Sherlock Holmes fic: Neglect of Normalcy
Title: Neglect of Normalcy
Author: aviss
Rating: Pg-13
Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Summary: Watson knows he can't stay away from Baker Street and Holmes, but he tries.
Word Count: ~6.600
Disclaimer: All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Author's Notes: Title is from No Doubt's song Home Now. A million thanks to my beta faire_estela, who kept me awake till late at night making sure this was properly written. Thanks love! Written for < lj user=foxypadawan> for the hw09_exchange
Neglect of Normalcy
Watson had never imagined he would be back in Baker Street so soon after the wedding, as if the promises made to Mary had turned to dust in the intervening months since the vows were uttered from his lips. There hadn't been that many, and yet, to him, each day away from that place felt like a dream.
Watson understood there would come a day when he would have to return if only because of his friendship with Holmes. Married or not, Watson was still loyal to his friends even if Holmes himself didn't make it easy for him to be.
He was forced to admit he had missed the man and Mary, bless her soul, understood him perfectly on that regard.
"Dearest John, if you so wish to go, you certainly should," she had exclaimed after reading the short missive from Mrs. Hudson. The worry etched on Watson's face clear enough for Mary to interpret. "I would never stop you from going to see your old friend."
She hadn't, and he had to thank her for that. Mary had not been the one who had kept him away from Baker Street and Holmes; it had been his own misguided sense of loyalty to his wife. It felt as if he were betraying her just by wanting to be there, though not for the reasons she might suspect.
"Try to stay in one piece, though, should you follow him in one of his adventures," she warned him before depositing a chaste kiss on his cheek and sending him on his way. "Remember you have a wife to come back to now."
And that he would not forget.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door as soon as Watson's first knock sounded, the relief on her face at his presence giving way to a disapproving frown the moment the door was closed.
"He has not come out of his room in a month, nor would he let me enter it," she said, lips pinched in an unhappy line. "I leave him food by the door and pick up the tray in the morning. Sometimes it is empty; if it wasn't for that, I would suspect he has died inside that room."
Watson nodded and headed up the stairs, worry writhing in his belly at the condition he might find his friend in. It wasn’t healthy for Holmes to be idle, his not inconsiderable intellect needing more stimulus than most to keep him engaged. When Holmes had no case to solve his own genius became self-destructive, and without Watson there to keep him from his less than healthy habits who knew what might become of him.
Watson rapped lightly on the door before opening it, not quite waiting for leave to enter. He had a thought he might be overstepping his bounds by entering uninvited for he had forfeited the ownership of those rooms.
The state of the room overrode any misgiving he had. They had always been messy but now they were filthy, the heavy curtains not obscuring enough of the view to prevent him from flinching.
"Oh, Holmes, what are you doing to yourself?" he said in a sorrowful tone, closing the door behind him and moving to open the curtains.
The light streaming through the window didn't improve the sight any, though the moan that issued from some part of the wreckage indicated the location of his old friend.
"Holmes," he called, turning in the direction of a heap of blankets stirring faintly in the middle of the room and trying to keep his tone as neutral and friendly as possible. "What are you doing on the floor, old chap?"
A hand poked up from under the blankets, its paleness in startling contrast with the deep burgundy of the fabric.
"Watson?"
A head followed the hand, tousled dark hair and a pair of deep grey eyes blinking slowly in the light. They stared at him, unfocused, following his movements as he went to the other window and pulled the curtain back as well.
"Careful," Holmes mumbled, almost a moan, his eyelids opening and closing faster now. In the distance, his fluttering lashes reminded Watson of a trapped butterfly trying to escape a glass prison. He shook his head slightly to dislodge that odd thought. "What are you doing here, Watson? Has marital bliss already turned sour and your wife kicked you out of her side?" The words were delivered without the usual sting. Watson could only detect the faintest trace of longing colouring them.
"Mrs. Hudson thought you might have died in here," he replied, quickly disposing of the pile of newspapers on top of the chair--his chair--and taking a seat. "You certainly look the part. How long has it been since you have been outside this room?" He asked as if he didn't know the answer already.
Holmes crawled fully from under the blanket and Watson saw, his brow furrowing in a scowl, that he looked as filthy and unkempt as the room. He had not shaved in God knew how long, and the shirt he was wearing had stains the origin which Watson would prefer not to know.
“I have been outside,” Holmes lied and Watson felt his brows trying to crawl up his forehead. They weren't in the habit of lying to each other, and the fact that Holmes would try, unsuccessfully, to do so now he found amusing and slightly disturbing.
He didn't say anything, though, certain that his old friend was more than capable to read the disbelief in his countenance.
"I might not possess your powers of deduction, Holmes," he said, keeping his tone light and faintly amused. He was certain Holmes would react badly if he left the concern he was feeling colour his tone. "But even I can tell you have not. And Mrs. Hudson is beside herself with worry."
"And in what way is that your concern?" Holmes said, sitting on the floor a couple of feet from Watson and staring at him. It was strange to see Holmes from a distance when they had kept none in the past, and that fact was more telling of the change in their relationship than the gold band around his finger. "Nanny sent for you. That, and no other, is the reason you're here, is it not?"
"I am your friend," he said with a sigh. It irked him he had to explain that to Holmes every single time. "That is the reason I am here now."
There was a cold glint in Holmes' eyes as he slowly nodded his head. "That you certainly are, my dear fellow," he said, though his tone suggested anything but and it pained Watson terribly to hear him speak thus. However much their relationship had been forced to change after Watson's engagement, the fact remained that Holmes was his dearest friend. And though Holmes would rather suffer a thousand deaths than admit it at current, Watson knew he was his. "Yet it has been two months since I was last granted the gift of your company. Now your wife is the keeper of your time, I am afraid we shall see less and less of each other."
Watson shook his head. "It need not be like that, Holmes," he said, almost a whisper. It was a transparent lie and both of them knew it. "I might not be with you all the time now, but I shall be more than happy to assist you on your cases when you need me to. But you need to take a case and get out of this room again." He took a breath, unsure if the next words ought to be spoken, sincere as they were. "My company is yours for the asking."
Holmes studied him coldly, weighing each word and dissecting their meaning in his head. Finally he reached a conclusion and approached Watson slowly, stopping mere inches from him and letting one of his hands rest on Watson's thigh. He inhaled sharply, the feeling of that warm hand familiar and at the same time unsettling. He knew what Holmes was doing and hated him for it.
He hated himself even more for wanting it.
"Is your company the only thing I still possess?" Holmes asked, his eyes full of hunger and reproach. "What else is mine for the asking?" The hand moved slightly upward and Watson had to suppress a shudder and remind himself of Mary. Dearly beloved Mary waiting for him at home.
He put his hand on top of Holmes' and stopped its movement. "My friendship will always be yours, dear fellow, and you need not ask for it," he said firmly, his gaze holding Holmes'.
Something shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a second inside Holmes' eyes, his face returning to the mask of cold aloofness Watson had seen a thousand times.
"Capital!" he said cheerily, moving away and finally getting to his feet. He moved to the hearth, his gaze resting momentarily on the morocco case on top of the mantelpiece before moving to one of his pipes. He turned to Watson, the pipe already on his lips. "I shall make sure to call for you when your assistance is needed, old chap." He lit his pipe and dragged slowly from it. "Now, I believe I shall take care of my correspondence and see if there is a sufficiently engaging case among the lot of undoubtedly uninteresting ones."
