Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 2

"A friend is a hand that is always holding yours, no matter how close or far apart you may be.  A friend is someone who is always there and will always, always care.  A friend is a feeling of forever in the heart." ~ Anonymous

One night nearing the end of October, Watson could not sleep.  His wife slumbered peacefully beside him for the first time in weeks, her delicate hand resting comfortably over their unborn child.  Watson sat in bed for a moment, just watching her sleep, overcome with love for his wife.  She shifted a bit, and, afraid of waking her, Watson eased himself out of bed and quietly left the room.  Wrapping his dressing robe around him against the slight chill in the house, he padded down the stairs and headed to his office.  Lighting a match, he started a fire in the fire place, enjoying its radiating heat while pouring himself a glass of whiskey.  He had just taken a sip when he felt a rather sharp object poke him in the back of the neck.  Reaching up slowly, he pulled a thin wooden dart-like projectile from his skin.  "No need to worry, dear Watson," an all too familiar voice said from the shadows.  "I have it on high authority that it is not poisoned."

His breath caught in his throat and he turned, fully expecting the impossible.  There sat the insufferable Sherlock Holmes behind Watson's desk.  It took a moment before Watson found his voice.  They simply stared at each other, many possible scenarios running through Watson's mind.  "No hello for your long lost friend, Watson?" Holmes said, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

And that's when Dr. John Watson lost every ounce of his composure.

"You bastard," he hissed, trying to keep his voice soft so as not to wake Mary, but wanting nothing more than to scream at the man sitting so calmly before him.  "You're gone for nearly a year, and I'm supposed to say hello as though nothing has happened?  Where the hell have you been?  You led us to believe you were dead, Holmes!  Dead!  Do you have any, any idea how it felt to watch you practically jump off that balcony, well knowing there was no way you would survive the fall?  What the bloody hell were you thinking, Holmes?"

Holmes was silent for a moment.  He finally looked up at his friend, for while Watson had been ranting, Holmes had been staring guiltily down at his hands, and said,  "To be fair, old chap, I did send you a letter."

Watson's eyes widened in utter disbelief.  "A letter.  The damnable half page letter you sent to tell me not to come looking for you and not to tell anyone about?  The one that told me you were in fact alive, but I had to go on pretending that you weren't?  That letter?"

"Yes, I do believe that was the one."

"Damn you, Holmes," Watson cursed, taking a deep breath as he felt tears burn his eyes.  "Why?" he very nearly shouted, his anger flaring up again.  Even though he suspected he knew, he wanted to hear it from Holmes himself.  "Tell me why!"

"To protect you!" Holmes cried, his mask of calm indifference close to shattering as he stood up and came around to face his friend.  "To protect you, and Mary, and Simza, and everyone from that man!  He killed Irene.  He tried to kill you and Mary.  I was tired of putting all of you in danger.  That's why I could not come back until now, Watson.  That is why I jumped!"

Watson realized his hands were trembling.  He placed the glass of whiskey he still held on the mantle so he would not drop it, or shatter it in his hand.  It was all too much.  The grief, the relief... it was crippling.  He had not cried out when he ran to rail of the balcony, only to realize he was too late to help Holmes.  He had not shed a tear as he supervised the search party for his friend's body at the base of the waterfall, ensuring they scoured every last inch, only to come up empty handed.  No sob passed his lips as he sat alone towards the back of City Hall during the memorial service of the great Sherlock Holmes.  He did not even cry from the overwhelming joy he felt upon receiving that damn letter so many months ago.  But now he could not stop the salty tears from running down his cheeks and the sob from escaping his throat.  Holmes crossed the room to stand before his broken friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what else to really do.  It was only when his own throat began to burn with emotion that he wrapped his arms around Watson's shaking shoulders in a tight, brotherly embrace.  At first, the doctor tensed.  But Holmes didn't let go.  And after a moment, Watson hugged him back, clutching Holmes to him as though he was afraid that if he let go, the man before him would disappear.  "How I've missed you, Holmes."

"Of course you have, dear Watson," Holmes smirked, sniffing back his own tears of joy caused by the long overdue reunion.  They held onto each other for a few moments more, each silently thanking God the other was safe.

"Well, I happen to have a spare room," Watson said, clearing his throat and brushing away the last of his tears as they broke apart.  "How about it, Holmes? Stay here tonight and then you will be able to see Mary in the morning."

"No, certainly not," Holmes said with a shake of his head.  "I could not possibly impose."

"Holmes," Watson smiled, looking his friend in the eye, "you could never impose.  You are my best friend, in spite of everything, and you will always be welcome in my home."

Leading Holmes up to the spare room for the night, Watson smiled gently, "Goodnight, Holmes. It's good to have you back."

"Goodnight," Holmes said.  Watson smirked and nodded.  Same old Holmes.  But just as he began the walk to his own room, he heard Holmes call for him.  Turning, he saw his friend standing in the doorway.  Holmes smiled broadly, "I've missed you as well, Watson."