would set in despite all the precautions taken, whether Holmes’ voice had indeed been spared, as neither doctor mentioned any sign of the cancer spreading or any damage to the vocal cords during the procedure. Whether or not his friend would be able to cope with the recovery process and the lifestyle changes Czerny Insisted upon, and self-destruct. Whether he would eventually be able to resume the great work that he needed. Watson felt himself slide from one emotion to the other, hour by hour, though he did his best to conceal it.
Holmes’ internal state was rather harder to deduce, without access to his usual manner of eloquent explanation. In between Watson’s regular tendings to him and bouts of sleep, he seemed oddly content to restrain himself to quiet study. He spent several hours at once in revisiting a number of monographs on codes and ciphers he’d brought with him, and one afternoon he devoted himself to the creation of his own form of shorthand. He seemed, at long hard-learned last, to understand his physical vulnerability and need for rest.
But there was something else, too.
Every time during the day that Holmes woke from slumber, he would immediately seek Watson out, his eyes roving and searching through the lingering haze of sleep and gradually reduced morphine. As soon as his gaze would land upon the doctor, he would visibly relax. And when he was alert, often he would lay down his work for a time, simply observing Watson in whatever mundane task he might be engaged in. Every time Watson caught Holmes observing him, he’d ask his friend if he needed something, and usually the detective would shake his head, give a small, almost shy smile, and return to his sedate intellectual pursuits.
Sometimes, after such enacting of the pattern, Holmes would open a small notebook kept at his elbow on the table, make a note inside, and close it again. Watson never asked what he was writing in it.
If Watson didn’t know better, he might think that Holmes was intermittently reassuring himself of Watson’s presence. Or that he was committing details of Watson’s person to memory, for whatever reason that brilliant mind might deem necessary. Sometimes, it almost seemed as though he were waiting for Watson to say something of particular import.
Perhaps, something related to what Holmes had been trying to say just before his surgery. Something Watson had, in the moment, claimed to understand.
What had seemed so simple in that suspended moment before Holmes was put under, now had returned to uncertainty in Watson’s mind. Sometimes, it was hard to be certain of anything where Sherlock Holmes was involved.
He did know that something had changed between them upon his friend’s return from his work dismantling Moriarty’s criminal web. How could it not have? Three years, hundreds of miles, and experiences (and crushing, profound grief on Watson’s part) had separated them, and neither were precisely the same men they’d been prior to that dreadful affair.
But it was something more than that. Holmes was more generous with his praise for Watson’s meager deductions, even if they were not always correct. Casual touches occurred more easily and frequently. A domestic warmth filled the space between them within the confines of Baker street. An enhanced trust from Holmes that both fed and was fed by Watson’s greater confidence. And there were times, moments of humor or sharing ideas between them, and Holmes would look at him in such a way, as if… He couldn’t find the words for it. (Or perhaps he knew the words, but could not let himself name them.)
Watson had long understood his own mind and heart. But all of the harsh factors of the world outside of them made giving them voice a fool’s errand.
***********
The afternoon of the third wakeful day of Holmes’ recovery, the day before they decided Holmes was safe to make the return journey to Baker Street, Watson found himself waking from an unintended doze in his chair by the fire, his book having slipped from his hand onto the floor sometime prior, and he immediately regretted the stiffness in his neck. Haltingly, he straightened, casting about for what had woken him. Feeling a foreign object under the hand resting on his middle, he found a thick folded letter, unsealed. Looking up, he saw Holmes upon the settee, sitting upright.
He was fully dressed in his usual pristine garments, uncanny after so many days of relaxed, comfortable presentation. Including his shining black day shoes. The only exception was his missing tie and open collar, exposing the fresh white bandages on his throat.
Watson frowned in confusion, feeling a faint thread of anxiety stir within him.
“I say, what’s the occasion? Surely you don’t intend to venture about already?”
Holmes gave a thin, faltering smile, only briefly meeting Watson’s gaze, before nodding pointedly to the paper in his hand. Abruptly, he felt part of his mind transported to over three years prior, when the last letter to him penned by Holmes had harshly changed his life (and broken his heart).
What terrible news could his dear friend need to convey, that he would have learned now before Watson could? Had he felt the symptoms return or exacerbate, and been convinced that it was all for naught and that the end was rushing for them?
He swallowed, and forced himself to give a short chuckle.
“Couldn’t wait a moment longer to give some brilliant, thorough explanation, I see,” he offered with a thin veneer of amusement, raising the folded paper to acknowledge whatever words waited within. “Though I’m at a loss as to what mystery could have sprung up recently, with both of us here in reprieve.”
Holmes merely looked at him, silently entreating him to put aside their jokes and read the letter that filled him with apprehension.
Watson let the facade fall, sighing, and tucked the letter into the breast of his waistcoat as he stood to fetch the flask of brandy he’d brought, feeling certain he would need the fortification for what was to come. He downed a quarter of it in a few short swigs, and set the rest aside as he returned to his chair. Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the paper and began to read.
My Dearest Watson, (And oh, just seeing those words written to him again tugged viciously at his mind, and he had to force himself to stay focused on the words in front of him rather than the words burned into his memory.)
I see that you have been aware of my keener observations of you these last few days. I can also observe that such overt study befuddled you. If I have in any way made you uncomfortable thus, please accept my sincerest apologies. It was not my intent.