"Holmes--" Watson began, not sure of what he was going to say. He just didn't like to see his friend acting in such a fashion, and the fact that he was most certainly to blame for his condition only compounded the guilt and concern already writhing in his belly.
"You need not worry about me, dear Watson, for I shall be fine once I find a case, as you yourself noted before." Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hands and Watson knew there was going to be no reasoning with him anymore. But he'd take a case, if only to spite him, and for now that had to be enough. "Run along to your practice and your wife. I am not in need of your services at present but I shall make sure to contact you when that changes."
Watson nodded once and stood up from the chair, approaching his friend and extending his hand. Holmes looked at it for an instant as if it was something he had not seen before and then clasped it with his.
Watson felt the warmth of his friend's hand, those graceful fingers curling around his, and wished nothing more than being able to stay. Stay and everything else be damned.
Then the moment passed and he regained his senses.
"Good afternoon, Holmes," he said, keeping his voice steady by sheer force of will.
"You shall come back," Holmes said, the civil façade swiftly disappearing with the words, his voice nothing like the cheerful one he had used before, dark and heavy with longing and other unspoken things. It felt like a tragic prophecy uttered by the wretched Cassandra herself. "You shall come home."
Watson withdrew his hands as if burned and turned on his heel, beating a hasty retreat. He didn't look back, for he knew he would stay if he did.
But he knew his friend was right.
He always was.
…
He had never expected his next visit to Baker Street to be under such dire circumstances, although he shouldn't have been surprised. Not in the slightest.
His friend tended to throw himself into his cases with complete disregard for his own wellbeing, and used himself up rather freely when engaged in an interesting mystery. Exhaustion, abuse of unhealthy substances and lack of sleep and sustenance were something Watson was quite used to treating in Holmes. They concerned him, and he had had no few arguments with the infuriating fellow because of this while they were lodging together.
He wasn't concerned right now, what he was feeling was a worrying mixture of panic and fury startling in its intensity.
Holmes had assured him he would call him for assistance on his case, yet he had failed to do so. The results lay bleeding profusely from a stab wound, and several other cuts and lacerations, on top of his bed.
Watson would gladly beat him senseless right then and there if that didn't make saving the wretch's life all that harder.
With a deep breath he clenched his teeth and set to work. He could not let anything distract him from the task at hand, and had one second to be grateful that Holmes had lost consciousness and would not feel most of the process. One quick glance at Holmes' arm assured him that giving his friend an injection, no matter the type, might be a very bad idea. Not without knowing what he had been poisoning himself with and how often.
He didn't pay any attention to the constables surrounding them in the room, or Lestrade and his recounting of the events which had led to the current situation. He'd get that information out of Holmes' mouth as soon as he woke up, and then Watson would employ a few choice words of his own.
"As far as we know, Mr. Holmes was following a lead concerning that Professor he has been obsessing about," Lestrade's voice kept rambling in the background, the only sign that Watson heard him a tightening of his mouth while his hands staunched the blood and cleared the pale skin. "He insisted he did not want to go to the hospital, so I thought--"
"Yes. Thank you, Lestrade," he said, his brow furrowing now he could see the extent of the injuries. "Now, please, take your men with you. I need to concentrate."
"Of course, Doctor," Lestrade replied, sounding quite put upon but barking orders at the constables with alacrity all the same.
Watson finished working in silence, assessing the damage done by the knife and fixing it as best he could. It had bled quite a lot, but fortunately didn't seem life threatening anymore. He stitched it and cleaned the other injuries, wondering if Holmes' unconsciousness could be due to a hit in the head or sheer exhaustion.
"I swear to God, Holmes," he mumbled irately once he had finished tending to the wounds and bandaging them. It felt like days, even though it couldn't be more than a couple of hours since he had arrived. "I am going to kill you myself when you regain consciousness."
"That is hardly going to encourage me to let you know I am conscious," came Holmes' soft voice, startling Watson out of his reverie.
He looked up to see Holmes staring at him and all the words which had previously crowded his throat promptly vanished. Holmes looked like death warmed over, pale and frail and feverish. He was utterly stunning as he drew in his breath quietly, still very much alive.
"You are awake," he remarked quite unnecessarily and Holmes' amused quirk of a brow told him it had not gone unnoticed. Holmes didn't comment on it, though, instead clearing his throat and requesting a drink of water.
Watson fetched it in silence, passing it to him and watching as his Adam apple bobbed up and down as he drank. He waited for Holmes to say something once he had deposited the glass on the bedside table, but no words were forthcoming. He finally looked up to see Holmes watching him expectantly, as if he was granting him the honour of starting the conversation.
It was this gesture what finally pushed him over the edge, as the fear he had felt seeing Holmes injured and the fury at his friend's condescension blazed suddenly through his veins. He wanted to throttle the infuriating man.
"Pray tell, Holmes," he began frigidly and was gratified to see a startled expression crossing his friend's features before it was smoothed down in his usual calm one. "How is it that I have to learn you have taken a dangerous case, one which would have benefited by the assistance of a doctor, not to mention another pair of eyes and a handgun, only in time to patch you up?"
Holmes regarded him with a calculating expression for an instant before waving a pale hand dismissively. "It was never a serious matter, my dear man. Nothing you needed concern yourself with."
Watson narrowed his eyes at the blatant lie. "Nothing I needed concern myself with, you say?" he repeated, disbelieve thick in his voice.
"Just a trifle, Watson," Holmes insisted, his calmness only infuriating him more. "I would not take you away from your family and duties for such a small detail."
"A small detail that very nearly cost you your life," Watson snapped, standing from the chair and pacing around the room. He needed to put some distance between his friend and himself, or he was going to do something he might regret.
Holmes shrugged slightly, a small wince of pain at the gesture making Watson cock an eyebrow at him.
"Is just a scratch, my friend. In no time I will be--"
"Pursuing Moriarty again?" Watson cut him coldly, approaching the bed and standing next to it. From that position he towered over Holmes and he'd normally just sit down to bring their eyes to the same level. Tonight, however, he was too angry to care for such niceties. "On your own? Next time you might not be so fortunate as to get out with just a scratch." He reined in his temper, though he could still feel the fury coursing through his veins. It would accomplish nothing to get in another argument with Holmes. "Holmes, you know I would accompany you if only you asked me to. Your safety is very important to me. I'd never leave your side if you are in any kind of danger."
Holmes studied him for a second and finally sighed. "That is the reason I did not," he said quietly. His eyes were still clouded by pain and whatever drugs he had been taking, and to Watson they looked unbearably sad. "The Professor is dangerous, my dear man, and allowing you assist me in his pursuit would put you in peril. I can't allow that."
Watson shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Holmes' hands between his. The contact felt somehow wrong after all that time, almost forced, and he couldn't help but compare those big calloused hands with the smaller and softer ones which now belonged between his. It was painful that something which had come so naturally before was now so disturbingly alien, and Watson resolutely ignored the feeling. "You have never hesitated to take me with you before, no matter how dangerous the case should prove to be," he pointed out.
Holmes looked at their joined hands for an instant, his expression undecipherable, before his eyes moved up to stare at Watson. "That was before, my friend."
"Nothing has changed, Holmes!" Even as the words escaped his lips Watson knew them for a lie. Everything had changed, and he had been the one who wanted it that way. Holmes laughed humourlessly.
