Knew Not What We Loved Nor Why, Holmes/Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Title: Knew Not What We Loved, Nor Why
Summary: Watson tried to convince himself it was the right thing to do; even if it meant carving a part of himself out in the process. Set pre-movie.
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mrs Hudson, Gregson, Lestrade and Mary Morstan
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3000
Notes: This was written for yetanothermask for the help_chile appeal. I have to apologise straight off the bat for it; I struggled and struggled and struggled with it and I’ve come to hate this fic. The idea, I love. The execution not so much but the more I wrote it, the more I changed and edited it the more I came to loathe it. So I decided to just finish it off and post it and get it out of the way. I promise to write you something else (something better) in the near future.
In the seven years that they have been together, Watson has threatened to leave countless times. He’s only ever gone through with it twice. The first had been one year after they had first consummated their relationship (and Holmes had forgotten amidst a drug-induced abyss and Watson had not been hurt exactly - rather more angry). He had checked into a hotel at the other end of London under a ludicrous pseudonym that Holmes no longer recalls but he’d been back in Baker Street three days later and while he hadn’t been fine, they had both been willing to forget.
The second had been two years after that, when Holmes had disappeared to America for three months on the trail of a transatlantic serial killer who had gone outwith the jurisdiction of the Yard but not Sherlock Holmes. He may have forgotten to inform Watson of his plans and the farther across America he’d gone, the harder it had been to find a good, reliable telegram office. On his return, Watson had stared at him for all of ten seconds before he’d picked up his cane from where it had clattered to the floor, pivoted on his heel and left Holmes standing alone in the front hall of Baker Street. That time, he’d been gone for ten days and Holmes still isn’t sure where he’d stayed. But he’d come back and they’d been fine - more than fine, really because it had been four years and while Watson still threatened Holmes with his departure, Holmes knew that the good doctor was as unwilling to leave as Holmes was for him to go.
So when Holmes is made aware of Watson’s presence amidst the stronghold of one of his darker moments and the threats of departure that the doctor - his friend, his lover - throws at him (“I can’t keep doing this Holmes. I mean it; I can’t - you-“), he doesn’t exactly take the words to heart. He’s not concerned either when he doesn’t see Watson for the four days it takes Holmes to ride out his high because Holmes knows Watson and his stubbornness that rivals Holmes’ own.
So he waits. He can’t exactly call it patiently because he has never been a patient man - and especially less so when it is matters concerning Watson - but he’s not worried either. He smokes his pipe, the cloud of blue lingering around him and his chair as he stares out of the window, not exactly seeing the street below and fingers the too tight strings of his violin.
He watches as people come and go; a few times, he sees Watson’s clients approach the door but he doesn’t listen to the words as Mrs Hudson sends them away. Holmes is somewhat surprised that the Doctor hadn’t gotten word around to his patients and the thought fills him with a sort of smug appreciation; Watson won’t be gone for much longer. A short while later, after Mrs Hudson has sent away the young Miss McLeod, Mrs Hudson comes into the room, glances at the mess and the only indication of her displeasure is the slight crease of her lips and a slightly too deep breath that almost echoes in the stillness of the room. Holmes lifts his head when she pauses a moment and he smiles at her tightly, urging her to continue.
“Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade-“
“Send them up,” he responds before she’s finished, even though he doesn’t really want to accept the visitors. But he is bored and needs something else to think about other than the fact that Watson is gone and it’s coming onto five days now and it’s been even longer since he’s actually seen the doctor and been able to remember it clearly.
“Inspector Gregson - congratulations!” Holmes ejaculates as the two detectives step through the sitting room door. Gregson pauses at the sound of his name and Holmes smirks. “I saw the spread in the Times; though how the Yard thought fit to promote you is bey-“
“We have a case, Mr Holmes,” Gregson interrupts gruffly and Holmes meets Lestrade’s eye with a smirk.
“Do you indeed? And here I assumed you were here merely for a hot cup of Mrs Hudson’s tea,” he retorts balefully but indicates for the two men to take a seat in the chairs scattered around the room.
“Will Dr Watson be joining us?” Gregson asks as he settles on the couch, his gaze flickering around the chaos in the room before coming to rest on the notepad in his hand.
“No.” The inspectors share a look that Holmes chooses to ignore. “The details...?”
