Summary: Watson makes a distressing discovery and does something rash...

A/N: Wrote this a while back but it just occurred to me to post it here. Hope you like it, and remember: reviews are LOVE! ^.^

Watson took the stairs two at a time, pushing open the door to his old rooms with a feeling of sadness in his heart. He would not be able to come here so often with the marriage, and he would miss the company of his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Stepping inside, Watson was astonished to find the flat bare. The walls were whitewashed and the bullet holes filled, the chemicals packed carefully into crates labelled 'Delicate', the mantle empty of its usual assortment of curios. "Ah, Watson!" called out a familiar voice, in a tone that Watson thought a touch too cheerful. "Help me with this box, dear fellow, it contains some items of immense interest." With no further explanation immanent, Watson took the weigh of one side of the large box, grunting as his leg twinged in complaint.

Lowering the parcel to the ground, Watson stood facing Holmes, whose bemused expression was revealed on the other side. "Holmes, what on Earth is going on?" he spluttered, gesturing at the hollow flat.

Watson thought he saw a brief shadow of sadness in his friend's eyes as he too surveyed the stark rooms that had been their shared home for so many years, but if he had then the look was soon gone. "You are getting married in the morning, are you not?" asked Holmes, looking at him as though over a pair of spectacles. Watson nodded. "But, what has that to do with this?" he asked.

"Ah!" exclaimed Holmes, raising a finger. "It has everything to do with this, Watson. Consider: the whole of England at my fingertips, every city in the world, even, lacking in one thing alone. Do you know what that might be?" he asked Watson with sparkling eyes. Watson shook his head. "A consulting detective! Think how my trade has flourished in London alone- why, then, not look to the global scene of crime?"

"Where will you go?" was all Watson could think of to say, his head spinning and breath hitching in his throat as he considered a London without Holmes. "Chicago, perhaps," cried Holmes, face alight with enthusiasm. "I hear there is a flourishing criminal sector there. Or to the East, where a man is truly appreciated for his talents..." Holmes rambled on, enthusing about the virtues of a whole world of foreign places, many of which Watson had never heard of before, but apparently were in dire need of his friend. All he could manage to think was how very far away, how terribly inaccessible they all seemed. He stopped listening to the words after a while, just letting the sound of Holmes's voice wash over him, wondering how long it would be before he heard it again.

"I say, Watson, are you quite well? Wedding not got you on edge, I hope?" Holmes's voice sounded concerned as his firm hand on Watson's shoulder shook the latter from his trance. "You were swaying," he said, almost accusingly. Watson took a deep breath to calm his racing imagination, which was tormenting him with thoughts of an entire future of marital drudgery, unpunctuated by the adventures with Holmes he had come to rely on. Watson loved Mary, and he had dreamed of marrying her since the moment he and Holmes had met her, in the thick of one of their more exciting cases a number of years ago. But a life without his closest friend, was a future with Mary worth that? Watson was aghast to realise that he did not know.

"I am quite alright Holmes," Watson said, forcing a smile to reassure his friend. Holmes appeared to realise that his hand still grasped Watson's shoulder at the same time as his friend did, dropping his arm in acute embarrassment.

"Holmes," began Watson, unsure what to say. His friend looked him in the eye, his aquiline stare rather uncomfortable. "Are there not cases in London that require your brilliant mind?" Watson tried to reason with Holmes, unwilling to reveal the feeling of loss that smothered him when he considered the detective's prolonged, maybe permanent, absence. "You cannot really be considering leaving Lestrade to crack the criminal underworld alone?" His voice took on an incredulous tone.

Shaking his head, Holmes replied shortly, "Not alone, old boy- he has Inspector Gregson to aid him." Watson's mouth fell open in shock.

"Whatever has got into you, Holmes?" he asked.