"You know you cannot have everything, my dear Watson," he said, giving his hand a light squeeze to take the sting off his words. "I would have taken with me my companion and friend, the good Doctor, even if there was a big risk involved. I cannot take Mary's husband." Watson closed his eyes at that, pained, and opened his mouth to protest. "No, do not speak," Holmes interrupted him. "You know what I say is the truth. There will be other cases, and I will share them with you. But not this one. The risk is too high, and though you have called me devoid of feelings before, do not think me heartless enough to inflict the loss of you on your sweet wife. That one of us has to bear it is more than enough."
"Holmes," he began, unsure of what he was going to say but unable to remain silent. "I--"
"You made your choice, and it is the right one for you. I do not begrudge you took your chance at happiness," Holmes voice was uncommonly soft, the look in his eyes pained and resigned. Watson felt regret that he couldn't, indeed, have everything. "I am not an easy man to love, as you so well know, and I apologize for my actions last time you came. Now, please leave so I can have some rest."
Watson couldn't remember the last time he had been speechless, or when he had heard a sincere apology from Holmes' mouth. He tried to compose himself, focusing in the shared heat of their joined hands, no longer feeling strange together.
"You have been wounded, Holmes. I should stay here to take care of you, as your doctor," he finally said lamely, trying not to feel hurt than now he wanted to stay, Holmes was the one asking him to go.
"I have finally come to terms with you leaving; you shall undo all my work if you insist in staying," Holmes said with a quirk of his lips before giving Watson's hand a last squeeze and releasing it. Watson tried not to feel the loss too keenly and failed miserably. "Go home to your wife. I am fine."
"You are injured," he protested.
"I shall be fine," Holmes stressed, finally closing his eyes again.
Watson knew when he was defeated, there wasn't a more stubborn man alive than Sherlock Holmes, and if he didn't leave on his own his friend was surely going to try to eject him bodily from his home, never mind his wounds.
"Expect me back in the morning to check your injuries," he said standing from the bed. "Make sure to call me if you feel feverish or in pain. And do not take cocaine, that is an order from your doctor."
"Yes, mother hen," Holmes said without opening his eyes, a faint trace of amusement clear in his voice.
"I shall know if you do," he said before closing the door, casting one last look at his friend.
Holmes was right, as was usual with him. Watson had made a choice, and now he had to live with it.
He had been trying very hard not to regret it, but some days were harder than others.
…
In hindsight, Watson should have known Holmes had been saying goodbye.
Now, looking around the dark and empty flat that used to be their home, he wondered how it was he hadn't realized or seen it happening.
He had been too angry and hurt, too invested in his own emotions to actually notice the clues. Holmes would have been disappointed that a few months apart had so affected his deductive abilities, not that Holmes was going to be feeling disappointment, or anything else at all, again.
He should have known. Should have known and should have stayed. Forced the stubborn man to take him along everywhere in that case regardless of the risk. Mary would have understood, she did understand.
The fact remained, however, that Watson had failed to see past the apology and the quiet resignation in Holmes' gaze, and he had left that night for his home and wife. He had felt terrible at the time, but that didn't stop him leaving. He had kept his word and visited every day until Holmes' wounds were fully healed and after that he had not seen him for a fortnight.
When he suddenly reappeared at his practice and asked for his assistance, Watson had not hesitated. Not even if it meant a trip to the Continent.
He had not known what to expect from that trip, but he had gone willingly. Mary was going to be absent for a few weeks and Watson had missed the thrill of being with Holmes. He had believed they would encounter a considerable amount of peril, and that they would emerge victorious as they always did. He had also believed close proximity with Holmes would test his resolve to stay faithful to his wife.
He had been wrong in both accounts.
It had been almost like the old times between them, easy camaraderie and long conversations and everything his life in Baker Street had been at the beginning. Holmes had not pressed him for more than his friendship and company, and Watson had a hard time making up his mind whether he was grateful or disappointed for that.
And yes, they had emerged victorious. Or at least he had.
He didn't feel like a victor, though. He felt like he had lost a huge part of himself and would never be whole again.
"John?" Mary's soft voice called him from the door and he turned to look at her, marvelling as he always did at the beauty and frailty of human life. She was a fine example of both, though she wasn't aware of that just yet. And for a moment Watson loved her more than he had thought possible.
That moment passed, and he wondered if he was being punished for his greed.
Holmes had said he couldn't have everything, and Watson had known that to be the truth.
He had still tried.
Watson had tried, like a greedy child insisted on getting his hands on everything he wanted, completely unaware of the consequences of his actions.
Watson had known, even as he was falling in love with Mary, that their time together was limited. He had chosen her, as Holmes had said, but not for a chance at happiness and normalcy Holmes himself couldn't give. Had normalcy been among Watson's cravings, he would have never fallen for Holmes. He had chosen her because of the two of them she was the one Watson was going to lose first.
There would always be the time to make amends and earn his friend's forgiveness later. Or so he had believed it.
And now he, who had thought he could have a part of both for as long as he could, found himself suddenly about to lose everything.
"Are you alright, John?" she said, her voice chocked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and unbearably sad.
Mary had been comforting poor Mrs Hudson, the long-suffering woman who had scolded and fought with Holmes the entire time he had been living there. She was mourning him as she would mourn a son, and Watson knew Holmes would have been amused by the idea.
Amused and humbled, for he knew Holmes had cared for her too in his own way.
He shook his head, unable to form the words to reassure Mary that he was. It didn't really matter, for she would have seen through the lie. He wasn't alright, and at that time it felt as if he would never be again. Was it possible to keep living with just half a soul?
She walked to him and enfolded him in a gentle embrace, her hand resting soothingly on the small of his back.
"We all feel his passing," she said in his ear, a whisper meant to comfort him. "He was a great man, one of a kind."
Watson could tell she meant every word. In spite of everything that had transpired between her and Holmes, she had also cared for him.
He stayed in her arms for a few seconds, drawing peace from her presence and her quiet love. Watson closed his eyes to prevent the assault of the memories breaking him there and then. The flat was filled with them and his sorrow ran too deep.
He needed to get out of there.
He took a deep breath, pushing all his feelings to the back of his mind just so he would be able to get out of the house, and disentangled himself from Mary, depositing a chaste kiss on her forehead as thanks.
His eyes opened and they fell on the violin, his composure breaking for an instant at the sight of the instrument. Hundreds of unwanted memories assaulted him: Holmes playing when he was in a good mood, his hands moving over the strings masterfully while his bow scrapped them. Holmes, dishevelled and drugged, plucking at the strings distractedly while he rambled on and on about some insubstantial thing. Holmes gesturing with the bow, immersed in his own mind while he clarified some small detail of a case. Holmes, Holmes, always Holmes.
He tore his eyes away from the bow and headed to the door, almost shaking with longing and grief.
"Shall we go home, Mary?" he said, his voice sounding so unlike his own it took him a second to realize he was the one talking.
He didn't wait for her response, descending the stairs and hailing a hansom immediately.
It wasn't until a few days later that he noticed the Stradivarius and the bow in his own home.
He was sure he had not taken them, and at that moment he loved his wife more than ever before.
…
Watson felt as if he had never left, and yet everything was vastly different.
He turned off the voice of Holmes congratulating himself for his cleverness, the very sound of it grating, like someone was scraping broken glass over his nerves. He couldn't understand it; he had been so very glad to see him alive and whole a few hours ago.
But now, now Watson would give anything to be anywhere but here, within the set of familiar walls in the presence of Holmes.
Earlier, he had stared at him breathless with wonder, for his joy at seeing his friend alive was almost overwhelming. Right now he was finding breathing hard again, albeit for completely different reasons.
