Pinnacle

Pinnacle

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "out of love"

During Watson’s first months and even years of living with Sherlock Holmes, he had found the man incredibly odd. Sometimes, Watson thought he understood his companion, and then would find himself completely wrong. Making lists of Holmes’ abilities and even accompanying him on cases had not been enough to unravel that mystery.

Attempting to puzzle out Holmes and all of his contradictions kept Watson occupied, at least. After his injuries in war and subsequent illness, his health remained poor. Not well enough to set up in active practice as a doctor, certainly.

There were plenty of interesting things to observe during his ongoing convalescence, even if somewhat baffling to live with. Holmes was very particular at times, fussy and upset if Watson so much as moved papers off the settee. But when looking for something, Holmes would scatter those same papers all over the floor, and then seem entirely to forget that he had done so.

He was similarly erratic in other ways, from his sleep habits to whether or not he would permit himself any food. Watson suspected that some factors governed these changes, but his own observational skills were not developed enough to fully understand it. Not that it stopped him from trying to unravel that mystery.

It was on a cold, stormy night that one of those contradictions presented itself strongly, and in a way that altered Watson’s way of looking at the world. The topic at hand: love.

Love was something that had come up occasionally during their late night conversations beside the fireplace, and it returned now as they sheltered indoors from the storm. Watson argued strongly in favor of it, calling on all the arguments he had heard. What was life without love, without having one person to whom one was entirely devoted? Marriage was surely the pinnacle of the whole human experience, and a life without love incomplete.

“Now, I cannot agree with you there,” Holmes said hotly, pushing more tobacco into his pipe as he spoke. He sounded very nearly hurt by Watson’s comment. “I have never loved, and I do not find my life the slightest bit incomplete. I shall never marry.”

That was a shocking statement, and one that left Watson momentarily speechless. He shook his head, baffled. “But Holmes, everyone wants to be married.”

“My dear doctor, you are falling into the habit of neglecting the facts before you. I do not wish to marry, nor to love. And therefore?”

“Not everyone,” Watson admitted, although it still seemed a shock.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

Watson’s cheeks warmed. “Well, I’ve… had my share of experiences. I was a soldier, Holmes.”

“And such things are expected of soldiers. I have no interest in those things either, and do not understand the appeal.” Setting his pipe aside, Holmes steepled his fingers together and gazed at Watson. “Have you loved? And if not, do you feel your life incomplete?”

“Well, I should like my life a bit better if I was able to be more active,” Watson said ruefully, resting a hand on his thigh. The cold weather gnawed on it, making movement at all difficult. Even sitting still hurt, and his shoulder was no better off. “And if I was in less pain.”

“You are deviating from the question at hand, Watson.” Holmes sprang out of his chair and dashed into the bedroom. He emerged with two blankets, and settled one across Watson’s lap as he continued. “I hardly think that marriage would miraculously resolve the effects of your injuries.”

“I suppose not. But a wife could bring me tea, or brandy!”

Holmes gave him a look, finished tucking in the blanket, and then swept over to the dining table. He poured a cup of tea, and a glass of brandy, and then brought both to Watson. “A friend may fulfill those particular little needs just as well. Unless you intend to argue that love is required to merely pour a glass?”

“I suppose not,” Watson said, watching as Holmes placed the drinks on a small table and moved it within easy reach. “Then it is friendship which you deem essential for fulfillment?”

“Your mistake is in assuming that I think any single element of life is essential for fulfillment. I know a man who has no friends whatsoever, and is entirely happy so long as his track between home, work, and his club is not interrupted.”

Watson smiled, nodding. “I suppose we are all individuals. But I meant for yourself, my dear chap.”

Holmes twitched a brief smile at him, then picked up Watson’s pipe and filled it with tobacco with the same care he would use when filling his own. “I admit to the value of friendship for myself.”

Chuckling, Watson accepted the pipe. “You sound like a man confessing a crime!”

“Well, I do not like to be reliant on anything outside myself. One can always rely on oneself.” Striking a match, Holmes indicated the pipe again. “But it is pleasant not to be alone.”

Having lit Watson’s pipe, Holmes wrapped himself in the second blanket, settled crosslegged in his armchair, and turned his attention to his own pipe. Watson watched him, heart clenching with affection for this strange man.

Holmes claimed not to love, and it certainly seemed he had never experienced it in the way that was so glorified by society. But when he fetched drinks or a blanket for Watson, was that not born out of love of a different kind? That seemed the case to Watson, at least, and perhaps love for a friend was every bit as wonderful.

And as for himself… Well. Although less pain would certainly be nice, what experience could possibly surpass living at Baker Street with his dear friend, and passing every stormy night exactly like this?