The case isn’t interesting - in fact, it’s downright frightening to think that the two men in front of him are the best of the Yard - but he goes with them to the station anyway because it’s always interesting, at least, to play with Lestrade and his men. If nothing else, the evening will be entertaining.
As it turns out, the case - while still not exactly interesting - required his presence in Essex. He returns quickly to Baker Street and retrieves the overnight bag he always kept prepared at the foot of his bed. He pauses only for a moment to remove Watson’s items from the bag and add a few sheaves of writing paper for the journey before he snaps the overnight bag shut and trundles down the seventeen steps to the street below that is quickly succumbing to the deepening dusk.
Lestrade falls into step beside him, his eyes scanning up and down the street for a cab but Holmes knows none is to be found at this time of evening on Baker Street. The Inspector looks unsettled but Holmes does not make any attempts at conversation; his mind is tumbling over the facts of the case, reeling in the scattered clues with his mind. A few streets over, Lestrade successfully hails a cab, instructing the cabbie to take them to the station and Holmes watches the streets flicker passed at the edge of his vision. He tells himself he is not itching for a sighting of Watson - a clue as to where the doctor had gotten to - when Lestrade interrupts his reverie.
“I spoke with Doctor Watson a few days ago in the pub near the Strand,” he says carefully and Holmes takes special care not to show his piqued interest. “He seemed well enough.”
Lestrade doesn’t say anymore and Holmes nods once, watching the detective stare fixedly at the front of the cab from the corner of his eye. The Yardsman flicks his gaze over Holmes for the briefest of moments before he returns the nod and stares out of the window.
Holmes wonders how it is that Gregson is the one to be promoted.
--
The overnight in Essex turned into a three day trip but resulted in the return of the dastardly racing Greyhounds to their respective owners and Holmes’ pocketbook a little fatter than it had been before he’d left. Lestrade hadn’t said anymore about Watson and Holmes hadn’t pushed for more information; if he really wanted to know, he had the Irregulars to make inquiries as to his friend and lovers’ whereabouts.
He shared a cab with Lestrade and when they pulled up outside of 221B, the rain had almost ceased; a gentle smir instead of a tropical downpour and Holmes heaved himself tiredly from the seat. Once on the solid ground his eyes flickered up and over the building, a smirk pulling at his lips as he saw the light in the sitting room glowing gently through the curtains.
“Here you are, Mister Holmes,” Lestrade interrupted, passing Holmes his bag and Holmes nodded in thanks before he tipped the cabbie and shut the door of the hansom. Lestrade pulled the window down as Holmes made to step away and the latter man paused in surprise, turning slightly back around. “I have no doubts Doctor Watson will be joining us on the next case.”
It seemed like a question but Lestrade didn’t wait for an answer before he slid the window shut and banged on the roof of the cab. Holmes stared after the retreating cab for a long moment before he huffed out a breath and turned back towards the front door.
Inside, he tried not to feel too smug but it was difficult. He shrugged out of his damp coat and tossed it over the banister of the stairway, his bag falling to his feet on the bottom step. He tried to pace himself, tried not to seem too eager to see Watson but even to his own ears his steps were far too quick. He reached the top landing quickly, paused outside of the sitting room door for a brief moment before he swung it open quickly and swept into the room.
The sight that greeted him halted any words on his tongue: he glanced around the meticulously tidy room, to the bottles of solution lined up on the mantle over the fireplace, to the syringe box laid neatly next to them, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth; the sheafs of paper that had lain scattered across the floor were in neat bundles on the desk and the correspondence was sitting piled perfectly - still unopened - on the side table.
Watson was sitting in his armchair, not meeting Holmes’ gaze.
“I see you have returned,” Holmes said and fought to keep the smirk from his lips but Watson didn’t look up to him. “And about time, too. I have just gotten back fro-“
“I’m not staying,” Watson said quietly, slumping forward as he clasped his hands and leaned heavily against his forearms. Holmes ignored the pang and concentrated instead on the rough texture of Watson’s voice as he spoke. “I won’t try to hide my location from you, so I have come to inform you that I will be staying at the hotel near the park for the time being.” He sighed and unclasped his hands, rubbing his palms against his thighs and Holmes followed the movement, frozen in place. Something was... wrong. His stomach was tightening and tightening, his vocal chords suddenly frozen and he was almost sure that he wasn’t breathing. Of all the things he had expected from Watson’s return to Baker Street, this had not been it. Far, far from it. “I need my money, Holmes. That is why I am here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; you will gamble it away and be back here in a matter of hours for not having enough money to pay the hotel fee- actually, on second thoughts perhaps I should give it to you; that way, you will be back soo-“
“Holmes.”