He was suffocating. He felt he was choking in his own rage and clenching his fist to prevent himself from doing something stupid, such as killing Holmes and making sure he stayed dead this time around. He had been played for a fool, tricked and plunged into the deepest despair by the one person he had trusted with his life.
He could hear the crunch of broken glass under his feet as he walked to the window, staring down at the street and willing his heartbeat to slow down, the rush of blood in his veins to calm, his fury to subdue. It wasn't easy, not when he remembered the pain and loss of the last few years and the harrowing half life in which he had been existing since Mary also left him.
Maybe he was wrong; maybe losing them both wasn't his punishment. This was.
He thought about the past few months, and the task which had become drawing breath second by second and living minute by minute when there wasn't anything left for him to live for. He thought about the years before that, when he should have been devoting his time and attention to Mary, being by her side and loving her as much as he could. He had been unable to, far too hollowed out by grief and a sense of guilt.
And now, now--
"You are too silent, my friend."
Watson sprang unexpectedly, whether from Holmes' words or from the way his hand touched Watson's shoulder, he didn't know. He just knew that one second he was staring out of the window, unseeing, counting his exhalations as a means of keeping his temper, and the next he had Holmes pressed against the bookcase, eyes wide with surprise and what he thought was a hint of fear.
He relished seeing it there, and even more being the one to cause it.
"Was it amusing?" Watson wanted to say, the words scorching his throat on their way to his lips. "Did you enjoy these past years, knowing I believed you dead? Did you even spare a thought for me and what I might be feeling?" He didn't, though, the breath necessary for such a speech stricken out of his lungs at Holmes' expression. "Why?" he managed in a chocked whisper.
He didn't wait for a reply, pressing his lips against Holmes' slightly parted ones swallowing whatever answer his friend would have thought to utter. It wasn't anything like the reunions he had often dreamt about, joyous and passionate, nor like any of the kisses they had shared before, gentle and needy and desperate. It was raw and painful and Holmes wasn't moving at all, not reciprocating or rejecting him. He just stood there with his mouth open and took it.
Watson poured his grief and pain and anger into Holmes' mouth, shaping it with his lips and forcing it on him, small keening sounds escaping his throat. Holmes' hands came up to rest on his back, but that was all the reaction he got.
"John," Holmes said when he finally pulled back, defeated, resting his forehead against Watson's neck.
"Do not presume to call me that," he said, the fury inside him receding and leaving off only despair in its wake. "You have no right." He didn't move back, though, feeling as if his legs wouldn't support him all the way to the couch now his anger wasn't fuelling him.
There was no response to his words, for Holmes had turned into a statue of salt against his body. Watson gripped his shoulders tighter, his fingers pressing hard enough to hurt. The silence stretched between them, strained. "Why?" Watson asked again when the tension became unbearable.
"I had to." Holmes' voice reached him when Watson had all but given up on ever receiving an answer. "The Professor was dangerous, and his associates were not less of a threat without him. And you are stubborn. You would have followed me."
No, he wanted to say, but he knew Holmes was right. He would have followed.
"You would have and you know it," Holmes said, a tinge of amusement in his voice, proving that he still could read Watson's mind even after such a lengthy separation. "And I already told you I could not inflict the loss of you on your wife."
Watson took a tentative step back, putting some distance between him and Holmes and looking up at his face. It was carefully schooled into blankness, not a hint of what his friend might be feeling showing on his features.
"But you could inflict the loss of you on me," he said, not disguising the bitterness he felt. He thought he saw a flicker of regret in Holmes' expression, gone too fast for him to be certain it had been there. "You have no idea how it was, how I felt knowing you would never come back and I--"
"I did the same to myself, Watson," he said, the mask slipping for a second, his voice hot with anger and many other emotions Watson was unable to name. "You had chosen her, and if I had any hope of keeping part of you--" he trailed off, his eyes narrowing and fixing on a spot past Watson's shoulder.
He felt a slight push to his chest and took a few more steps back, letting Holmes move from the spot where he had slammed him against the bookcase. He moved straight to the mantelpiece, picking up one of his pipes and filling it with quick and efficient moves, his hands betraying the smallest of tremors.
"The need your wife was going to have of you would eventually have been greater than mine," Holmes said not looking at him and Watson felt the blood freezing in his veins at the implication. "And you were going to need her. I felt unable, therefore, to remain here and simply be one of your old friends. I would have tried to tempt you again."
"You--" he tried to speak past the lump in his throat.
"I do not know if I feared more your rejection or your acceptance," Holmes said, glaring at the floor. "I did not want you to be any different than you are, and you would never betray your wife, especially in her condition. I wish I were good enough as a man not to be hurt by it, or to stop pushing. But I am as I am."
He walked the remaining step to the couch and fell heavily on it, staring at Holmes. "You knew?" he asked faintly.
"No, but you did." Holmes shook his head sadly. "I know now, I thought she was in a different condition at the time. When I learned the truth the only thing left for me was to come back and pick up the pieces."
He needed to get out of there, the weight of his mistakes and Holmes' choices too heavy. He needed time to think. He stood up.
"Watson," Holmes began.
"I have to go," he said, gathering his coat and hat and moving to the door. The air inside the room was insufficient to fill his lungs, and he felt like he was suffocating.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry."
"So am I," he said before closing the door and leaving.
…
Watson looked at the violin in his hand and steeled his resolve, climbing up the seventeen steps of his former house.
He had been thinking, since the last time he was there it was all he could think about. He had been unfair to Holmes and now it was the time to make amends.
He opened the door after a brief knock, wondering about the state he might find his friend in. He had a moment to marvel at the symmetry of the situation, though this time there had been no summons for him.
The room was clean and full of light, and he was pleased to see Holmes' languidly sprawled on the couch but looking alert and awake. There was a flicker of surprised pleasure in his eyes when he saw Watson, a soft smile adorning his features.
Hi eyes moved to the violin then and the smile stretched.
"I have been wondering where it was," Holmes said as a way of greeting, "I even cleaned the room looking for it."
Watson walked up to him and presented the instrument, Holmes picking it up with reverence. He watched as his fingers caressed the polished wood as they would a lover and felt a wave of warmth at his luck to be able to see the familiar gesture again.
"I have kept it as best I could," he said, moving to sit on the settee. "Though I imagine it must be awfully out of tune by now."
"It does not matter, my dear man," Holmes said standing up. "It has come back home, where it belongs." He looked at Watson as those words left his lips and both of them knew he wasn't referring just to the Stradivarius.
Watson watched him as he moved to pour two glasses of brandy before offering him one and sitting back on the couch with the other.
He thought of everything that had passed in the past few years, their mistakes, the way they kept hurting each other and how everything had played out for this moment. They would probably do it all over again, causing pain and inflicting wounds with casual ease.
But they would also be there to try and fix things again.
And he also thought about Mary, her love and understanding. And he knew what she would have said and done.
"It has been a long time since I heard a good piece," he said, relaxing back and taking a sip of the brandy.
As if he had been waiting for his cue, Holmes stood up and put the violin under his chin. "I shall play whichever piece you would care to hear, my friend."
"Anything will be masterful in your hands, my dear friend," he said, closing his eyes and waiting for the music to begin.
They still had much to talk about, and Watson knew it wouldn't be easy between them, but he let the sounds conjured by his friend fill his senses and lull him into a feeling of happiness he had thought forever beyond his reach.
