Nikki Harrington


Watson muses about his feelings for Holmes.

A pre-pre-slash story.

Written: April 2007. Word count: 600.



I watch him as he moves around our sitting room, not truly at rest, but then he never is, but not really active. It has been three days since we completed our last case, and as always that is a restless time for my dear friend. I know that before long he will go to the desk, pull open the drawer, glance at me and take out the syringe. I do hope that that a case might present itself before that happens.


As I watch him, I allow myself to consider my feelings for him. We are close friends, indeed intimate friends; we share rooms together. I like to think that he needs me by his side, that he takes pleasure in my company. Indeed, the very fact that it was he who made it possible for me to sell my practice and return to share the rooms in Baker Street after Mary died, tells me, even if he never voices it himself, that I am of value to him. That he finds something positive in having me near to him. That he, at a level of which he is capable, cares for me.


My own feelings for Holmes run deeper than those of intimate friends. They move into the area about which people do not talk, do not think, do not acknowledge. Indeed, I myself rarely allow such notions to enter my head, and I certainly would never dream of sharing them with my friend.


He is a man unlike most other men. He does not have the same emotions as other men. He does not truly understand love, and he has never, at least not to my knowledge, felt that sentiment for anyone, man or woman. Not even Irene Adler. He does not like women. I am not even sure he particularly likes men or children. Sherlock Holmes is an enigma, even to me.


I take pleasure in being in his company, of assisting him, of chronicling his successes, I am proud of his achievements and of his intellect. I am also proud to call him, and to be called by him, 'my dear friend'.


I am content to be his friend; to be in his company; to share rooms with him; to be at his side, assisting him; to watch over him when he fails to take care of his own health and well being. As a doctor, I cannot condone his use of cocaine, but I tell myself that because he knows how I feel, he regulates his use.


Once or twice in our long friendship, I have allowed myself to consider what would happen should I ever dare to tell him of my love for him. However, I do not want to tell him, not because I take pleasure in the hopelessness of my feelings, but because in truth, I do not want us to be anything more than what we are. I enjoy our intimacy; our closeness; the fact that he did want me to return to him. I do not need anything else. We do not need anything else.


And if, on the very rare occasion, usually when I have had one or two glasses of wine too many, my mind and body go into places where I consciously do not take them, well, that is just something that happens. I am a doctor. I am a man.


I am quite content with what I have. It is far more than most people have or will ever have. For I, in all ways that truly matter, I, Dr. John Watson, have Sherlock Holmes.



Xenogenic Cause is the companion piece to this story


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