Work Text:
There has never been an abundance of people in my life whom I might call friends. Confidants perhaps, when growing up. My brother especially, and my mother for the handful of years we shared a home. My father and I never truly connected.
I left home at seventeen at my father’s suggestion, as it happens. He was not exiling me, nothing of the sort. By his own admission he did not understand me, and rather than have me languish under his roof he wanted me to be somewhere, and with someone, where I could properly be myself—or at least begin to determine who that person was. It was the most selfless thing he ever did for me.
To be clear, my father was not a bad man, only plagued by a similar penchant for black moods as myself, which I only began to recognise once I was tall enough to look him in the eye. He was lonely, disconnected. I’m sure he loved me in his way, and he wanted to help me but did not know how, therefore he did the only thing he could; he sent me to live with my brother, and so begin anew.
It was under Mycroft’s roof, where I slept on the settee, that Sherlock Holmes began. That is not what my parents named me. I chose it after much deliberation and scribbling on scraps of paper. I practised saying it, referring to myself in the third person so it did not sound strange to my ears. Mycroft took to it immediately, and has never since wavered.
Truly I owe my brother an awful lot for those early years. He was an encyclopaedia of useful advice for conducting oneself as a young man; he helped me secure clothing to suit me and hide my shape; unsociable as he was and is, he sowed seeds among his circle of colleagues and acquaintances with occasional mentions of a brother seven years his junior. By the time I went off to college, I was as legitimate a person in the eyes of our peers as he was.
During my two years of study I was a solitary creature, preferring to mope in my rooms and work out my own little methods of thought. My physical outlets were fencing and boxing, both of which helped me build muscle, though I had to be careful that the bindings around my chest went unnoticed.
Then, towards the end of my first year, I met Victor Trevor—or rather his dog attacked my ankle and laid me up for nearly a fortnight. The poor fellow was so apologetic that he visited me every day. At first it was only a quick chat, but soon he would linger, and before the end of the term we were close friends. He was a cheery sort, full of energy, the opposite to me in looks and temperament, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as I.
As our friendship grew and strengthened, so too did a cold, creeping sense of dread.
I wanted to be close to him. I had never revealed the truth of me to anyone outside of my family before, but I wanted to tell him. Victor. I wanted him to see past my carefully constructed carapace to the person within, for him to know me, really know me. I did not want to hide, yet I was terrified that he would reject this revelation and abandon me, or even share it with the world, and I would be ruined.
In retrospect it was rather unfair of me to think such things. Victor had never given me the slightest hint that he was capable of anything so cruel. However, fear is not rational, and when a mind makes connections as quickly as mine it is nigh on impossible to stop them reaching for the worst conclusions, no matter how cold and logical I may strive to be.
It was all moot in the end. I never got the chance to share myself with Victor Trevor; I will not elaborate here, but suffice it to say that a familial tragedy and a series of other unpleasant discoveries sent him fleeing for Terai and a life of tea-planting. I hear he is doing well, but I have not seen him since.
And so I was friendless again, save for Mycroft, though after college I moved out of his tiny rented rooms into even tinier rented rooms on Montague Street. I wished to remain in London so I could dedicate everything toward building my chosen profession. I spent years worming my way into the mental directories of Scotland Yard inspectors—a risky manoeuvre, but necessary—so they might call on me with any peculiar little problems that eluded their expertise. Otherwise, I experimented, devoting hours to the labs at St. Bart’s Hospital.
It was there, fresh off my success with a new type of haemoglobin test, that I met one John H. Watson. Doctor, soldier, wounded, alone. Skin tanned brown as a nut, hair bleached blonde by the sun, eyes blue as lapis lazuli, a neat moustache that suited his square-jawed face. I liked him immediately. Moreso when, shaking my hand, he saw the state of my stained and pinpricked fingers, and he graced me with a smile like the dawn.
We moved in together the next day.
