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The tenants of 221B Baker Street were arguing.
“I could not stand there and watch them call you stupid!,” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed.
Dr. John Watson crossed his arms in response. “Much as I could not stand there and do nothing as they dragged your name through the mud.”
The great sleuth fell silent. A drop of water came down from the ceiling, landing a few inches before them. Both men hoped that it wasn’t supposed to rain that night – they had no desire to wake up drenched, lying in a puddle.
It wouldn’t be half bad. Holmes and Watson would ba back in their lodgings at 221B Baker Street within the next 24 hours, and Mrs Hudson was likely doing laundry from all the stress her two tenants were once again putting her through.
Holmes had been apprehending a criminal, cornering the man in an alleyway, when the detective’s nonchalant attitude had been broken by an insult hurled at his dear Watson out of the criminal’s filthy mouth. Holmes was a man who could tolerate a lot – he was aware that his whole existence challenged society; his rather eccentric way of life unusual to most bystanders. He had dealt with plenty of negative comments, but Holmes figured they were either jealous or had skeletons in their goldened closets they wanted to distract the detective from.
Watson, however, was a respectable, kind and very intelligent doctor, and a second after the snarly remark had been made, Holmes’ fist had landed straight in the face of the bearded murderer and thief.
Holmes had hoped he’d deal away with the man after a few blows to the face and the torso, but Watson had heard the commotion and instantly rushed to his friend’s side, arriving just in time to witness Holmes being called incompetent and worse terms that neither men wanted to repeat. Needless to say, the encounter had ended with a broken nose that belonged to neither Holmes nor Watson, albeit the two had suffered scratches, bruised knuckles and abrasions from having been knocked on the ground. Watson was worse for wear, but it was something Holmes would have to look at after the prison had quieted down. Some of the prisoners were quite chatty.
Unfortunately for them, the police had not been far away. And as was custom after a particularly bad public fight, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were taken away to spend the night in one of London’s jail-houses.
“At least we have a chase to look forward to after we get out of here,” Watson said, attempting to lift the mood. His eyes darted across the floor, gaze hooking onto a few crumbs in the corner. He sincerely hoped those were not evidence of rats.
“This is ridiculous, Watson,” Holmes simply hissed, “We did all this work, and all the man got was two nights for the fist-fight. I will have to spend hours trying to convince those idiots that he is a criminal indeed rather than just coming off as someone angry because of what happened earlier.”
Watson nodded silently. The case had been challenging indeed, and he’d despise seeing their efforts go to waste.
Admittedly, they would only have themselves to blame, but he would allow himself to shake his fist at the injustice of it all.
On second thought, he’d probably shaken his fist enough for one day.
“Well, well,” a familiar voice rang out, and both Holmes and Watson were unable to suppress a groan. “Who do we have here?”
Inspector Lestrade stood before their cell, hands to his hips and his expression entirely too smug to Holmes’ liking. “Never in my life would I have thought to see the two of you here, gentlemen,” he said, clicking his tongue in amusement, and Holmes bit his own to avoid mentioning the burglary of Milverton’s house, or, you know.
The indecencies.
“Life is unpredictable, Inspector,” Watson spoke.
“What have you even been doing? I did not take you for the brawling type.”
“It was not a brawl, Inspector,” Holmes interjected, “I ask that you refrain from referring to mine and Watson’s boxing skills as such.”
“Ah, but from what I’ve last heard, there are designated spaces for such endeavours.”
Watson pouted, and Holmes’ mouth formed a thin line. Lestrade was difficult enough to deal with when he wasn’t rejoicing in the fact that the man who’d made his career and said man’s trusty assistant were currently trapped in a freezing jail cell.
“For the record, that ruffian insulted Holmes,” Watson finally said, “And I will not stand for that!”
Lestrade let out a laugh. “And your best idea was to break his nose?”
“A targeted strike, mind you,” Holmes added, “As a medical man, Watson knows how one must hit for intended results.”
