W, recently learning of his alcoholic brother's death,
  leaves London to attend his funeral up in Scotland.
while there, W tries to pay off some debts
  and retrieve the pawned watch which now belongs to him.
W feels guilty and responsible
  for failing to cure his brother's alcoholism,
  and for giving up on him years ago.
There are distant relatives at the funeral
  who murmur about what a wastrel the deceased was.
When they ask W how he is living now, and he answers,
  they seem disappointed and gossipy
  about how John too has not made much of himself in life, either.
"Both those Watson boys never amounted to anything!"

Hurt, W broods for a long time
  and then comes to a painful, difficult decision.
(W considers his state:
  being invalided out of the army through no fault of his own,
  but never going back to full-time work since then,
  and living with H for years, at a standstill.
  an unhealthy standstill.)
W writes a letter home to Baker Street,
  informing H that he shall not return to London,
  for he shall live here instead
  and try his hand at doctoring full-time again,
  with the financial help of his kin.
"I am sorry for the short notice.
  Goodbye, my dear friend."

Early one morning, though,
  after a fortnight of being lonely and unable to sleep,
  W packs up his things anew and goes home to London.
"Damn what my relatives think!" he declares.
he sends a terse telegram to Holmes:
  "I've changed my mind. Expect me home tonight."
W broods on the train about how he'll explain himself,
  then finally arrives in London
  and steels his nerves as he hails a hansom.
Then he enters the old Baker Street sitting-room,
  and finds no one there.
"Holmes!" he calls out and sets down his bags. "Holmes?"
He searches and finds no trace of Holmes.
Finally, he finds Mrs. Hudson downstairs,
  who is surprised but welcoming.

"Didn't he get my telegram?" W asks.

"A telegram did arrive before luncheon, doctor,
  but Mr. Holmes has been gone all day.
  He has been gone a great deal lately."
No, Mrs. Hudson has no idea when Holmes will return.
Frustrated, W returns upstairs to wait.
Hour after hour passes, until at midnight,
  W gives up and retires to his bedroom,
  worriedly drifting off to sleep.

Suddenly W wakes to an indistinct sound.
He sits up and tries to make out what seems to be
  H opening then shutting his bedroom door loudly.
W rises and puts on his dressing gown,
  going down to H's room.
he finds dirty boots and a smelly overcoat
  carelessly tossed onto the floor in the corridor.
Along with these garments is a crumpled piece of paper,
  the very telegram that W had opened for Holmes
  and left in the sitting-room,
  pinned to one of W's suitcases to be sure that he would see it.
H seems to have read the telegram at least,
  though what he thought of it remained in darkness.
W considered that he ought to let H have his rest tonight,
  and yet W worried about where H could have been.
The clock strikes two in the morning.

Restlessly, W goes to H's door and knocks softly,
  receiving no answer.
W opens it and peeks into the dark room, blinking.
"Holmes? It's Watson. I'm sorry to disturb you.
  I just wanted to say hello;
  we can talk more in the morning."
Still W received no answer
  from the dark figure lying upon the bed.
W sighed and assumed H to be asleep already.
he lingered and let his eyes adjust to the darkness,
  then stepped into the room and shut the door behind him,
  approaching the bed quietly
  so that he might see H's condition.

W could see more clearly now that H lay prostrate,
  still dressed and sprawled on top of the bedcovers
  as though he had simply thrown himself onto the bed in exhaustion,
  as carelessly as he had thrown off his boots and overcoat earlier.
W also noticed that H's clothes were grimy
  and they reeked of alcohol, cheap tobacco,
  and something else indefinable.
W stepped closer and reached to undress H.

"Don't." sharply. muscles taut. withdrawn.

W jerked back, startled.

H shifted on the bed, his face turned to the side.
"You've said your hello. Say your good-night."

W caught his breath, his pulse still pounding.
"Holmes, I-I didn't know you were awake."

"Now you do. Good-night."

W frowned at the curt dismissal and bit his lip.
"Very well," he said, taking a step back.
"But please, you should change your clothes
  and get properly into bed, Holmes.
  You certainly won't like the odour of your bed in the morning."

H snorted, turning away.
"I like it just fine."

W stared at H in the darkness,
  seeing his long, tense limbs shivering from cold
  and his whole figure clad in dishevelled clothes
  that told of some tale dark and desolate that W could not deduce.
he hesitated against leaving H there,
  his familiar and stubborn worry conquering his good manners.
after a moment W tried again,
"You shouldn't just languish at risk of your health.
  If you're too tired, I can assist you."

"No thank you, doctor.
  I believe you have other patients in Edinburgh."

W detected the bitterness in H's voice,
  the more stark since H so rarely betrayed emotion in his tone.
W bit his lip and shook his head.
"Not anymore, Holmes. That was a mistake.
  I apologise for my ... indecision. There'll be no more of it.
  I have returned permanently."

"Have you, then?" still H's cold tone did not soften.

W whispered, "If you will have me."
when H did not answer,
  W ventured to sit down near him.
he touched H's shoulder very lightly,
  and H jerked away, seeming to tremble.
"I can explain it to you now or in the morning.
  Both, even.
  I can apologise to you for weeks, months perhaps,
  if you wish me to. Do you?"

H shrugged as if he could not care less.
"Why bother? You'll be gone again in a fortnight, won't you?"