The truth is, Watson, that I could observe my fill of you day to day, that I could regularly command your attention and receive your praise on the score of my craft as frequently as we receive the post, and cumulatively it would still not be enough. You may claim that, barring the criminal mystery, the stimulation of the cocaine bottle is my foremost addiction, and that I have no interest whatsoever in matters of intimacy, and on both counts you would be incorrect. For in truth, it is you who has the greatest command on my desires, and it is you who are the sole object of any tender yearnings to be found within me. Such assertions surely stand in opposition to any impression I have deliberately given over the years. Given the law of the land, I’m sure you can understand why.
In Cornwall, after my ill-advised experiment with the Devil’s Foot and the lamp, I told you that I had never loved. This was only accurate in regards to feeling romantic love for a woman. To speak so strongly while adhering to so narrow a scope of honesty may have been wrong of me, but I had seen you notice so many pretty faces among the fair sex over the years, that I was resigned to certainty that we were of dissimilar minds on that front. At the time, knowing of it but not speaking of it seemed acceptable to me. But lying on that surgical table, moments away from the knife, with your face once again above me, I knew that to be false.
In my final moments of consciousness, you may recall that I was trying to convey something to you that nevertheless I could not utter in front of those in observance. Had fortune abandoned us that day, and my time on this earth come to an end, that moment of reticence would have plainly been the greatest of all my regrets.
I was so afraid to die without having told you the truth I had long retained. And now I have not died, but the future remains uncertain, so I cannot allow myself to conceal it any further:
I love you, John. I love you as the most fortunate of men loves his spouse; as, in your whimsical poetry, the moon may love the sun that shines upon it. I crave your touch as I have craved no other. Yet, it is your happiness and wellbeing that I value above all. Whatever you assert will be required for them to be achieved, I will oblige, no matter the pain it may cause myself.
I remain, and shall ever remain entirely yours,
SH
***********
Watson slowly lowered the letter in his trembling hands, not aware of when he had leaned forward, elbows braced upon his knees, so absorbed was he in the words on the page he held.
Those earth-shaking, sublime, encompassing words.
Feeling a tickle of moisture upon his face, he touched his fingertips to his cheek, stunned to find tears there. He looked up at the detective – at the companion of the very best portion of his life. He still sat upon the settee, but had reverted to what Watson had long observed to be a comforting posture: legs folded upon the seat, knees hugged to his chest, fingers laced together. Expression somber, resigned.
“Holmes,” he uttered hoarsely, around the sudden lump in his throat, causing the other man to meet his gaze. Watson slowly drew the letter towards himself, pressing the paper to his heart.
“Truly?” he rasped. Holmes nodded once, clearly, blinking in rapid succession. Pulling air into his agitated lungs for a moment, Watson pushed himself up from his chair, crossing to sit beside Holmes, who unfolded his limbs and angled himself slightly to face the doctor. Watson let the letter rest on their touching knees.
“You infuriating, ridiculous man,” he whispered. Holmes’ brows shifted to convey his question, his apprehension, and Watson knew he must speak more plainly.
“I cannot say when I began to feel as you do,” he began, heart twinging anew at the hope breaking upon the other’s face as waves on a shore, “but I know that when you disappeared at the Reichenbach Falls, when I thought you lost forever, I felt certain that I knew then what it was to be a widower, so vast and insurmountable was my sorrow,” he murmured, the memory of that pain choking him now on top of the emotion of this astounding discovery. “And I was made to be alone in that grief, knowing that the nature of it could not be spoken aloud.”
Holmes grasped at both of Watson's hands, head tilted and expression twisted in obvious remorse and renewed apology. Watson nodded in understanding.
“I know. I know, dear fellow. And I… I forgive you for it. I do. For I love you as well, you dolt,” he finally admitted, a bright, honest smile breaking through at last.
Holmes’ lips parted in a silent gasp of profound joy, and Watson had to quickly touch his fingers lightly to those lips to discourage them from releasing a laugh, an utterance, or a shout of jubilation. The excited breath he felt against his fingertips sent a tingle of warmth through his hand, up his arm toward his heart. Holmes grasped both his shoulders, seemingly uncertain what to do with himself with so many options of reaction removed by his doctor’s orders. His eyes shone, and his brilliant smile was unwavering.
“My dearest Sherlock,” Watson uttered, overcome, and of mutual accord they embraced, arms wrapped tightly around each other in relief. They stayed that way for some time, until they’d calmed somewhat, and drew slightly apart to face each other again.
Kiss me, his detective mouthed silently, not a demand but an entreaty. Watson held a soft finger to his lips again anyway, in case the other man got any bright ideas about trying to exercise his voice without medical permission. He gently pushed the other man back to rest against the back of the settee, and he went willingly, while Watson hovered slightly over him.
He leaned down to meet the detective, already tilting his handsome face up to meet him in undisguised yearning.
“Just gently, for now,” the doctor whispered, before pressing their lips together, as chastely as possible while still pouring all his passion into the contact.
Holmes, denied any vocal sound, released a gentle sigh that breezed across Watson’s nose, ruffling his mustache, causing him to pull away minutely in silent laughter. Holmes, his hand cupping the back of Watson’s neck, nudged him back in, his eyes shining.
Watson returned all too willingly, running a soft hand along his detective’s ribs, easing himself down to lie beside him so that they were pressed together from shoulders to feet.
It felt like coming home. As the moon loves the sun, indeed.
What ridiculous creatures they were. Heavens willing, they would have many more years in which they could be ridiculous together, as one.
FIN