“-ner and you can stop his nonsense-“
“Holmes, I told you. I can’t live like this anymore.”
“You’ve said that countless-“
“And this time, I mean it.”
“You said that las-“
“I cannot come in from house calls to find you almost comatose from your beloved solution; I cannot put up with the constant disappearing acts-“
“I knew you hadn’t forgiven me for that! What can-“
“I cannot keep up with your mind, Holmes, or your mood swings - or, or the fact that I’m never sure what would cut me more; your knife collection, or your words.” Holmes forcibly bit back the angry words with great difficulty. Watson smirked tiredly and shook his head. “I’ve had enough Holmes. I cannot live like that. I deserve someone who will love me unconditionally, always - not just when the high from cocaine wears off and they need something else to cling to.”
“Is that what you think this has been about?” Holmes questioned, his own voice rough and thick, his gut twisted as something in his chest fell out of place. “That you are simply another addiction?”
Watson shrugged and looked to solution lining the wall before gazing back down at his hands.
“Do you deny it?”
Holmes scoffed angrily and shook his head vehemently.
“Of course I do - the idea that, that - it’s preposterous!”
Watson pushed up from the chair angrily, stepping towards Holmes in two long strides until Holmes felt his familiar warm presence mere inches from his body.
“What do you call it then?” Holmes froze, again, and stared at the anger - the hurt - swirling in Watson’s eyes, both their breaths mingling between them. Watson stepped back, shaking his head. “You cannot bring yourself to call it love; how can you expect me to believe that our relationship-“
“Watson,“ he murmured, reaching out for his lover but Watson stepped back from his probing hand before drawing his own across his face.
“I need my money, Holmes.”
Holmes considered; Watson, evidently, was angry. Possibly hurt by Holmes’ inability to give up his drug. Hadn’t it only been a month before that Watson had pleaded with him to stop using it? Granted, his use of it had become more frequent but the cases had been building up - the two concerning the young women that he still hadn’t concluded and that looked like he may not given the way the trail had quickly gone cold - but... He’d been through worse. Four years ago, he’d administered possibly lethal doses in order to stay awake for four days on a case that had taken them across France and into Belgium and Watson had stuck by him then. Why not now?
He needed space, Holmes concluded. If he gave Watson a few more weeks - a month or two, at most - he would be fine. He would try to cut back on his cocaine use, prove to Watson that he could and that it was recreational, not a necessity... prove to Watson that he wasn’t selfish, wasn’t just addicted to him - that he loved him.
Yes. He could do that.
And besides, he could have the Irregulars keep checks on him, if he really felt the need.
And Watson hadn’t said anything about him not stopping by. He could offer the use of the rooms for the purposes of Watson’s practice...
“I shan’t give you your money.”
“Holmes-“
“No. I shall deliver it myself to the hotel on the day of payment. I am not trying to be difficult or malicious when I tell you that you cannot be trusted with such large sums of money.” He levelled Watson with a raised eyebrow and Watson huffed slightly, looked as though he was about to argue but Holmes cut him off. “It’s that, or nothing.”
“Fine.”
“And you are welcome to utilise our rooms-“
“Your rooms.”
“Our rooms for the purposes of your practice.”
“That won’t be necessary, Holmes. I have procured the use of a room in a surgery near to the hotel.” Holmes made to argue but Watson shook his head. “You had your concession.”
“Very well.”
A long moment passed and Watson looked up from his spot on the couch, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re being very accommodating about this, Holmes. Much more mature than I thought you would be.” Holmes didn’t say anything; didn’t let on that while he sort of understood Watson’s need for space, he felt like he was falling apart. “You do understand what I’m saying?”
Holmes rolled his eyes.
“Yes. You do not wish to be with me. I for one think it to be absolutely ridiculous and I think, in time, you will come to the same conclusion.”
