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Watson was not made for violence. Holmes thought that was rather strange thought to have considering Watson had been a soldier, and especially because of their recent extreme activity, but he could not deny the truth of it. Watson used violence when necessary, but he did not revel in it.
Holmes brushed back the sweat soaked hair from Watson’s brow and placed a cooling cloth upon it. Watson had fallen ill with fever not long after they had left the Prince. This was to be expected. Even though they had the advantage of surprise and dispatched him quickly, in his dying moments the Prince had expelled a wave of physic energy with Watson absorbing the brunt of it.
Holmes had been impressed that Watson had been able to carry on with the dissection. Under other circumstances he would have told Watson to leave it and whisk him away, but a message must be sent. It could not be believed to be something as simple as a robbery gone wrong. By the end Holmes had to wrap an arm around Watson and assist him down the stairs and into the welcoming darkness. He held up admirably, and did not collapse until they returned to their shared rooms.
Watson moaned in his sleep. Holmes clasped his hand, hoping that whatever fever dreams he experienced where not overly cruel.
Holmes had been drawn to Watson’s companionship from the moment that they met. The Restorationists were a loose network of individuals, it was designed deliberately so, in case one person was brought down he did not drag the others down with him. His time as a Restorationist was a lonely one, until John Watson showed an interest in the cause.
Holmes looked around at half packed bags and shattered notebooks. They would have to move again soon. This location had been ideal, a short walk from their more conventional occupations, but if their connection to the theatre was discovered this area would be the first to be searched. Hopefully it could wait until Watson was sufficiently recovered.
Logically Holmes knew that it made more sense to let Watson go. Watson could lead a more acceptable life, perhaps even find a wife. However, given the choice he did not believe that Watson would take it. Watson’s loyalty was stalwart and steadfast, and Holmes knew his heart would break at the loss of his cherished companion.
In a better world Watson’s hands would only be used for healing, writing, and comforting those in need. They did not live in such a world, but perhaps some day, after their oppressors were driven out, they would. Because if anyone deserved a little softness, a little succour, it was his dear Watson.