Perhaps I ought to have considered the implications of living with someone and hiding from them all at once. At the time I felt confident enough that I could manage it—and it turned out Watson and I barely interacted during those initial months. The new flat on Baker Street had a whole floor between our rooms, and he kept to his a lot of the time, recovering as he was. He had his business, and I had mine, though we were each clearly curious about the other.
He fascinated me. My desire to know his ins and outs was held in check only by my wariness at getting too close. I had learned from Victor.
And then, on the 4th March, Watson took up a magazine with his breakfast and proceeded to insult an article I had written on the twin practices of observation and deduction which I use in my work. Of course he did not know the author was me, and when I pointed it out, his cheeks turned the most delightful shade of pink. I had never had a favourite colour before that moment.
Something possessed me that morning. Watson utterly charmed me—determined to alleviate his embarrassment, I launched into a long explanation of how I might deduce a man’s background and livelihood from his hands, his clothes, the way he held himself, all of that. Once I got going I found it difficult to stop, if only because Watson was looking at me as though I’d hung the moon. His astonishment and admiration spurred me on. When a new case arrived later by way of Inspector Tobias Gregson, it seemed natural to invite Watson along. In fact, I suddenly very much wanted him there. I tried to be casual about asking; I am reasonably sure I succeeded.
I suppose the case itself is not so important to this particular narrative as what happened at the end of it all. It lasted a few days, and Watson took comprehensive notes of all the facts, telling me he would publish them to ensure I would receive credit for my skills rather than be demoted to someone “who has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective line”. I wasn’t entirely convinced he would do so, but it pleased me to see how getting out of the flat and contributing to something had made a light shine in his eyes again.
Then, there was a long stretch following the case’s conclusion where I had no work to occupy me. It is during such times when I am at my worst. I was restless, irritable, more liable to reach for my morocco case and the sweet relief of the drug that lay within. As the empty days wore on I sank lower and lower. My appetite was non-existent, and the rare moments I was up and about I spent haunting our sitting room, pacing in circles or languishing in an armchair. Otherwise I kept to my bed.
I knew Watson worried about me; but we still barely knew each other, and perhaps he didn’t believe it was his place to admonish my bad habits.
Until he felt, as a doctor if not a friend, that he must.
It was a potent combination of unfortunate factors that finally drove him to speak up. The day the great moment occurred, I was a miserable wretch. I had not slept, instead tossing and turning for hours then waking up to bloodstained sheets and a ruined nightshirt. The curse is not a regular occurrence for me, and I try not to think about it, so it caught me by surprise. Infuriated and near tears, I bundled up my soiled bedding and stuffed it out of sight until I could burn it in secret.
Gritting my teeth, I delved deep into the bottom drawer of my dresser. There, hidden at the back, disregarded for so long, was a stack of thick cloths and a riband to go round my hips. I tied one of the bandages between my legs as quickly as I could.
I considered getting dressed for all of three seconds before deciding against it. None of my dayclothes would fit properly. Instead I bound my chest tight as I was able to stand, then put on a clean shirt and my softest dressing gown. Thank heaven for a flatmate who did not consider it odd for me to drift about in my nightwear.
I did put in an appearance at breakfast, knowing that if I didn’t Watson might come to my door and ask after me. He smiled the moment he saw me; he was also in his dressing gown, fortunately. I sat and communed silently with a cup of black coffee while he ate a plateful of eggs, kippers, and toast. The smell of the food made me feel nauseated.
“Did you sleep well?” he enquired politely once he was done.
“No,” I said shortly, not looking up.
I could sense him frowning. “I’m sorry to hear that, old boy. Would you like to do something today? The weather is glorious—perhaps we could take a walk in the park.”
I shook my head. My chest hurt; I subtly pressed a hand to my sternum and tried to take a deep breath. The pain persisted.
“Holmes? What’s the matter?” Watson was staring at me across the table, his eyebrows knitted together and his gaze full of concern.
“Nothing, doctor,” I snapped, “do not feel you must diagnose me to keep your skills sharp.”
I felt terribly guilty as soon as the venom left my mouth, but it was out there now. I hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings.
