Sorry for the hiatus, my dear, wonderful readers! As a high school student, an elder sister, and a house-cleaner, I find myself with a hideous lack of time! *tear* I have absolutely adored every review, favorite, and alert from each and every one of you, and, as most of you know, I try to answer every one; but if I haven't yours, please don't think I don't appreciate it - sometimes things tend to slip my mind. *blushes*

This was supposed to be a drabble for 221b Baker Street, but my cruel muse demanded that Watson be put through more emotional trauma than I originally planned. Therefore, I am posting it as a separate story. Hope you like it! *chews on lip and awaits reviews*

This one was requested and inspired by k29girl, who is an awesome PM-ing buddy and a fellow unashamed Robert Downey Junior fangirl. *SQUEE* Thanks for reminding me of this crucial moment in the movie, mate!

NOT A HALF-SECOND OR SIXTY

From the personal journal of Dr. John H. Watson (1)

One minute, one lapse of sixty seconds - that's all it would have taken. Perhaps not even that.

My dearest friend was running for his life, and where was I? I was digging through a pile of debris in search of a piece of valueless metal.

My mind screamed an alarm at me the moment my friend vanished from my sight in pursuit of that violent Frenchman. Did I listen? No, of course not. Why? For the simple reason that I am the worst friend a man could ask for.

He could have died. He would have died, had I not given up my search in angry frustration at long last and half-heartedly gone after him.

It makes my heart constrict to remember my thoughts that moment. I wasn't going to follow him; for several cursed minutes, I seriously contemplated turning in the opposite direction and leaving him to his fate, deserting him when he needed me, letting him die painfully and alone in some dirty, cold warehouse surrounded by strangers who didn't even speak English.

And he didn't think twice about it, but instead fell asleep, perfectly contented and not the slightest bit angry, against my arm as we sat together in that sweat-smelling jail yard.

I have always been fairly good at reading people - perhaps this accounts for my desire to become a doctor from early on - and so in the few months that I've known him, I've become partially capable of understanding Sherlock Holmes; I'll never be entirely able to follow his thoughts - I sincerely doubt anyone ever will - but I could see in his dark, inexpressive eyes that he, in all probability, did not even remember what I'd done or that he should loathe me for it.

In fact, it makes me smile now as I remember, a few minutes before he faded into slumber, he tried to hide it from me that he was glaring icy daggers at one of the prisoners who had been eyeing me rather noticeably, warning him quite successfully to keep away from me.

How could he still feel the desire to protect me, after I nearly left him for dead?

When I at long last decided to chase after them, saw the crowds of people staring, wide-eyed and frightened, into that warehouse, I knew where I would find him. My patience having long-since been worn thin, I hadn't bothered a bit trying to force my way through, and resorted to discharging my gun.

He had, as always, not bothered orchestrating what he was to do should his adversary get the upper hand, and therefore the Frenchman had indeed done just that.

As I watched the goliath's massive, meaty fist crash into my friend's thin jaw, sending him collapsing violently to the dirt-covered floor, I fired my revolver at his enormous head.

I missed. Again and again.

The bullets struck crates and pipes and metal, my hands steadily growing shakier with each inaccurate shot.

The sound of Holmes' skull striking the iron support beam rung in my ears as I watched him vanish, battered and limp, behind the ship's bow.

It was then that my world started to shatter.

The tons-heavy vessel was sliding backward, toward the foggy, greenish water of the Thames.

Toward my unresponsive friend.

It was as if, for one long moment, I was looking at the world, slow and distinct, from a great distance. Supportive chains clinked dimly near my ears as they snapped apart, lumber and crates were cast with muffled thuds through the air, slow, soundless clouds of sawdust and woodchips wafted in every direction. Things were falling apart all around me; I was in danger of being crushed myself.

I could think of none of that. I had only one sane thought.

I can't reach him.

Holmes had only a short time before told my Mary that I was a soldier, strong and brave, born to fight. (2) There is no greater anguish for a soldier or a doctor to endure than the inability to take action. So many times in Afghanistan did I suffer from the loss of one life in my care. Even in London, the pain of losing a patient was a distressing blow.

I was going to lose my dearest friend, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

Even with the knowledge that it would be in vain, I tried to run, to get to him in time. But I could not move…could not breathe…could only stand and watch him die.

The ship passed over, and the sound of its crashing into the deep waters of the river jolted me back into the crushing reality that my friend was dead, gone forever from the London that still needed and depended upon him.

From me. I still needed him. Selfish and childish and insufferable and infuriating as he was, I could scarcely imagine a life without his smug expressions, indifferent sarcasm, or impertinent arrogance.

No. Dear God, please no.

And then he sat up, looking more dazed and baffled than I'd ever seen, completely oblivious that he had come but inches away from to death's door.

The relief, shock, and pure, unadulterated joy that flooded through me was weakening; for the first time in years, I had to blink back burning tears in my throat.

And then, in true Sherlock Holmes custom, he was nearly crushed again for the second time. I could not bear to watch him die again; I would not survive a second time. And so, through some burst of God-given strength, I saved him, leaping to his side and pulling him down just a half-second before the ton of iron sailed over us.

A half-second. That's all it would have taken. Just one half-second.

I would have slid that ring onto the finger of my bride-to-be with the knowledge of what I'd traded for it, that I had bartered the life of my dearest friend - my brother - for a piece of cold, dead metal.

And he does not think any less of me for it.

I shan't take for granted this chance I've been given to redeem myself. The next time, I shall be by his side, fighting with him and protecting him, as it is my sole duty and privilege to do so.

The next time, there will be no lapse of time, not a half-second or sixty, to count against me.

The End

(1) It is unknown exactly what the middle initial stands for, but, due to Mary referring to him as "James" in The Twisted Lip by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, it's theorized to be "Hamish," which is the Scottish variant of "James." This theory is only strengthened by the fact that the surname "Watson" is of Scottish origin. It's one of those hundreds of fun little absolutely pointless and irrelevent puzzles we Sherlockians love to waste our time speculating on.

(2) A thousand apologies if this sounds wrong - I cannot recall the exact words Holmes used at the dinner table when he was describing Watson to Mary. If anyone does, by chance, remember, and you believe it would sound better to have the quote, please do tell me what the words were, and I'll replace them soon as I can. Thanks!

I'm not sure what time area this is supposed to be in - obviously it's sometime after the jail yard incident. I was thinking that he could've written it while in the veteran hospital, after the slaughterhouse explosion, and it could be what motivated him to leave before the doctors' okay and go with Irene to find Holmes at the Punchbowl. Tell me what you think in a review!!