The inspector did not seem to care. “Never-mind Dr Watson; he was a soldier, after all. What of you, Mr Holmes? Eager to defend your own honour as well, eh?”
“Mine? Oh, no. I have never cared what drivel society may or may not say about me.”
“No?”
Holmes brushed some dust off his coat. “No, not in the slightest. I do not, however, take it lightly if my dear Watson is being verbally abused. Appropriate measures had to be taken, would you not think?”
Lestrade shook his head, then held up a warning finger. “Gentlemen, you are only here for one night for two reasons: One, he also caused you wounds and did, after all, provoke you with his words. Two, you are, I’m afraid, invaluable to our work.”
Holmes nodded, a content smile on his face.
“However,” Lestrade continued, “I expect you to think over your actions, and mark my words, I do not want to see you here again. Gentlemen.” With that, he lifted his cap off his head for a brief second before turning around and leaving, whistling a cheerful tune as he turned around the corner.
“There he marches,” Holmes muttered, “What is he, pray tell, Watson. Our mother?”
Watson snorted with laughter. “I shall hope not.”
***
Some sun rays were filtered through the barred windows, and Holmes remembered the injuries his partner had sustained. It had to be shortly before dinner – they really should have timed this better instead of having a fight in the morning hours, for now they had to survive whatever gray, mushy substance they were about to be fed. A perfect time to get his faithful biographer tended to, Holmes figured.
“Let me see,” he tutted, prying Watson’s hand away from his face and receiving a quiet whine in return. The detective sighed in empathy – Watson had clearly observed what the sleuth was about to do much before Holmes had made the decision. “Does it hurt much?”
“No,” Watson muffled into his palm, and one didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to realise that it was a lie. The man decided to leave it uncommented for now, however.
With all limbs finally out of the way, Holmes got a good view of Watson’s face. His left eye was black, a nasty bruise having formed where the assailant had struck him with his fist. There was still some dried blood clinging to his nose, and his cheeks had scrapes made by the attacker’s sharp nails, some of them having even bled. The man had really not spared any strength as he’d beaten Watson.
If Holmes was not stuck in prison right now, he surely would have found the man and tracked him down, and then he would have been very sorry indeed.
No, Holmes. Revenge comes later. First, you must tend to Watson.
It was as if their roles were reversed, complete with Watson able to read Holmes’ thoughts. “I am not bleeding, Holmes,” he muttered, “I’ll be quite all right. You needn’t get out of your way to get these little scrapes treated.”
Holmes hummed. “You will be all right, that I do not doubt. But the environment here is hardly hygienic, and if one of those cuts got infected I would never forgive myself, and neither would I forgive Lestrade for throwing us into this building.”
“He was simply following the law.”
“Damn the law,” Holmes hissed, “I thought we’d decided that a few months ago.”
That got a smile out of Watson. It was true – they would be in prison for far more time than now if it were to be discovered what kind of arrangement they had entered.
A punishment easily endured, for both men had never been as happy before as they were now.
“What are you planning to use to tend to the wounds, Holmes?,” Watson then asked, “They confiscated my Gladstone.”
“My undying love and devotion,” Holmes whispered, a guard just having moved on a few cells down the hallway.
Again, Watson giggled. “As a doctor, I do not think that will be effective, my dear.”
“No, I fear not,” Holmes let out, disappointed, “But I can be rather convincing. Watch this.” The detective stood up. “Guard!”
A less than pleased guard marched up to their cell, grunting. “What is it?”
“If you please, I’d be much obliged if you could return my colleague’s medical bag to me. He is hurt, and it must be tended to.”
Another grunt. “If he really is that badly hurt, he should be taken to the infirmary.”
“Hardly badly hurt, no,” Holmes said, “But it would not do to take up space in the infirmary if I can easily take care of the wounds myself.”