“Holmes-“
“No, Watson. You will understand.”
“No, Holmes, it is you who needs to understand.”
“Shall I hail you a cab, or do you wish to stay in your old room for the night? It’s a long way back to your hotel.”
Deflect and absorb. Deflect and absorb.
Watson narrowed his eyes into a glare and stood.
“I should be going.”
Holmes hoped his smile hid the disappointment that clawed its way up his throat.
“As you wish.”
Once Watson was gone, Holmes returned to the sitting room and stood in the middle of the room. His fingers itched to reach out to the box and the vials. He clenched his fingers, his nails biting into his palm as he stared, fought the urge, ignored the burning at the back of his eyes.
Hours later, Mrs Hudson came in with breakfast and tea and he was still standing there, helpless, alone... broken.
--
Six weeks later, a third girl was killed in what appeared to be a black magic ritual. Holmes was on his third day without sleep when Watson returned, bags in hand. Holmes hadn’t seen him since the night he had left and the sight of his friend and (former?) lover barely raised a smile from the detective as he pored over the details of the case.
“I see that you have returned.” Watson didn’t say anything. “I knew that you would.”
“How much have you taken this time, Holmes?” Watson said wearily as he kneeled in front of Holmes and tried to see Holmes’ face. He kept his head down and batted Watson’s hands away. “I thought you should know that I’ve met someone. We’re getting married. Until then, I need to share the rooms in order to save some money for the wedding.”
Holmes’ only visual response was to flick Watson’s words away with a bat of his hand before he turned back to the pages in front of him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson.”
But Watson didn’t contradict his earlier words, responding simply;
“You shall be able to concentrate on your premiere addiction now, old fellow. I shan’t be around for too much longer to distract you.”
Holmes made it seem as though he was too far gone to understand - to care - what he had just said but when the door to the sitting room clicked shut and Watson retreated to his room on the floor above, Holmes let out a small sound that resembled a sob as he batted away the tears that threatened to fall.
Up the stairs, in the room that he used to share with Holmes, Watson leaned against the door and listened as glass shattered in the room below and tried to convince himself that this was the right thing to do, even if it meant carving out a piece of himself in order to achieve it.
Summary: Watson tried to convince himself it was the right thing to do; even if it meant carving a part of himself out in the process. Set pre-movie.
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mrs Hudson, Gregson, Lestrade and Mary Morstan
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3000
Notes: This was written for yetanothermask for the help_chile appeal. I have to apologise straight off the bat for it; I struggled and struggled and struggled with it and I’ve come to hate this fic. The idea, I love. The execution not so much but the more I wrote it, the more I changed and edited it the more I came to loathe it. So I decided to just finish it off and post it and get it out of the way. I promise to write you something else (something better) in the near future.
In the seven years that they have been together, Watson has threatened to leave countless times. He’s only ever gone through with it twice. The first had been one year after they had first consummated their relationship (and Holmes had forgotten amidst a drug-induced abyss and Watson had not been hurt exactly - rather more angry). He had checked into a hotel at the other end of London under a ludicrous pseudonym that Holmes no longer recalls but he’d been back in Baker Street three days later and while he hadn’t been fine, they had both been willing to forget.
The second had been two years after that, when Holmes had disappeared to America for three months on the trail of a transatlantic serial killer who had gone outwith the jurisdiction of the Yard but not Sherlock Holmes. He may have forgotten to inform Watson of his plans and the farther across America he’d gone, the harder it had been to find a good, reliable telegram office. On his return, Watson had stared at him for all of ten seconds before he’d picked up his cane from where it had clattered to the floor, pivoted on his heel and left Holmes standing alone in the front hall of Baker Street. That time, he’d been gone for ten days and Holmes still isn’t sure where he’d stayed. But he’d come back and they’d been fine - more than fine, really because it had been four years and while Watson still threatened Holmes with his departure, Holmes knew that the good doctor was as unwilling to leave as Holmes was for him to go.
So when Holmes is made aware of Watson’s presence amidst the stronghold of one of his darker moments and the threats of departure that the doctor - his friend, his lover - throws at him (“I can’t keep doing this Holmes. I mean it; I can’t - you-“), he doesn’t exactly take the words to heart. He’s not concerned either when he doesn’t see Watson for the four days it takes Holmes to ride out his high because Holmes knows Watson and his stubbornness that rivals Holmes’ own.
