To most, when the first snow fall came, it was a joyous occasion. It signalled the coming of December, which meant the coming of Christmas. However, it was no surprise that Sherlock Holmes glanced down upon it with bitter thoughts.
It had made his journey to retrieve more of his beloved whiskey that bit more challenging. Of course it didn’t help that he was slightly drunk.
Since Watson had left to live with his beloved Mary, he had done little but drink himself in and out of soberness. His experiments had become more and more profound and, not seeing Watson for over two months, had sent him into a deeper depression; it’s like the younger man didn’t even want to see his oldest friend.
The man staggered up the steps to his grand house and, in a haze, proceeded to his domain. The door closed, the coat was off and the cap of the bottle was broken.
“Holmes, what are you doing?”
Sherlock turned to see Watson sat in his chair by the fire. He gazed up at him with a frown and shook his head.
“Watson.” Sherlock slurred,” What’re you doing ‘ere?”
“Mary said I ought to come see you. It has been two months after all.”
“Really? I ‘adn’t noticed.”
Sherlock turned his back to the man and slumped upon his bed.
“Approximately 61.5 days.”
Watson sighed. He set his cane by the fire, accompanied by his coat, and came to sat next to his friend. Sherlock refused to look at the man.
“Holmes.” Watson whispered, “Is it because I left?”
“D-don’t be ridiculous Watson.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and took another drink of his whiskey.
“Look at me.” Watson leant forward and took hold of his wrist, “Holmes, look at me.”
The older man did as told. His brown eyes were full of unshed tears. Watson gave him a worried smile and Sherlock quickly turned his head away.
“S-top that, Watson! Don’t smile at me like I’m y-your bloody friend.”
“But you are.”
“Bull. Utter bull Watson.” He drank more whiskey, “ A true friend wouldn’t have – wouldn’t-“
“I didn’t leave you.” Watson placed a hand gently on the drunk man’s shoulder.
He expected a painful punch to his jaw but, instead, Sherlock turned to face him. Tears streaming down his unshaven face. Watson’s heart sank.
“Good God, Holmes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know me going to live with Mary would do this to you.”
“I didn’t want you to go.” The man replied softly.
“I know. I know you didn’t.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The only sound was the whiskey in the bottle as Sherlock swirled it around.
“Holmes. What happened? What can I say or do to fix this?” Watson pleaded.
“Who said anything about fixing it?”
Sherlock rose from his seat, downed the rest of the whiskey and threw the bottle into the copper bath. It shattered, glass landing on the floor around it.
“Jesus! Holmes! What in God’s name are you doing?”
“It’s my home, Walter! You left. Remember?!”
“Holmes.” Watson stood and went to his distressed friend, “Sherlock. This isn’t just about me leaving.”
He took hold of the man’s shoulders and squeezed. His eyes searched the others for any sign of something deeper, but, all he saw was tears and pure agony. He was a doctor, he fixed people for a living, he was used to Holmes’s frustrating and obscure ways, but this was something he had never seen in the man and for once he didn’t know how to fix him.
Sherlock swayed on his feet and took hold of the mantel for support. It was at this point that Watson dragged him back to the safety of the bed, away from an open fire and possible 3rd degree burns.
“I’m not talking.” Sherlock slurred.
“I didn’t ask you too.”
“I – I need to lie down.” He shifted backwards onto the mattress, shedding his shirt as he did, “Too warm, tired.”
“When did you last sleep, Holmes?”
“D’no. Last week? Week before? Doesn’t matter.” He curled into a large pillow, the shirt now discarded to the other side of the bed.
Watson sighed and helped him off with his shoes.
“John, lie down with me. Please?”
The doctor was surprised to hear his christian name. He hesitated for only a moment before shedding his own shoes and shirt and climbing in next to the other man. Around his neck he still wore one of Sherlocks many scarves.
At first the two men lay at opposite ends of the beds, until Sherlock rolled onto his other side and buried his face into the crook of Watson’s neck.
“Smell nice.” Sherlock mumbled, “Like smoke and flowers and – and Gladstone.”
Watson chuckled. Despite his many experiments on the poor animal, Sherlock had always loved that dog. The doctor stretched his arm across the other man's shoulder.
“Gladstone misses you.”
“Oh don't be silly, Watson. He's a dog.”
“Well, he hasn't been the same. He hasn't barked at any cats, he hasn't growled at Mary's mother; he barely looks up when I call him for a walk.”
“Poor dog.”
“Yes” Watson pulled the man closer, “ poor dog.”
Poor Holmes.
“Holm-”
“Don't call me Holmes.”
“Sherlock. I know you don't want to talk to me, but , please, for my own piece of mind tell me what's going on inside your head.”
Sherlock pushed his nose further into the doctors neck, he pulled his arms close into his chest and cuddled closer to the other man. Watson gently ruffled the man's hair.
“I-I just miss you.” Sherlock chocked, “I didn't think I would miss you this much but I do. And I can't help it and, God damn me, I can't discover why.”
“You, the great Detective Sherlock Holmes, can't figure out a case? No!”
“Oh Watson, you flatter.”
Watson chuckled.
“I miss you too.”
“Then why didn't you come around sooner? Why didn't you prevent me from drinking myself into this obsessive hole that I'm in?”
Silence. Breathing.
“I-I guess I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“You know fine well what, Sherlock.”
The detective sat up on his elbows. He smiled, his eyes still full of tears.
“I feel it too. And since the day you announced your engagement, my heart has been broken. But I've loved you with all the tiny pieces.”
Watson wrapped an arm around him and pulled him into a deep kiss. The moment was tender but hasty in all its intensity.
“I love you Sherlock Holmes.” Watson whispered when they broke for breath.
“You've fixed me, Dr Watson.”
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