His mouth dropped open. “Holmes, I—”
“I’m going back to bed,” I announced. It had been a mistake to leave my room. I stood up, seeking a tactical retreat behind a locked door, to curl up on my unmade bed and feel sorry for myself.
The world tilted. A wave of dizziness swept over me; I staggered, grabbing the back of the nearest dining chair.
A firm hand gripped my elbow, and another cradled the back of my neck. “It’s alright,” came Watson’s warm voice from somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear, “I’ve got you, come on.” He led me to the settee and sat by my side, still holding my arm. I wanted to run away and pull him closer at the same time. My head was spinning.
“When did you last eat anything?” he asked in that same warm tone, laced with professional concern. “You can’t go on like this, Holmes. You need food and drink, like anyone else.”
“What I need is work,” I insisted weakly.
“You’re in no fit state to work, Holmes, you can barely stand. You’re pale as death, you’re not sleeping—”
“I told you—”
“Look at your hands.”
I lowered my head. My fingers were twitching. “If you are so very concerned for my health, doctor, then allow me to retire to my room.”
“Not until I’ve had a proper look at you.”
“No!”
I scuttled away from him across the settee. He gaped at me, frozen with one hand reaching for my wrist. I hugged my knees to my aching chest and shook my head emphatically. “No,” I said again, trying for a calmer tone. “I can manage.”
“But—”
“There is no need for you to examine me. I’ll be perfectly fine.” God, even my own words sounded false to my ears. My voice shook, and it was getting harder to breathe. Perhaps I had gone a bit too far with the bindings; but then, that was another reason to flee, as there was no way on God’s green earth I would take them off in front of Watson. I only had to make it from the settee to my room—a distance of some ten or twelve feet—without collapsing in a dead faint and leaving my unconscious body vulnerable.
No, God, did I really think Watson would examine me like that when I was out of it? What did I take him for?
As I have said, fear is not a rational thing, and there I was a trapped animal in the corner of the settee. Watson couldn’t see me. He couldn’t. Not if I wanted him to keep any measure of respect for me.
Not if I wanted to keep him.
He sat back and folded his hands neatly in his lap, signalling to me that he wouldn’t try and touch me again. “Holmes, I am only trying to help you.”
“You cannot help me.” I pinched the bridge of my nose in a vain hope of reducing the dizziness. “Leave me alone, didn’t I say that when we met? Leave me alone and I’ll soon be right. There’s nothing you can do.”
His jaw tightened. “I refuse to believe that.”
“You can’t force me—”
“Holmes, for goodness' sake, I don’t want to force you to do anything!” he cried. “I am a doctor, as you seem so fond of reminding me this morning, and I am sitting here watching you suffer. Surely you can understand that?”
I rounded on him. “And surely you can understand when I say I do not want your help?” I growled. My throat felt thick; my eyes stung; my every breath was a harsh, panting gasp. Please, I didn’t want to cry in front of him. Wasn’t I already humiliated enough? “I asked you to come along on that Lauriston Gardens case, and your assistance was invaluable then, but not now. Leave me be, Watson!”
I struggled to my feet, my entire body trembling, and made for my bedroom door. I think I managed maybe three steps before I stumbled again.
That was it.
The final piece of my cracked composure shattered, and with a broken whimper I crumpled to the floor.
“Holmes!” Watson flew to my side. His hands hovered, unsure about whether to touch me, but I answered his question by grabbing the front of his dressing gown and putting my face to his shoulder. He slipped an arm around my back and held me close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There, there, my dear fellow,” he murmured softly. His moustache tickled my ear. “There, there, it’s alright.”
I wanted to argue the contrary, but I couldn’t speak. Everything felt out of my control. I hated it, yet I clung to Watson like a child, my tears soaking his chest while he rubbed soothing circles between my shoulders.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
My chest, my head, the dull ache radiating through my lower abdomen. It was hard to know where to begin describing it. I nodded feebly.
“Then let's get you to bed.” He began to help me up, but I clutched his arm. He laid his hand over mine, perplexed. “Weren't you going there?”