So he waits. He can’t exactly call it patiently because he has never been a patient man - and especially less so when it is matters concerning Watson - but he’s not worried either. He smokes his pipe, the cloud of blue lingering around him and his chair as he stares out of the window, not exactly seeing the street below and fingers the too tight strings of his violin.
He watches as people come and go; a few times, he sees Watson’s clients approach the door but he doesn’t listen to the words as Mrs Hudson sends them away. Holmes is somewhat surprised that the Doctor hadn’t gotten word around to his patients and the thought fills him with a sort of smug appreciation; Watson won’t be gone for much longer. A short while later, after Mrs Hudson has sent away the young Miss McLeod, Mrs Hudson comes into the room, glances at the mess and the only indication of her displeasure is the slight crease of her lips and a slightly too deep breath that almost echoes in the stillness of the room. Holmes lifts his head when she pauses a moment and he smiles at her tightly, urging her to continue.
“Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade-“
“Send them up,” he responds before she’s finished, even though he doesn’t really want to accept the visitors. But he is bored and needs something else to think about other than the fact that Watson is gone and it’s coming onto five days now and it’s been even longer since he’s actually seen the doctor and been able to remember it clearly.
“Inspector Gregson - congratulations!” Holmes ejaculates as the two detectives step through the sitting room door. Gregson pauses at the sound of his name and Holmes smirks. “I saw the spread in the Times; though how the Yard thought fit to promote you is bey-“
“We have a case, Mr Holmes,” Gregson interrupts gruffly and Holmes meets Lestrade’s eye with a smirk.
“Do you indeed? And here I assumed you were here merely for a hot cup of Mrs Hudson’s tea,” he retorts balefully but indicates for the two men to take a seat in the chairs scattered around the room.
“Will Dr Watson be joining us?” Gregson asks as he settles on the couch, his gaze flickering around the chaos in the room before coming to rest on the notepad in his hand.
“No.” The inspectors share a look that Holmes chooses to ignore. “The details...?”
The case isn’t interesting - in fact, it’s downright frightening to think that the two men in front of him are the best of the Yard - but he goes with them to the station anyway because it’s always interesting, at least, to play with Lestrade and his men. If nothing else, the evening will be entertaining.
As it turns out, the case - while still not exactly interesting - required his presence in Essex. He returns quickly to Baker Street and retrieves the overnight bag he always kept prepared at the foot of his bed. He pauses only for a moment to remove Watson’s items from the bag and add a few sheaves of writing paper for the journey before he snaps the overnight bag shut and trundles down the seventeen steps to the street below that is quickly succumbing to the deepening dusk.
Lestrade falls into step beside him, his eyes scanning up and down the street for a cab but Holmes knows none is to be found at this time of evening on Baker Street. The Inspector looks unsettled but Holmes does not make any attempts at conversation; his mind is tumbling over the facts of the case, reeling in the scattered clues with his mind. A few streets over, Lestrade successfully hails a cab, instructing the cabbie to take them to the station and Holmes watches the streets flicker passed at the edge of his vision. He tells himself he is not itching for a sighting of Watson - a clue as to where the doctor had gotten to - when Lestrade interrupts his reverie.
“I spoke with Doctor Watson a few days ago in the pub near the Strand,” he says carefully and Holmes takes special care not to show his piqued interest. “He seemed well enough.”
Lestrade doesn’t say anymore and Holmes nods once, watching the detective stare fixedly at the front of the cab from the corner of his eye. The Yardsman flicks his gaze over Holmes for the briefest of moments before he returns the nod and stares out of the window.
Holmes wonders how it is that Gregson is the one to be promoted.
--
The overnight in Essex turned into a three day trip but resulted in the return of the dastardly racing Greyhounds to their respective owners and Holmes’ pocketbook a little fatter than it had been before he’d left. Lestrade hadn’t said anymore about Watson and Holmes hadn’t pushed for more information; if he really wanted to know, he had the Irregulars to make inquiries as to his friend and lovers’ whereabouts.