Holmes was right, he was where he belonged.
He was home.
…
Author: aviss
Rating: Pg-13
Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Summary: Watson knows he can't stay away from Baker Street and Holmes, but he tries.
Word Count: ~6.600
Disclaimer: All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Author's Notes: Title is from No Doubt's song Home Now. A million thanks to my beta faire_estela, who kept me awake till late at night making sure this was properly written. Thanks love! Written for < lj user=foxypadawan> for the hw09_exchange
Neglect of Normalcy
Watson had never imagined he would be back in Baker Street so soon after the wedding, as if the promises made to Mary had turned to dust in the intervening months since the vows were uttered from his lips. There hadn't been that many, and yet, to him, each day away from that place felt like a dream.
Watson understood there would come a day when he would have to return if only because of his friendship with Holmes. Married or not, Watson was still loyal to his friends even if Holmes himself didn't make it easy for him to be.
He was forced to admit he had missed the man and Mary, bless her soul, understood him perfectly on that regard.
"Dearest John, if you so wish to go, you certainly should," she had exclaimed after reading the short missive from Mrs. Hudson. The worry etched on Watson's face clear enough for Mary to interpret. "I would never stop you from going to see your old friend."
She hadn't, and he had to thank her for that. Mary had not been the one who had kept him away from Baker Street and Holmes; it had been his own misguided sense of loyalty to his wife. It felt as if he were betraying her just by wanting to be there, though not for the reasons she might suspect.
"Try to stay in one piece, though, should you follow him in one of his adventures," she warned him before depositing a chaste kiss on his cheek and sending him on his way. "Remember you have a wife to come back to now."
And that he would not forget.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door as soon as Watson's first knock sounded, the relief on her face at his presence giving way to a disapproving frown the moment the door was closed.
"He has not come out of his room in a month, nor would he let me enter it," she said, lips pinched in an unhappy line. "I leave him food by the door and pick up the tray in the morning. Sometimes it is empty; if it wasn't for that, I would suspect he has died inside that room."
Watson nodded and headed up the stairs, worry writhing in his belly at the condition he might find his friend in. It wasn’t healthy for Holmes to be idle, his not inconsiderable intellect needing more stimulus than most to keep him engaged. When Holmes had no case to solve his own genius became self-destructive, and without Watson there to keep him from his less than healthy habits who knew what might become of him.
Watson rapped lightly on the door before opening it, not quite waiting for leave to enter. He had a thought he might be overstepping his bounds by entering uninvited for he had forfeited the ownership of those rooms.
The state of the room overrode any misgiving he had. They had always been messy but now they were filthy, the heavy curtains not obscuring enough of the view to prevent him from flinching.
"Oh, Holmes, what are you doing to yourself?" he said in a sorrowful tone, closing the door behind him and moving to open the curtains.
The light streaming through the window didn't improve the sight any, though the moan that issued from some part of the wreckage indicated the location of his old friend.
"Holmes," he called, turning in the direction of a heap of blankets stirring faintly in the middle of the room and trying to keep his tone as neutral and friendly as possible. "What are you doing on the floor, old chap?"
A hand poked up from under the blankets, its paleness in startling contrast with the deep burgundy of the fabric.
"Watson?"
A head followed the hand, tousled dark hair and a pair of deep grey eyes blinking slowly in the light. They stared at him, unfocused, following his movements as he went to the other window and pulled the curtain back as well.
"Careful," Holmes mumbled, almost a moan, his eyelids opening and closing faster now. In the distance, his fluttering lashes reminded Watson of a trapped butterfly trying to escape a glass prison. He shook his head slightly to dislodge that odd thought. "What are you doing here, Watson? Has marital bliss already turned sour and your wife kicked you out of her side?" The words were delivered without the usual sting. Watson could only detect the faintest trace of longing colouring them.
"Mrs. Hudson thought you might have died in here," he replied, quickly disposing of the pile of newspapers on top of the chair--his chair--and taking a seat. "You certainly look the part. How long has it been since you have been outside this room?" He asked as if he didn't know the answer already.
Holmes crawled fully from under the blanket and Watson saw, his brow furrowing in a scowl, that he looked as filthy and unkempt as the room. He had not shaved in God knew how long, and the shirt he was wearing had stains the origin which Watson would prefer not to know.
“I have been outside,” Holmes lied and Watson felt his brows trying to crawl up his forehead. They weren't in the habit of lying to each other, and the fact that Holmes would try, unsuccessfully, to do so now he found amusing and slightly disturbing.
He didn't say anything, though, certain that his old friend was more than capable to read the disbelief in his countenance.
"I might not possess your powers of deduction, Holmes," he said, keeping his tone light and faintly amused. He was certain Holmes would react badly if he left the concern he was feeling colour his tone. "But even I can tell you have not. And Mrs. Hudson is beside herself with worry."
"And in what way is that your concern?" Holmes said, sitting on the floor a couple of feet from Watson and staring at him. It was strange to see Holmes from a distance when they had kept none in the past, and that fact was more telling of the change in their relationship than the gold band around his finger. "Nanny sent for you. That, and no other, is the reason you're here, is it not?"
"I am your friend," he said with a sigh. It irked him he had to explain that to Holmes every single time. "That is the reason I am here now."
There was a cold glint in Holmes' eyes as he slowly nodded his head. "That you certainly are, my dear fellow," he said, though his tone suggested anything but and it pained Watson terribly to hear him speak thus. However much their relationship had been forced to change after Watson's engagement, the fact remained that Holmes was his dearest friend. And though Holmes would rather suffer a thousand deaths than admit it at current, Watson knew he was his. "Yet it has been two months since I was last granted the gift of your company. Now your wife is the keeper of your time, I am afraid we shall see less and less of each other."
Watson shook his head. "It need not be like that, Holmes," he said, almost a whisper. It was a transparent lie and both of them knew it. "I might not be with you all the time now, but I shall be more than happy to assist you on your cases when you need me to. But you need to take a case and get out of this room again." He took a breath, unsure if the next words ought to be spoken, sincere as they were. "My company is yours for the asking."
Holmes studied him coldly, weighing each word and dissecting their meaning in his head. Finally he reached a conclusion and approached Watson slowly, stopping mere inches from him and letting one of his hands rest on Watson's thigh. He inhaled sharply, the feeling of that warm hand familiar and at the same time unsettling. He knew what Holmes was doing and hated him for it.
He hated himself even more for wanting it.
"Is your company the only thing I still possess?" Holmes asked, his eyes full of hunger and reproach. "What else is mine for the asking?" The hand moved slightly upward and Watson had to suppress a shudder and remind himself of Mary. Dearly beloved Mary waiting for him at home.
He put his hand on top of Holmes' and stopped its movement. "My friendship will always be yours, dear fellow, and you need not ask for it," he said firmly, his gaze holding Holmes'.
Something shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a second inside Holmes' eyes, his face returning to the mask of cold aloofness Watson had seen a thousand times.
"Capital!" he said cheerily, moving away and finally getting to his feet. He moved to the hearth, his gaze resting momentarily on the morocco case on top of the mantelpiece before moving to one of his pipes. He turned to Watson, the pipe already on his lips. "I shall make sure to call for you when your assistance is needed, old chap." He lit his pipe and dragged slowly from it. "Now, I believe I shall take care of my correspondence and see if there is a sufficiently engaging case among the lot of undoubtedly uninteresting ones."