I had been; on my own. “I don't—”
I stopped myself with a shuddering breath. I was terrified of revealing my secret, of having that gentle hand on mine removed forever.
But he looked so earnest, so concerned. And I was so tired.
“I've been—”
The word stuck in my throat. When I finally forced it out, it was a mere whisper.
“I am. Bleeding.”
Watson's eyebrows shot up. “Are you injured?”
I let out a watery chuckle. “No, no. If only it were that simple.”
“I don’t understand.”
I pressed my free hand to my stomach, watching his eyes follow the motion. He had such an expressive face; I could track every incremental shift in his features as they moved from confusion to comprehension a touch more rapidly than I’d expected.
“Oh.”
“Yes, Watson. Now you know.”
I went to slip my hand off his arm, but he stopped me. Held it tighter, in fact. “I don’t believe this is a discussion to be had on the floor,” he said. “Can you stand?”
I could, with him supporting me on my left side, so I could lean on his good shoulder and not exacerbate his own injuries. On the way he took the blanket from the back of the settee, and once we were safely in my room he made me wait only a moment while he spread it out on the bare bed. Then he returned to me and took my hands.
I let him lead me to the bed, where I sat back against the headboard and bent my knees to my chest once more. He sat down at the other end, giving me space. Some minutes passed, the only sounds the ticking of my bedside clock and the low thrum of London life drifting up from the street below. Hardly daring to breathe, I watched Watson think, deciding which of his questions to ask first.
He took a deep breath, and I steeled myself.
“Just so I’m clear,” he began, “and I do not want to offend you, my dear fellow. I have never thought of you as anything but a man since the day we met. But you are—a man, yes?”
Not a woman pretending to be one. “I am,” I croaked.
“Alright, then.”
He fell silent again, and again I waited. It was torture. He wouldn’t look at me. I hugged my legs closer and lowered my head, hiding my face. I would not look at him either; it was easier that way. I would hear it, but at least I wouldn’t see him get up and leave. I could avoid that memory repeating in my mind once he was gone.
Then,
“I noticed you’ve wrapped your chest,” he said, very quietly, “and I suspect that is what’s paining you, at least in part. Would you permit me to adjust the bindings? I have a lot of experience with bandages.”
I looked up, startled.
His mouth twisted. “Forgive me. I’ve been too forward.”
I shook my head but didn’t otherwise know how to respond. Nobody had ever made me such an offer before.
A tiny flicker of hope sparked in my heart.
“I—” Watson stopped himself, bit his lip, and tried again. “This is not—unheard of. To me.”
“Really?”
“There are mentions in certain textbooks. Not many, and none of them particularly complimentary, but I have heard of this before.” He turned to face me, crossing an ankle over his other knee. “I do understand it, to a point.”
“How can you possibly understand it?” I whispered. “My body is—it is wrong, Watson.”
“It plagues you,” he agreed, nodding. “It does not behave and respond how you want it to. It is not the body you would have, if you could wish it.” He smiled, a little sadly. “While I am aware it is not the same, I know how all of those things feel.”
A lump rose in my throat. I unfurled my ungainly body and reached for him—I couldn’t help it. I felt adrift, and Watson was there, and I needed to hold onto him. He opened his arms to me and let me settle into his embrace like we’d been doing it for years. He was warm and smelled clean, of the Pears soap he used, with a lingering citrusy element of his aftershave. I breathed him in and felt my heart begin to slow down.
“I take it this does not occur every month for you,” he murmured against my hair.
“Hm? No. It happens quite rarely. I was caught out today.”
He hummed noncommittally. “Is it why you don’t eat as much as you should? I have read that when the body is—malnourished, I suppose is the word, certain bodily processes which aren’t absolutely essential are sacrificed in order to ensure survival. Happens to soldiers a lot, as it goes. The rations were never very good.”
I smirked, appreciating the small attempt at levity, and tilted my head to see him gazing down at me with his blue eyes full of soft concern.
“There are other reasons why I do not eat often,” I said, “but I cannot deny the particular side effect is welcome.”