"I merely wish for a taste of the world, Watson," murmured Holmes, his calmness infuriating his friend. "Perhaps it seems a small dream to you, who have seen our planet already when you doctored to the troops, but I too desire to see the wonders of our glorious globe-" Watson's white knuckles struck Holmes squarely across the jaw.

"Don't you dare to tell me that what I saw in the Afghan could be called wonders!" Watson growled, rubbing his fist. "You didn't see them, Holmes," he sighed, his voice softening. "They were just children, Holmes, looking for an adventure. They- we- were young and foolish. They were running, and laughing... and dead." Watson rubbed an errant tear from his eye, bowing his head in the hope that Holmes would not realise his distress. A hand tilted his chin upwards, and a trembling, calloused finger removed a droplet from his cheek with an infinite tenderness. "My friend," murmured Holmes, agony cracking his voice as he looked on, helpless to lessen Watson's suffering. Looking up, Watson gasped at the angry red mark on his friend's chin. He touched a hand to the hot impression of his fist, feeling Holmes wince involuntarily, although his expression betrayed no measure of discomfort.

The two men stood a moment, connected in their pain, then they withdrew from one another awkwardly, coughing and harrumphing to cover their discomfort. "I am sorry, my friend," said Watson simply. Holmes nodded.

"As am I, Watson. I never intended a sleight on your experiences. I admit my comment was made in anger, and it was an appalling show of poor taste on my behalf. I can offer only my apologies," he said, his voice gruff with restrained emotion.

"You could offer to stay," pleaded Watson impulsively. Holmes shook his head and laughed, a short, harsh bark that was quite unlike his customary chuckle. "But I must," he insisted. "Do you not see?"

"No, Holmes!" Watson almost shouted in his friend's face. "I do not see! Why must you leave me?" he blurted out, clapping a hand to his mouth to trap words that had already escaped. Holmes looked surprised. "Why should I stay, Watson?" he asked earnestly. "You do not need me, because you have Mary, and Gladstone, and doubtless circles upon circles of other friends gained since the engagement, on top of those you already had. London does not need me, and has frankly never appreciated my... talents, as you are gracious enough to term my abilities. The rooms here were taken to accommodate two, and I find them far too much alone. No," he concluded, "I must go."

Watson made a decision. "Holmes, you may have the truth of it." His friend looked interested. "I have considered a wonderful future with Mary- it contains children, grandchildren, a steady practise. I am happy." Holmes looked pained but nodded to indicate that he understood. "I have now, however, to account for your absence in that future. Suddenly it becomes grey. The long afternoons seem to drag, my family leave me as I take refuge ever more in my fading memories, elderly and alone. This is not a life I want for myself," Watson sighed. "And you, my friend. In this future I envision, you wander the globe a lonely traveller, becoming ever more distant and ever more absurd, reaching out for that which even you cannot achieve." Holmes winced, the words ringing all too true in his ears. "We would both die, of course, in the end. Unhappy and alone. I cannot allow it," Watson said, and his voice grew stronger. "If it takes companionship to keep you here, then I will come back to Baker Street." Holmes opened his mouth to interrupt, but Watson waved him into silence. "No, Holmes, you should know this. If you must leave London behind you, how could I trust that you would ever return? What I mean to say is, if you need a friend, be it roommate or travelling companion, I am here. A future that does not contain Sherlock Holmes is a grim one indeed," he muttered, avoiding Holmes's gaze.

If Watson had been watching his face, he would have seen Holmes's strict countenance crumple, his barriers obliterated by the affectionate words of his friend. "For me?" was all he could manage. Watson nodded.

"Of course, Holmes," he said, taking his friend's hand. Holmes looked at their linked hands as if studying a hitherto unobserved phenomenon, then, very hesitantly, wrapped his fingers around Watson's.

"But, dear old chap, why? Whatever can you be imagining would be better than a full and happy future with the woman you love?"

"A full and happy future with..." Watson paused, the words he was desperate to say sticking in his throat. "With the man I love."