"Holmes--" Watson began, not sure of what he was going to say. He just didn't like to see his friend acting in such a fashion, and the fact that he was most certainly to blame for his condition only compounded the guilt and concern already writhing in his belly.
"You need not worry about me, dear Watson, for I shall be fine once I find a case, as you yourself noted before." Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hands and Watson knew there was going to be no reasoning with him anymore. But he'd take a case, if only to spite him, and for now that had to be enough. "Run along to your practice and your wife. I am not in need of your services at present but I shall make sure to contact you when that changes."
Watson nodded once and stood up from the chair, approaching his friend and extending his hand. Holmes looked at it for an instant as if it was something he had not seen before and then clasped it with his.
Watson felt the warmth of his friend's hand, those graceful fingers curling around his, and wished nothing more than being able to stay. Stay and everything else be damned.
Then the moment passed and he regained his senses.
"Good afternoon, Holmes," he said, keeping his voice steady by sheer force of will.
"You shall come back," Holmes said, the civil façade swiftly disappearing with the words, his voice nothing like the cheerful one he had used before, dark and heavy with longing and other unspoken things. It felt like a tragic prophecy uttered by the wretched Cassandra herself. "You shall come home."
Watson withdrew his hands as if burned and turned on his heel, beating a hasty retreat. He didn't look back, for he knew he would stay if he did.
But he knew his friend was right.
He always was.
…
He had never expected his next visit to Baker Street to be under such dire circumstances, although he shouldn't have been surprised. Not in the slightest.
His friend tended to throw himself into his cases with complete disregard for his own wellbeing, and used himself up rather freely when engaged in an interesting mystery. Exhaustion, abuse of unhealthy substances and lack of sleep and sustenance were something Watson was quite used to treating in Holmes. They concerned him, and he had had no few arguments with the infuriating fellow because of this while they were lodging together.
He wasn't concerned right now, what he was feeling was a worrying mixture of panic and fury startling in its intensity.
Holmes had assured him he would call him for assistance on his case, yet he had failed to do so. The results lay bleeding profusely from a stab wound, and several other cuts and lacerations, on top of his bed.
Watson would gladly beat him senseless right then and there if that didn't make saving the wretch's life all that harder.
With a deep breath he clenched his teeth and set to work. He could not let anything distract him from the task at hand, and had one second to be grateful that Holmes had lost consciousness and would not feel most of the process. One quick glance at Holmes' arm assured him that giving his friend an injection, no matter the type, might be a very bad idea. Not without knowing what he had been poisoning himself with and how often.
He didn't pay any attention to the constables surrounding them in the room, or Lestrade and his recounting of the events which had led to the current situation. He'd get that information out of Holmes' mouth as soon as he woke up, and then Watson would employ a few choice words of his own.
"As far as we know, Mr. Holmes was following a lead concerning that Professor he has been obsessing about," Lestrade's voice kept rambling in the background, the only sign that Watson heard him a tightening of his mouth while his hands staunched the blood and cleared the pale skin. "He insisted he did not want to go to the hospital, so I thought--"
"Yes. Thank you, Lestrade," he said, his brow furrowing now he could see the extent of the injuries. "Now, please, take your men with you. I need to concentrate."
"Of course, Doctor," Lestrade replied, sounding quite put upon but barking orders at the constables with alacrity all the same.
Watson finished working in silence, assessing the damage done by the knife and fixing it as best he could. It had bled quite a lot, but fortunately didn't seem life threatening anymore. He stitched it and cleaned the other injuries, wondering if Holmes' unconsciousness could be due to a hit in the head or sheer exhaustion.
"I swear to God, Holmes," he mumbled irately once he had finished tending to the wounds and bandaging them. It felt like days, even though it couldn't be more than a couple of hours since he had arrived. "I am going to kill you myself when you regain consciousness."
"That is hardly going to encourage me to let you know I am conscious," came Holmes' soft voice, startling Watson out of his reverie.
He looked up to see Holmes staring at him and all the words which had previously crowded his throat promptly vanished. Holmes looked like death warmed over, pale and frail and feverish. He was utterly stunning as he drew in his breath quietly, still very much alive.
"You are awake," he remarked quite unnecessarily and Holmes' amused quirk of a brow told him it had not gone unnoticed. Holmes didn't comment on it, though, instead clearing his throat and requesting a drink of water.
Watson fetched it in silence, passing it to him and watching as his Adam apple bobbed up and down as he drank. He waited for Holmes to say something once he had deposited the glass on the bedside table, but no words were forthcoming. He finally looked up to see Holmes watching him expectantly, as if he was granting him the honour of starting the conversation.
It was this gesture what finally pushed him over the edge, as the fear he had felt seeing Holmes injured and the fury at his friend's condescension blazed suddenly through his veins. He wanted to throttle the infuriating man.
"Pray tell, Holmes," he began frigidly and was gratified to see a startled expression crossing his friend's features before it was smoothed down in his usual calm one. "How is it that I have to learn you have taken a dangerous case, one which would have benefited by the assistance of a doctor, not to mention another pair of eyes and a handgun, only in time to patch you up?"
Holmes regarded him with a calculating expression for an instant before waving a pale hand dismissively. "It was never a serious matter, my dear man. Nothing you needed concern yourself with."
Watson narrowed his eyes at the blatant lie. "Nothing I needed concern myself with, you say?" he repeated, disbelieve thick in his voice.
"Just a trifle, Watson," Holmes insisted, his calmness only infuriating him more. "I would not take you away from your family and duties for such a small detail."
"A small detail that very nearly cost you your life," Watson snapped, standing from the chair and pacing around the room. He needed to put some distance between his friend and himself, or he was going to do something he might regret.
Holmes shrugged slightly, a small wince of pain at the gesture making Watson cock an eyebrow at him.
"Is just a scratch, my friend. In no time I will be--"
"Pursuing Moriarty again?" Watson cut him coldly, approaching the bed and standing next to it. From that position he towered over Holmes and he'd normally just sit down to bring their eyes to the same level. Tonight, however, he was too angry to care for such niceties. "On your own? Next time you might not be so fortunate as to get out with just a scratch." He reined in his temper, though he could still feel the fury coursing through his veins. It would accomplish nothing to get in another argument with Holmes. "Holmes, you know I would accompany you if only you asked me to. Your safety is very important to me. I'd never leave your side if you are in any kind of danger."
Holmes studied him for a second and finally sighed. "That is the reason I did not," he said quietly. His eyes were still clouded by pain and whatever drugs he had been taking, and to Watson they looked unbearably sad. "The Professor is dangerous, my dear man, and allowing you assist me in his pursuit would put you in peril. I can't allow that."
Watson shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Holmes' hands between his. The contact felt somehow wrong after all that time, almost forced, and he couldn't help but compare those big calloused hands with the smaller and softer ones which now belonged between his. It was painful that something which had come so naturally before was now so disturbingly alien, and Watson resolutely ignored the feeling. "You have never hesitated to take me with you before, no matter how dangerous the case should prove to be," he pointed out.
Holmes looked at their joined hands for an instant, his expression undecipherable, before his eyes moved up to stare at Watson. "That was before, my friend."
"Nothing has changed, Holmes!" Even as the words escaped his lips Watson knew them for a lie. Everything had changed, and he had been the one who wanted it that way. Holmes laughed humourlessly.
