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Chapter Text

Watson couldn’t believe how old and helpless he looked now.

Of course, he wasn’t really very old or helpless; countless times he had assisted Holmes with his revolver and his willingness to do anything for him. But ever since Afghanistan, no one would call Watson strong, vital, or able.

His appearance had changed rather drastically, as had his fortunes, though the latter had only changed for the better, and the former, the worse. As he was now, a casual friend may not have marked him the same person as the up-and coming military surgeon, or the aimless, she’ll-shocked veteran. He had put on weight during the years since then (mostly due to Mrs. Hudson’s cooking), and he didn’t mind, but he knew that it brought him even further away from the ideal of what a promising British man was supposed to be. On top of that, he had found gray hairs mixed in with his rust-red, and crow’s-feet were starting to make an appearance.

And, of course, he walked with a cane.

The wound shot through his shoulder wasn’t noticeable, because, of course, only one person knew what his bare torso looked like. It pained him sometimes, but otherwise, he could live more or less the same with it. It was the other wound, the one in his leg, that had lessened his body’s abilities, forever.

For example, right now he was trying to tackle a flight of stairs, and getting extremely irritable about it.

He and Holmes were in the middle of an investigation, and their prime suspect was Mr. Jonah Stolker, a young man who had been seen handing over money to someone wearing the same costume as the murderer of Margaret McGuire. Watson could never guess with complete certainty what Holmes was thinking, but still he was fairly confident that they had their man, and the only thing left to do was to find out how and why he had organized the crime.

Mr. Stolker, however, had made the insane choice of renting an apartment six stories high. And in his excitement, Holmes was walking even quicker than usual, practically bouncing on his long legs. Already he was getting further and further away from Watson, so absorbed by the urgency of the situation that he didn’t notice his partner lagging behind.

Watson had to go aggravatingly slowly and carefully. He couldn’t put too much weight on his bad leg, but on a narrow stairway like this one it took him a second to find purchase for his cane. Only a short second, but he added on another second of slowness for every step of the stairs, and on a staircase like this it added up exponentially.

Watson and Holmes must have made a comical picture, and Watson could practically hear the laughing audience in the background: the fit, energetic man taking the stairs in stride, and the invalid lagging behind.

Watson was so focused on the necessary motions that he didn’t see Holmes look to his side, as if expecting to see Watson there, and then turn around and pause to finally see that Watson had fallen far back behind him. He did, however, hear Holmes’s quick, light steps, so much more graceful than his own, coming one after another down the stairs.

“Do you want me to help you?” Holmes asked.

“I’m not an invalid,” Watson snapped, not looking up from his right hand white-knuckling the railing.

“Oh,” Holmes said. “Sorry. I’ll be standing at the top until you catch up, then.”

Watson felt awful. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly. “I mean, I did, but also. I would like your help.”

Holmes wrapped his hand around Watson’s arm.

“You have my apologies for not noticing sooner that you’re struggling with the stairs,” Holmes said.

“I’m not struggling.”

“Yes, you are,” Holmes said bluntly.

“I can walk up them,” Watson said. “It’s just… hard.”

“All right,” Holmes said in a way that made it clear he had more to say about the issue, but he wouldn’t press right now. “Still, it’s a shame that people haven’t invented some kind of automatic staircase yet.”

Watson nodded in agreement, and the two men walked up the rest of the stairs at a pace slower than Holmes’s had been on his own, but faster than Watson’s.

Watson could tell that Holmes didn’t like walking deliberately slower than he could - this was a man who moved by his own rhythm, literally, and this snail pace was unnatural to him. It made Watson frustrated with Holmes, and with himself - they both agreed, it would be better for Holmes to not bother himself with walking Watson up the stairs like a concerned parent with a rambunctious toddler underfoot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go up by yourself?” Watson asked.

“What?” Holmes said, looking elsewhere.

“I said, you don’t have to slow down for me. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no,” Holmes said. “I’ll wait for you.”

Watson inexplicably felt defensive. “Why?”

“It’s part of the terms and conditions,” Holmes said.

“Excuse me, the what?”

“When we agreed to be partners,” Holmes started, “we made a contract - an unofficial one, but a similar one to a husband and wife. In sickness or in health. When you’re having trouble with something, I help you. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Watson said quietly.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “What other way is there to think about it?”

Watson’s face was warm.

“That I’m a burden.”

Holmes laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Watson. I don’t mean to make light of your worries, but - I just - is that really what you think?”

Watson looked down. “I… I don’t know.”

“This is my fault, then,” Holmes said. “It looks like I’ve neglected to tell you how much you mean to me. Do you know where I would be without you?”

“No.”

“I don’t either.”

Holmes’s arm squeezed tighter around Watson’s.

“I love you,” he said quietly, “and I love everything about having you in my life. That includes helping you up stairs, or anything else you need. Like I said, it’s part of the contract.”

Watson hadn’t been expecting such a direct glimpse of Holmes’s feelings for him, and especially not in the dingy stairway of a too-tall apartment. His face went red, and he squeezed Holmes’s arm tighter.

“That’s very gallant of you.”

Holmes waved off the compliment. “You know you would do the same.”

Chapter Text

Holmes hated nothing more than the inevitable human limits of his mind.