"Holmes," he implored,
"I've been thoughtless, I know.
  Writing you a letter out of the blue.
  Not saying good-bye to your face.
  Asking you and Mrs. Hudson to pack and send my things..."

"Save your precious apologies for your relatives,
  whom I'm sure will be disappointed in your weakness,
  returning so soon
  to your 'pointless, unprofitable life' with me!"

"Holmes, those were their words, not mine--"

"And you believed them!" H spoke venomously.
"Upon hearing their criticism of your life,
  you abandoned me for the sake of their almighty approval.
  Followed their tedious advice and their wholesome recommendations."
H sat up and turned on him with a disgusted scowl,
"As if your time in my company had merely held you back.
  As if I were an idle, addicted wastrel like your brother,
  dragging you down into the mud."

W swallowed and diverted his eyes from H's fury,
  to hide his pain. "Not you, Holmes. Not--"

H cut off W's strained whisper by pushing him fiercely.
"You'd best get away before the contagion infects you again."
he turned round and faced toward his window,
  breathing sharply in the darkness.

sitting still, W clutched his chest where H had struck him,
  as if the wound penetrated much deeper than the surface.
he did not move for several moments from the edge of the bed,
  only able to swallow his pain.
"I'm sorry," his voice broke finally
  through the tense silence of the room.
he shook his head, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry."

arms crossed, H scorned the feeble sound of W's words
  and sat there as forbiddingly cold as ever.
as he heard W move behind him,
  crawling closer across the bed,
  H warned icily, "Take care
  that you don't come too near a degenerate like me."

W heedlessly threw himself upon H's mercy,
  grasping H's shoulders and clinging to them
  though H tried shrugging him off.
"It was never you, Holmes,"
  W choked on his words, "Never.
  I was degenerate. Corrupt. Addicted...
  I couldn't live without you.
  You gave me every support and friendship,
  and I couldn't leave you, even long after I should have done.
  After..." he swallowed, "I loved you."

H stopped pushing at W to release his grip,
  his body suddenly stiffening with a strange rigidity.
Then in the next moment, he turned sharply
  and looked at W's head buried in his shoulder.

W just closed his eyes, still confessing almost inaudibly,
"I loved you ... excessively. Indecently.
  I had no right to. I dragged you down.
  The last time I saw you, I almost tried to, to..."
He shivered, continuing only with difficulty.
"I had to leave you before my ... feelings
  ruined your reputation. I had to.
  But I couldn't, even still.
  I hurt you and misled you in order to leave,
  and still I couldn't stay away. Couldn't--"
he shed tears of guilty despair, pleading,
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

H brushed W's face softly, feeling W tremble at the touch.
H stared at him and raised his face upward.
W fearfully tried to draw back from him,
  braced in preparation for being struck viciously,
  but H merely pulled him close and kissed W's lips instead.
W blinked his eyes open,
  registering this surprise with wonder and uncertainty.
Then, after a moment, he succumbed to desire
  by kissing back and drinking in H's willing mouth
  with a passion he had dared not feel for so long.
their breaths mingled with a powerful intensity.

but with a sharp motion, apparently changing his mind,
  H retreated and turned away,
  lying back upon his bed with a choking,
  almost whimpering sound.

W became anxious again, blinking at him.
"Holmes?" he followed him and felt instantly guilty.
"I'm sorry." W stroked his arm with regret.
"I'm sorry. That was wrong of me. I--"

H shivered and shook his head.
"You don't know. You don't--"
his voice struggled as if in agony.
"When you deserted me, Watson,
  when I thought you were gone, I..."
he could no longer speak.

clinging now to a fragile hope that H shared his feelings,
  W lay close beside him and tentatively touched him.
H did not tense or resist, and W slid his arms around him,
  asking him what was wrong, what H wanted him to do.
"Do you--do you want me here?"

H gripped onto the arms embracing him,
  managing to reply in a broken, faltering voice,
"Would you want me, now? If you knew..."
He choked and shook his head.
Then he sighed when W held him nearer.

W rubbed and soothed H with concern,
  remaining near and slowly coaxing the confession out of him
  of what he had done and where he had been
  since receiving W's notice that he would not return.
Confessed how hurt and angry he had been.
How, in defiance of both W and his own heart,
  H had embraced the squalid life that W's letter
  seemed to accuse him of living, wanting.
How he had sought out perversions,
  sought out willing strangers, to numb himself,
  to wallow in the shame and drown out old hopes of love.
W absorbed these revelations in silence,
  and realised that H did truly feel as deeply as W,
  if not more so, though he seldom revealed it.
H had suffered no less than he had
  in these long two weeks apart.

"My dear Holmes," W kissed and caressed him
  as if he would never let go of him.
The look in H's eyes suggested
  that he did not quite believe
  that W was really here, returned.
H said nothing now and lay on the bed
  looking toward his window once more.

W tried turning H back to him
  and kissing him comfortingly, to no avail.
So instead, against H's protests and struggles,
  W undressed him and examined the multitude
  of tell-tale marks and scars upon his lank frame,
  kissing each one with a futile wish to erase them all.
H still did not want to face W,
  continually resisting W's embraces
  and murmurs of both forgiveness and apology.
Who said love would be easy?
Finally, W fell silent and just lay with H,
  holding onto him tightly through the dark night,
  and thinking about where they might begin tomorrow,
  in their mutual recovery.