He shared a cab with Lestrade and when they pulled up outside of 221B, the rain had almost ceased; a gentle smir instead of a tropical downpour and Holmes heaved himself tiredly from the seat. Once on the solid ground his eyes flickered up and over the building, a smirk pulling at his lips as he saw the light in the sitting room glowing gently through the curtains.
“Here you are, Mister Holmes,” Lestrade interrupted, passing Holmes his bag and Holmes nodded in thanks before he tipped the cabbie and shut the door of the hansom. Lestrade pulled the window down as Holmes made to step away and the latter man paused in surprise, turning slightly back around. “I have no doubts Doctor Watson will be joining us on the next case.”
It seemed like a question but Lestrade didn’t wait for an answer before he slid the window shut and banged on the roof of the cab. Holmes stared after the retreating cab for a long moment before he huffed out a breath and turned back towards the front door.
Inside, he tried not to feel too smug but it was difficult. He shrugged out of his damp coat and tossed it over the banister of the stairway, his bag falling to his feet on the bottom step. He tried to pace himself, tried not to seem too eager to see Watson but even to his own ears his steps were far too quick. He reached the top landing quickly, paused outside of the sitting room door for a brief moment before he swung it open quickly and swept into the room.
The sight that greeted him halted any words on his tongue: he glanced around the meticulously tidy room, to the bottles of solution lined up on the mantle over the fireplace, to the syringe box laid neatly next to them, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth; the sheafs of paper that had lain scattered across the floor were in neat bundles on the desk and the correspondence was sitting piled perfectly - still unopened - on the side table.
Watson was sitting in his armchair, not meeting Holmes’ gaze.
“I see you have returned,” Holmes said and fought to keep the smirk from his lips but Watson didn’t look up to him. “And about time, too. I have just gotten back fro-“
“I’m not staying,” Watson said quietly, slumping forward as he clasped his hands and leaned heavily against his forearms. Holmes ignored the pang and concentrated instead on the rough texture of Watson’s voice as he spoke. “I won’t try to hide my location from you, so I have come to inform you that I will be staying at the hotel near the park for the time being.” He sighed and unclasped his hands, rubbing his palms against his thighs and Holmes followed the movement, frozen in place. Something was... wrong. His stomach was tightening and tightening, his vocal chords suddenly frozen and he was almost sure that he wasn’t breathing. Of all the things he had expected from Watson’s return to Baker Street, this had not been it. Far, far from it. “I need my money, Holmes. That is why I am here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; you will gamble it away and be back here in a matter of hours for not having enough money to pay the hotel fee- actually, on second thoughts perhaps I should give it to you; that way, you will be back soo-“
“Holmes.”
“-ner and you can stop his nonsense-“
“Holmes, I told you. I can’t live like this anymore.”
“You’ve said that countless-“
“And this time, I mean it.”
“You said that las-“
“I cannot come in from house calls to find you almost comatose from your beloved solution; I cannot put up with the constant disappearing acts-“
“I knew you hadn’t forgiven me for that! What can-“
“I cannot keep up with your mind, Holmes, or your mood swings - or, or the fact that I’m never sure what would cut me more; your knife collection, or your words.” Holmes forcibly bit back the angry words with great difficulty. Watson smirked tiredly and shook his head. “I’ve had enough Holmes. I cannot live like that. I deserve someone who will love me unconditionally, always - not just when the high from cocaine wears off and they need something else to cling to.”
“Is that what you think this has been about?” Holmes questioned, his own voice rough and thick, his gut twisted as something in his chest fell out of place. “That you are simply another addiction?”
Watson shrugged and looked to solution lining the wall before gazing back down at his hands.
“Do you deny it?”
Holmes scoffed angrily and shook his head vehemently.
“Of course I do - the idea that, that - it’s preposterous!”
Watson pushed up from the chair angrily, stepping towards Holmes in two long strides until Holmes felt his familiar warm presence mere inches from his body.
“What do you call it then?” Holmes froze, again, and stared at the anger - the hurt - swirling in Watson’s eyes, both their breaths mingling between them. Watson stepped back, shaking his head. “You cannot bring yourself to call it love; how can you expect me to believe that our relationship-“
“Watson,“ he murmured, reaching out for his lover but Watson stepped back from his probing hand before drawing his own across his face.
“I need my money, Holmes.”