The guard blinked, and Holmes thought he’d triumphed. But the guard proceeded to burst out in roaring laughter, startling the remainder of the prison wing.. “I’ve never heard anything more hilarious in my life. Suck it up, man! This is not a wishing well!”
The other prisoners, greatly amused, joined in the laughter, but as Watson had expected, Holmes remained as unfazed as ever. “You think this funny, yes?”
A nod.
“Well, then. I do get out tomorrow, for your information, and if I wished to do so, I could install more guards, worse food...whatever you can think of. Must I remind you that some of you only faced justice because of the work I do? Do not make me use my connections to make your lives more miserable. Now, the medical bag, if you please.”
Watson knew Holmes could get intimidating, but the sheer iciness of his voice as he spoke to the guard warmed Watson’s heart. All of this coldness – all for him, and for him only.
The doctor would never understand just how he had managed to get as lucky as to win the great detective’s heart.
A few moments later, a grateful Holmes accepted the medical bag being handed through the open door, the guard squinting at Holmes as if he’d expected him to knock him over the face and escape with Watson in tow. But Holmes, while often mocking the law, was courteous as not to play games with it. It was just one night, and abiding to the rules would earn him more respect than a successful prison break.
“Now, allow me, Watson,” Holmes said, more out of courtesy. He was not asking – he would tend to Watson regardless of any protests.
It would be his greatest joy and privilege.
Gently, Holmes poured some iodine onto a cloth and dabbed at the cuts, careful not to graze the darkened, undoubtedly painful area around John’s eye. He stuck a bandage to the biggest ones, ensuring it clung to the skin tightly enough to survive the cool, damp air. After he’d completed wrapping up Watson’s wounds, he massaged the man’s damaged shoulder, naturally having noticed John wincing in pain.
“Better?,” Holmes inquired.
Watson nodded, making no attempt to hide his tears that always pooled whenever he became deeply moved.
***
Neither of the two men had any inkling what time it was. It was just as dark as it had been seven hours ago, but from the lack of sparse sunlight flooding the cell through the miniature barred window, Holmes could conclude that night had fallen.
Watson was huddled up in the corner of the little room, using his coat as seating “pillow”. The policemen had allowed him to keep his notebook, and judging by how quickly Watson’s pen moved over the sheets of paper, Holmes supposed that the good doctor was already creating a new literary masterpiece based off their experience in the London jail-house.
He’d regret having to do so, but Sherlock feared there would be no way around asking Watson not to publish said musings for the next few years. From previous instances, Holmes knew Watson would give and hold his word, although the detective wished those other unpublishable experiences were as temporarily unpublishable as a night in a prison cell.
If the whole world could know that Watson was his and he was Watson’s, maybe he’d finally stop getting letters asking about Irene Norton and whether she’d become a Holmes yet.
Those readers of Watson’s were, evidently, not readers at all if they skipped the entire story to form their absurd conclusions.
“Holmes?,” Watson asked, and Holmes lifted his head. He’d been observing the type of stone this floor was made of.
“Hm? Yes, Watson?”
“Would you mind narrating the events that led up to our fist fight? I’m afraid I missed half the overture, if you will, and instantly jumped when I realized you were about to get yourself hurt to defend my honour.”
Holmes was about to open his mouth before realizing that Watson was subtly shivering. Of course – it was mid-November, and he was using his coat to sit on. Granted, Holmes was aware that Watson was doing quite a clever thing. It was not advisable to sit on cold surfaces for longer than necessary, after all, and Watson had so graciously let Holmes have the narrow brick-hard bed by the wall.
A disgrace, now that Holmes thought about it.
In general, Watson was far too kind for Sherlock. The man put up, and has been putting up, with his ridiculous antics for 15 years now, and not once had he left his side. They’d have their fair share of disagreements; some of them had even been enough for John to cease talking to Holmes altogether until the detective had calmed down his stubborn temper. And that, too, in Holmes’ eyes, was far too generous.