Every time he felt insecurity, or nervousness, or tiredness, he mentally added a bit of coal to the blaze of his yearning to not be shackled by his own weaknesses. But for those feelings, he at least had the solace that they were every person’s weakness, and his unusual amount of confidence balanced the scales and made up for them.

There were other weaknesses, however, that no one else had.

Holmes knew he was an invalid. Oh, he made up for it in other areas of excellence. But the two extremes, hyper-focus and emotional obliviousness, persistence and sensitivity, were two sides of the same coin. And that was what he must never let anyone besides Watson know.

Watson chronicled Holmes’s feats of observation and deduction, and despite his tendency for frilly romanticism, his writings had elevated Holmes’s popularity all across Europe. Everyone knew that Holmes could tell your entire life story just from looking at your hands, and trace your activities in the last month by looking at your shoes. And everyone knew how single-minded Holmes was, how all of his actions served the same purpose of honing his mind and senses, and how his natural talent coupled with intense study had made him something of a crime-fighting robot.

Holmes would have liked for that to be the entire story, but there was a more shameful side to his unique brain, too. He had many failures, but the absolute worst was his sensitivity to noise.

In his line of work, Holmes had to listen to endless talking - interviewing suspects, dropping in on police investigations, comforting witnesses. But other people’s talking was Holmes’s sore spot. When people slurred their voices, it grated in his ears like someone had taken a knife and was sawing in quick, sharp motions through his skull. When many voices jumbled together, they pressed down on Holmes’s brain and hurt.

It was really pain. As much as Holmes would have liked his sensory issues to just be an annoyance or a personal preference, they caused him actual, physical pain. And he couldn’t let anyone else know that. They couldn’t have any failings to weaponize against him.

Holmes was supposed to be doing reconnaissance for a case. He felt like an impostor in a black suit, listening to a tableful of dinner party chatter. Too much chatter. It was pressing like a physical presence into the back of his head, uncomfortable and burning and painful. He hated when his shortcomings got in the way of a mystery. But he couldn’t sit through it, he couldn’t tolerate one more second of this noise-

Before his prickling eyes could spill over, or his quivering mouth could make way for a sob, Holmes pushed his way out of his chair and mumbled an excuse about having a breakthrough on his case. He barely made his way to the nearest restroom before his emotions got the best of him. He was just grateful that no one else had had to see it.

Holmes made himself cry quietly. He wanted to pretend he wasn’t overstimulated, like it was all a big coincidence.

Those few minutes were the worst in the world, every time. There was so much risk of anyone coming into the room and leaving him vulnerable (he could hear footsteps outside the bathroom, stabbing against his ears, right now). Not a single person in the world would want to see him this way. If they found him, not a single person in the world would help him.

As if some demon had conjured his worst fears, Holmes heard a few quick knocks on the door.

“Holmes? Are you in there?”

It was Watson. Watson wouldn’t yell at him - but Holmes’s heart was still beating like crazy. He needed to hide his weakness.

“I’m fine,” Holmes said quickly. “I just got overwhelmed. I need a minute to recuperate. But I’ll come back out soon.”

“Do you mind my being here?”

“No,” Holmes said, after hesitating for a moment. “You’re just one person. As long as you stand outside the door. Please don’t come in.”

Watson understood Holmes’s problems with overlapping voices, and he didn’t ask for more information than that.

“If you’d like it, then I’ll wait for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-“

Holmes’s voice gave out, and he dropped off mid-sentence, breaking into a sob.

“Is the door locked?” Watson said. “It must feel awful being in there all by yourself. Are you sure I can’t come in?”

Typical Watson, Holmes thought, with half anger and half fondness. Stubborn and steadfast. He just won’t leave well alone.

“…Fine,” Holmes said. “I’ll unlock the door.”

Holmes stood up on shaky legs, wiping the tears away from his eyes. When he moved toward the door, his hands hesitated, knowing that Watson, a whole living, breathing person was on the other side. Why would he do this to himself on purpose?

“But this is Watson,” Holmes said under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Holmes had dallied long enough. It was unlike him. (Come to think of it, all of this was unlike him.) Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the bathroom door, and it swung open from the outside.

Watson stood in the doorway, solid and supportive as he ever was, with nothing but concern on his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Holmes couldn’t make any more words come out of his mouth. He took a few steps forward and did something else out of character: fell forward into Watson’s embrace, and squeezed his own arms around his partner as tight as he could without hurting him.

Watson was soft and warm.

“There, there,” Watson said softly. “It’s okay.”

Holmes could feel his tears drying up - Watson was so strong, and his arms wrapped around Holmes like a weighted blanket, and his quiet, soothing words covered the harsh sounds from the dining room like how a soft flowery wallpaper covered a splintery wooden wall.

Holmes’s mouth was muffled somewhere in the folds of Watson’s coat, but he needed to tell Watson how he made him feel. It was important. Holmes tried to summon up the mental strength to open his mouth and verbalize his feelings, but he couldn’t.

Instead he ran his hand back and forth over Watson’s shoulder through his jacket. The fabric was the softest thing he had ever felt.

Somehow Watson knew what Holmes was trying to say, and hugged him tighter as a response.

No words needed.