Holmes considered; Watson, evidently, was angry. Possibly hurt by Holmes’ inability to give up his drug. Hadn’t it only been a month before that Watson had pleaded with him to stop using it? Granted, his use of it had become more frequent but the cases had been building up - the two concerning the young women that he still hadn’t concluded and that looked like he may not given the way the trail had quickly gone cold - but... He’d been through worse. Four years ago, he’d administered possibly lethal doses in order to stay awake for four days on a case that had taken them across France and into Belgium and Watson had stuck by him then. Why not now?
He needed space, Holmes concluded. If he gave Watson a few more weeks - a month or two, at most - he would be fine. He would try to cut back on his cocaine use, prove to Watson that he could and that it was recreational, not a necessity... prove to Watson that he wasn’t selfish, wasn’t just addicted to him - that he loved him.
Yes. He could do that.
And besides, he could have the Irregulars keep checks on him, if he really felt the need.
And Watson hadn’t said anything about him not stopping by. He could offer the use of the rooms for the purposes of Watson’s practice...
“I shan’t give you your money.”
“Holmes-“
“No. I shall deliver it myself to the hotel on the day of payment. I am not trying to be difficult or malicious when I tell you that you cannot be trusted with such large sums of money.” He levelled Watson with a raised eyebrow and Watson huffed slightly, looked as though he was about to argue but Holmes cut him off. “It’s that, or nothing.”
“Fine.”
“And you are welcome to utilise our rooms-“
“Your rooms.”
“Our rooms for the purposes of your practice.”
“That won’t be necessary, Holmes. I have procured the use of a room in a surgery near to the hotel.” Holmes made to argue but Watson shook his head. “You had your concession.”
“Very well.”
A long moment passed and Watson looked up from his spot on the couch, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re being very accommodating about this, Holmes. Much more mature than I thought you would be.” Holmes didn’t say anything; didn’t let on that while he sort of understood Watson’s need for space, he felt like he was falling apart. “You do understand what I’m saying?”
Holmes rolled his eyes.
“Yes. You do not wish to be with me. I for one think it to be absolutely ridiculous and I think, in time, you will come to the same conclusion.”
“Holmes-“
“No, Watson. You will understand.”
“No, Holmes, it is you who needs to understand.”
“Shall I hail you a cab, or do you wish to stay in your old room for the night? It’s a long way back to your hotel.”
Deflect and absorb. Deflect and absorb.
Watson narrowed his eyes into a glare and stood.
“I should be going.”
Holmes hoped his smile hid the disappointment that clawed its way up his throat.
“As you wish.”
Once Watson was gone, Holmes returned to the sitting room and stood in the middle of the room. His fingers itched to reach out to the box and the vials. He clenched his fingers, his nails biting into his palm as he stared, fought the urge, ignored the burning at the back of his eyes.
Hours later, Mrs Hudson came in with breakfast and tea and he was still standing there, helpless, alone... broken.
--
Six weeks later, a third girl was killed in what appeared to be a black magic ritual. Holmes was on his third day without sleep when Watson returned, bags in hand. Holmes hadn’t seen him since the night he had left and the sight of his friend and (former?) lover barely raised a smile from the detective as he pored over the details of the case.
“I see that you have returned.” Watson didn’t say anything. “I knew that you would.”
“How much have you taken this time, Holmes?” Watson said wearily as he kneeled in front of Holmes and tried to see Holmes’ face. He kept his head down and batted Watson’s hands away. “I thought you should know that I’ve met someone. We’re getting married. Until then, I need to share the rooms in order to save some money for the wedding.”
Holmes’ only visual response was to flick Watson’s words away with a bat of his hand before he turned back to the pages in front of him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson.”
But Watson didn’t contradict his earlier words, responding simply;
“You shall be able to concentrate on your premiere addiction now, old fellow. I shan’t be around for too much longer to distract you.”
Holmes made it seem as though he was too far gone to understand - to care - what he had just said but when the door to the sitting room clicked shut and Watson retreated to his room on the floor above, Holmes let out a small sound that resembled a sob as he batted away the tears that threatened to fall.
Up the stairs, in the room that he used to share with Holmes, Watson leaned against the door and listened as glass shattered in the room below and tried to convince himself that this was the right thing to do, even if it meant carving out a piece of himself in order to achieve it.