Watson hummed again. I saw in his face the precise moment when he decided that topic would be a conversation for another day. In the meantime, he reached up and absently brushed some hair back from my forehead.
“You said there is nothing I can do,” he said, “but my offer stands. If you would permit me to see you?”
For a moment I couldn’t for the life of me remember what offer he’d made; my mind was fixated on the sensation of his fingers on my face, for he had not moved his hand. His fingertips were rough, yet his touch was ever gentle. I wanted to press my cheek into his palm. I was slowly coming to realise that I hadn’t been held like this since well before I left home. It was almost overwhelming, and yet not at all unpleasant. Watson’s sturdy presence invited peace into my overtaxed mind.
“Holmes?” he prompted.
The tallest hurdle had already been overcome; I had told him the truth of me, and he had stayed by my side.
I nodded.
We broke apart with some reluctance. I turned away from him, shucked my dressing gown and slowly removed my nightshirt over my head. Watson muttered something and briefly stroked my back before he began. The shocking warmth of his palm between my bare shoulders made me swallow a gasp.
The entire time he adjusted my bindings—while admonishing me for using bandages—I marvelled to myself at the turn of events. I really ought to have given Watson more credit. He had his judgmental moments, as did we all, but at his core he was kind. Simply kind, and good. He listened, he sympathised, he helped me without a second thought.
He was still here.
The task was done sooner than I’d expected, and I gladly redressed. The aching pressure in my chest had lessened considerably.
“Thank you, Watson,” I murmured as I tied my dressing gown sash.
“Anytime, my boy,” he said, and then he grinned. “Is that—do you like me calling you such things?”
“What, ‘my boy’? ‘My dear fellow’ and all that?” I considered it. “I suppose I do appreciate it, yes.”
“Then I shall endeavour to continue.” He stood and stretched, rolling his bad shoulder a few times. “Now, is there anything more I can do? Something for the pain?”
“Perhaps, later.” I shuffled closer to the wall and patted the blanket beside me. “Would you—would you stay a while?”
His face lit up. He came to sit next to me, and we leaned on each other quite comfortably in my narrow little bed. Feeling ridiculously shy, I offered him my hand. He laced our fingers together and let our joined hands rest on his thigh.
I took some time to simply look at him, this wonder of a man who had seen such horrors in a life only slightly longer than mine, and could still be the way he was. He had been at war. War changed people. His body had been permanently damaged. He would be susceptible to pain for the rest of his life. It would have been so easy for him to become bitter and resentful.
But John Watson, I have said and continue to believe, was a good man. From what I knew of him in the short time we had lived together, he did not appreciate the suffering of others. He helped, however and whenever he could.
I had bared myself to him in more ways than one, and he had met me with nothing but kindness.
I felt him nudge my shoulder with his, and I blinked my way back to reality. He was watching me, too.
“Something occurs to me,” he said.
“Oh?”
“It may end up quite useful for you, if I were to write up my notes from that Brixton business with Jefferson Hope and so on.”
I frowned. “I don't quite follow you.”
“Well,” he said, idly rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand, “not only would I write very highly of your incredible deductive skills—”
“Don't tease, Watson.”
“I'm perfectly serious, my dear fellow, I assure you. As I was saying, alongside singing your praises, if I write that I now reside in a London flat with a man named Sherlock Holmes, well.” His eyes were shining. “People do have a tendency to believe what they read in print.”
I could feel my cheeks turning pink. “You would use your writings to—to legitimise me in the eyes of the public? You would do that for me?”
“There are a great many things I think I would do for you.” Watson squeezed my hand. “We may not know very much about each other yet, but you have trusted me with the truth of who you are. You trusted me to stand at your side and support you while you worked. You gave me a purpose again. Holmes, you have my friendship, my respect, and my highest admiration. I hope you know that.”
“I will forget it,” I stammered. There were tears in my eyes again; I wiped them away quickly. “I will. It is my way.”
“Then as long as I am here, I will make it my way to remind you.”
There was that smile, like the dawn. How lucky I was to see it.