"You know you cannot have everything, my dear Watson," he said, giving his hand a light squeeze to take the sting off his words. "I would have taken with me my companion and friend, the good Doctor, even if there was a big risk involved. I cannot take Mary's husband." Watson closed his eyes at that, pained, and opened his mouth to protest. "No, do not speak," Holmes interrupted him. "You know what I say is the truth. There will be other cases, and I will share them with you. But not this one. The risk is too high, and though you have called me devoid of feelings before, do not think me heartless enough to inflict the loss of you on your sweet wife. That one of us has to bear it is more than enough."
"Holmes," he began, unsure of what he was going to say but unable to remain silent. "I--"
"You made your choice, and it is the right one for you. I do not begrudge you took your chance at happiness," Holmes voice was uncommonly soft, the look in his eyes pained and resigned. Watson felt regret that he couldn't, indeed, have everything. "I am not an easy man to love, as you so well know, and I apologize for my actions last time you came. Now, please leave so I can have some rest."
Watson couldn't remember the last time he had been speechless, or when he had heard a sincere apology from Holmes' mouth. He tried to compose himself, focusing in the shared heat of their joined hands, no longer feeling strange together.
"You have been wounded, Holmes. I should stay here to take care of you, as your doctor," he finally said lamely, trying not to feel hurt than now he wanted to stay, Holmes was the one asking him to go.
"I have finally come to terms with you leaving; you shall undo all my work if you insist in staying," Holmes said with a quirk of his lips before giving Watson's hand a last squeeze and releasing it. Watson tried not to feel the loss too keenly and failed miserably. "Go home to your wife. I am fine."
"You are injured," he protested.
"I shall be fine," Holmes stressed, finally closing his eyes again.
Watson knew when he was defeated, there wasn't a more stubborn man alive than Sherlock Holmes, and if he didn't leave on his own his friend was surely going to try to eject him bodily from his home, never mind his wounds.
"Expect me back in the morning to check your injuries," he said standing from the bed. "Make sure to call me if you feel feverish or in pain. And do not take cocaine, that is an order from your doctor."
"Yes, mother hen," Holmes said without opening his eyes, a faint trace of amusement clear in his voice.
"I shall know if you do," he said before closing the door, casting one last look at his friend.
Holmes was right, as was usual with him. Watson had made a choice, and now he had to live with it.
He had been trying very hard not to regret it, but some days were harder than others.
…
In hindsight, Watson should have known Holmes had been saying goodbye.
Now, looking around the dark and empty flat that used to be their home, he wondered how it was he hadn't realized or seen it happening.
He had been too angry and hurt, too invested in his own emotions to actually notice the clues. Holmes would have been disappointed that a few months apart had so affected his deductive abilities, not that Holmes was going to be feeling disappointment, or anything else at all, again.
He should have known. Should have known and should have stayed. Forced the stubborn man to take him along everywhere in that case regardless of the risk. Mary would have understood, she did understand.
The fact remained, however, that Watson had failed to see past the apology and the quiet resignation in Holmes' gaze, and he had left that night for his home and wife. He had felt terrible at the time, but that didn't stop him leaving. He had kept his word and visited every day until Holmes' wounds were fully healed and after that he had not seen him for a fortnight.
When he suddenly reappeared at his practice and asked for his assistance, Watson had not hesitated. Not even if it meant a trip to the Continent.
He had not known what to expect from that trip, but he had gone willingly. Mary was going to be absent for a few weeks and Watson had missed the thrill of being with Holmes. He had believed they would encounter a considerable amount of peril, and that they would emerge victorious as they always did. He had also believed close proximity with Holmes would test his resolve to stay faithful to his wife.
He had been wrong in both accounts.
It had been almost like the old times between them, easy camaraderie and long conversations and everything his life in Baker Street had been at the beginning. Holmes had not pressed him for more than his friendship and company, and Watson had a hard time making up his mind whether he was grateful or disappointed for that.
And yes, they had emerged victorious. Or at least he had.
He didn't feel like a victor, though. He felt like he had lost a huge part of himself and would never be whole again.
"John?" Mary's soft voice called him from the door and he turned to look at her, marvelling as he always did at the beauty and frailty of human life. She was a fine example of both, though she wasn't aware of that just yet. And for a moment Watson loved her more than he had thought possible.
That moment passed, and he wondered if he was being punished for his greed.
Holmes had said he couldn't have everything, and Watson had known that to be the truth.
He had still tried.
Watson had tried, like a greedy child insisted on getting his hands on everything he wanted, completely unaware of the consequences of his actions.
Watson had known, even as he was falling in love with Mary, that their time together was limited. He had chosen her, as Holmes had said, but not for a chance at happiness and normalcy Holmes himself couldn't give. Had normalcy been among Watson's cravings, he would have never fallen for Holmes. He had chosen her because of the two of them she was the one Watson was going to lose first.
There would always be the time to make amends and earn his friend's forgiveness later. Or so he had believed it.
And now he, who had thought he could have a part of both for as long as he could, found himself suddenly about to lose everything.
"Are you alright, John?" she said, her voice chocked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and unbearably sad.
Mary had been comforting poor Mrs Hudson, the long-suffering woman who had scolded and fought with Holmes the entire time he had been living there. She was mourning him as she would mourn a son, and Watson knew Holmes would have been amused by the idea.
Amused and humbled, for he knew Holmes had cared for her too in his own way.
He shook his head, unable to form the words to reassure Mary that he was. It didn't really matter, for she would have seen through the lie. He wasn't alright, and at that time it felt as if he would never be again. Was it possible to keep living with just half a soul?
She walked to him and enfolded him in a gentle embrace, her hand resting soothingly on the small of his back.
"We all feel his passing," she said in his ear, a whisper meant to comfort him. "He was a great man, one of a kind."
Watson could tell she meant every word. In spite of everything that had transpired between her and Holmes, she had also cared for him.
He stayed in her arms for a few seconds, drawing peace from her presence and her quiet love. Watson closed his eyes to prevent the assault of the memories breaking him there and then. The flat was filled with them and his sorrow ran too deep.
He needed to get out of there.
He took a deep breath, pushing all his feelings to the back of his mind just so he would be able to get out of the house, and disentangled himself from Mary, depositing a chaste kiss on her forehead as thanks.
His eyes opened and they fell on the violin, his composure breaking for an instant at the sight of the instrument. Hundreds of unwanted memories assaulted him: Holmes playing when he was in a good mood, his hands moving over the strings masterfully while his bow scrapped them. Holmes, dishevelled and drugged, plucking at the strings distractedly while he rambled on and on about some insubstantial thing. Holmes gesturing with the bow, immersed in his own mind while he clarified some small detail of a case. Holmes, Holmes, always Holmes.
He tore his eyes away from the bow and headed to the door, almost shaking with longing and grief.
"Shall we go home, Mary?" he said, his voice sounding so unlike his own it took him a second to realize he was the one talking.
He didn't wait for her response, descending the stairs and hailing a hansom immediately.
It wasn't until a few days later that he noticed the Stradivarius and the bow in his own home.
He was sure he had not taken them, and at that moment he loved his wife more than ever before.
…
Watson felt as if he had never left, and yet everything was vastly different.
He turned off the voice of Holmes congratulating himself for his cleverness, the very sound of it grating, like someone was scraping broken glass over his nerves. He couldn't understand it; he had been so very glad to see him alive and whole a few hours ago.
But now, now Watson would give anything to be anywhere but here, within the set of familiar walls in the presence of Holmes.
Earlier, he had stared at him breathless with wonder, for his joy at seeing his friend alive was almost overwhelming. Right now he was finding breathing hard again, albeit for completely different reasons.