When Holmes had reappeared after his “death” at the Reichenbach Falls, Watson had not been angry with him; not even for a minute. He’d just embraced Holmes, soaked the detective’s shoulder with a few tears, and helped him capture Moran as if nothing had happened. After their tiger hunt had been done and over with, Watson had insisted on looking Holmes’ over. He’d coaxed him to eat and drink water, and then had implored the detective to retreat to bed earlier than usual, confiscating his violin to ensure Holmes got enough rest.
And Holmes, while warm and kind towards Watson, wasn’t nearly as skilled regarding social interactions as John was. Even after that talk under the starry sky during a case in the remote countryside – that fateful talk that had turned them into a romantic couple - , Holmes remained as clueless as ever regarding what was now expected of him.
Well, he could take a first step towards fixing that now.
He shook his head. “I will, undoubtedly, but not now, my dear Watson. It is, if I perceive correctly – and I mostly do – getting quite late, and you look worn out.”
Watson sighed and closed his notebook. “You are right, my dear Holmes. However, I do not think I shall be able to sleep. Might as well devote my time to something profitable, such as writing.”
“I think it should be possible,” Holmes stated, “under the condition that I warm you up a little.”
“Holmes!,” Watson hissed, “You are aware that we are, quite literally, surrounded by police officers. If we are caught-”
“Calm down, John,” Holmes whispered, “You underestimate the argument that we require warmth to survive. It is essential to our well-being. Now,” The man shook himself out of his Inverness and draped it across Watson’s shoulders. “Allow me, my dear Watson.”
He slipped an arm around Watson’s chilled body, rubbing up and down his side to generate friction.
It was a matter of time before the doctor’s head dipped onto Holmes’ breast.
“You were right, Sherlock,” Watson’s whispered, “I was colder than I thought.”
Holmes’s heart surged with warmth. “I know, my dear John. I know. We will be all right.”
Watson sniffled. “How come you know exactly what to say?”
The detective smiled. “As you are aware, I am exceptionally bad at reading other people’s emotions. I am more skilled at perceiving their appearance and mannerisms and connecting my observations to a case. However, I have known you for more than a decade, my dear, and that makes me exceptionally good at reading you in particular.”
“Oh,” Watson whispered, “I’m honoured, my dear Holmes.”
Holmes simply squeezed Watson’s shoulder. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
As tired as Watson was, he couldn’t help but smirk. “Of course you will be. You physically can not be anywhere else.”
***
The next morning, Holmes roused Watson by running a hand through his dirty blonde hair.
The moment the doctor blinked his eyes open, he recalled their current predicament, and his face lit up with joy upon realizing that they were about to be let free. And indeed – Lestrade came marching into the hallway not an hour later, he himself having insisted on the honour to open Sherlock Holmes’ cell.
“Gentlemen, welcome back to freedom,” the said, and Holmes and Watson shot one another a glance. Lestrade was still unbelievably satisfied with himself.
“Thank you, Inspector,” Holmes simply replied, following him out of the jail-house. Watson felt the scrutinizing eyes of the other inmates, evidently quite put out that the man who put them there was let off so easily.
The doctor was soon distracted by a whiff of fresh air, taking in the smell of the autumn leaves. “How wonderful!”
Holmes smiled, a fond smile that spoke volumes to anyone who took their time to look. “Let’s get back home, Watson, shall we?”
“Just a second,” Lestrade interrupted, “Has everything been returned to you?”
“Yes,” Watson responded, “I believe so.”
“Good. And like I said,” Lestrade repeated, “Do not make me see the two of you here again.”
Holmes adjusted his hat. “Why would you, Inspector? I dare claim that Watson and I have learned our lesson.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” came the response, “There is a slight chance that they two of you cease to be carefu-
“All right, that is quite enough,” Holmes interrupted, and grabbed Watson by the arm. “Goodbye, Lestrade!”
A grin spread across Lestrade’s face.
“Goodbye, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.”