He was suffocating. He felt he was choking in his own rage and clenching his fist to prevent himself from doing something stupid, such as killing Holmes and making sure he stayed dead this time around. He had been played for a fool, tricked and plunged into the deepest despair by the one person he had trusted with his life.
He could hear the crunch of broken glass under his feet as he walked to the window, staring down at the street and willing his heartbeat to slow down, the rush of blood in his veins to calm, his fury to subdue. It wasn't easy, not when he remembered the pain and loss of the last few years and the harrowing half life in which he had been existing since Mary also left him.
Maybe he was wrong; maybe losing them both wasn't his punishment. This was.
He thought about the past few months, and the task which had become drawing breath second by second and living minute by minute when there wasn't anything left for him to live for. He thought about the years before that, when he should have been devoting his time and attention to Mary, being by her side and loving her as much as he could. He had been unable to, far too hollowed out by grief and a sense of guilt.
And now, now--
"You are too silent, my friend."
Watson sprang unexpectedly, whether from Holmes' words or from the way his hand touched Watson's shoulder, he didn't know. He just knew that one second he was staring out of the window, unseeing, counting his exhalations as a means of keeping his temper, and the next he had Holmes pressed against the bookcase, eyes wide with surprise and what he thought was a hint of fear.
He relished seeing it there, and even more being the one to cause it.
"Was it amusing?" Watson wanted to say, the words scorching his throat on their way to his lips. "Did you enjoy these past years, knowing I believed you dead? Did you even spare a thought for me and what I might be feeling?" He didn't, though, the breath necessary for such a speech stricken out of his lungs at Holmes' expression. "Why?" he managed in a chocked whisper.
He didn't wait for a reply, pressing his lips against Holmes' slightly parted ones swallowing whatever answer his friend would have thought to utter. It wasn't anything like the reunions he had often dreamt about, joyous and passionate, nor like any of the kisses they had shared before, gentle and needy and desperate. It was raw and painful and Holmes wasn't moving at all, not reciprocating or rejecting him. He just stood there with his mouth open and took it.
Watson poured his grief and pain and anger into Holmes' mouth, shaping it with his lips and forcing it on him, small keening sounds escaping his throat. Holmes' hands came up to rest on his back, but that was all the reaction he got.
"John," Holmes said when he finally pulled back, defeated, resting his forehead against Watson's neck.
"Do not presume to call me that," he said, the fury inside him receding and leaving off only despair in its wake. "You have no right." He didn't move back, though, feeling as if his legs wouldn't support him all the way to the couch now his anger wasn't fuelling him.
There was no response to his words, for Holmes had turned into a statue of salt against his body. Watson gripped his shoulders tighter, his fingers pressing hard enough to hurt. The silence stretched between them, strained. "Why?" Watson asked again when the tension became unbearable.
"I had to." Holmes' voice reached him when Watson had all but given up on ever receiving an answer. "The Professor was dangerous, and his associates were not less of a threat without him. And you are stubborn. You would have followed me."
No, he wanted to say, but he knew Holmes was right. He would have followed.
"You would have and you know it," Holmes said, a tinge of amusement in his voice, proving that he still could read Watson's mind even after such a lengthy separation. "And I already told you I could not inflict the loss of you on your wife."
Watson took a tentative step back, putting some distance between him and Holmes and looking up at his face. It was carefully schooled into blankness, not a hint of what his friend might be feeling showing on his features.
"But you could inflict the loss of you on me," he said, not disguising the bitterness he felt. He thought he saw a flicker of regret in Holmes' expression, gone too fast for him to be certain it had been there. "You have no idea how it was, how I felt knowing you would never come back and I--"
"I did the same to myself, Watson," he said, the mask slipping for a second, his voice hot with anger and many other emotions Watson was unable to name. "You had chosen her, and if I had any hope of keeping part of you--" he trailed off, his eyes narrowing and fixing on a spot past Watson's shoulder.
He felt a slight push to his chest and took a few more steps back, letting Holmes move from the spot where he had slammed him against the bookcase. He moved straight to the mantelpiece, picking up one of his pipes and filling it with quick and efficient moves, his hands betraying the smallest of tremors.
"The need your wife was going to have of you would eventually have been greater than mine," Holmes said not looking at him and Watson felt the blood freezing in his veins at the implication. "And you were going to need her. I felt unable, therefore, to remain here and simply be one of your old friends. I would have tried to tempt you again."
"You--" he tried to speak past the lump in his throat.
"I do not know if I feared more your rejection or your acceptance," Holmes said, glaring at the floor. "I did not want you to be any different than you are, and you would never betray your wife, especially in her condition. I wish I were good enough as a man not to be hurt by it, or to stop pushing. But I am as I am."
He walked the remaining step to the couch and fell heavily on it, staring at Holmes. "You knew?" he asked faintly.
"No, but you did." Holmes shook his head sadly. "I know now, I thought she was in a different condition at the time. When I learned the truth the only thing left for me was to come back and pick up the pieces."
He needed to get out of there, the weight of his mistakes and Holmes' choices too heavy. He needed time to think. He stood up.
"Watson," Holmes began.
"I have to go," he said, gathering his coat and hat and moving to the door. The air inside the room was insufficient to fill his lungs, and he felt like he was suffocating.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry."
"So am I," he said before closing the door and leaving.
…
Watson looked at the violin in his hand and steeled his resolve, climbing up the seventeen steps of his former house.
He had been thinking, since the last time he was there it was all he could think about. He had been unfair to Holmes and now it was the time to make amends.
He opened the door after a brief knock, wondering about the state he might find his friend in. He had a moment to marvel at the symmetry of the situation, though this time there had been no summons for him.
The room was clean and full of light, and he was pleased to see Holmes' languidly sprawled on the couch but looking alert and awake. There was a flicker of surprised pleasure in his eyes when he saw Watson, a soft smile adorning his features.
Hi eyes moved to the violin then and the smile stretched.
"I have been wondering where it was," Holmes said as a way of greeting, "I even cleaned the room looking for it."
Watson walked up to him and presented the instrument, Holmes picking it up with reverence. He watched as his fingers caressed the polished wood as they would a lover and felt a wave of warmth at his luck to be able to see the familiar gesture again.
"I have kept it as best I could," he said, moving to sit on the settee. "Though I imagine it must be awfully out of tune by now."
"It does not matter, my dear man," Holmes said standing up. "It has come back home, where it belongs." He looked at Watson as those words left his lips and both of them knew he wasn't referring just to the Stradivarius.
Watson watched him as he moved to pour two glasses of brandy before offering him one and sitting back on the couch with the other.
He thought of everything that had passed in the past few years, their mistakes, the way they kept hurting each other and how everything had played out for this moment. They would probably do it all over again, causing pain and inflicting wounds with casual ease.
But they would also be there to try and fix things again.
And he also thought about Mary, her love and understanding. And he knew what she would have said and done.
"It has been a long time since I heard a good piece," he said, relaxing back and taking a sip of the brandy.
As if he had been waiting for his cue, Holmes stood up and put the violin under his chin. "I shall play whichever piece you would care to hear, my friend."
"Anything will be masterful in your hands, my dear friend," he said, closing his eyes and waiting for the music to begin.
They still had much to talk about, and Watson knew it wouldn't be easy between them, but he let the sounds conjured by his friend fill his senses and lull him into a feeling of happiness he had thought forever beyond his reach.
Holmes was right, he was where he belonged.
He was home.
…