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The Clueless Watson	By : JacquesL Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 6678 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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The Clueless Watson - Part Three: The Truth

Holmes

There is a peculiar hard knot within my gut has developed during this conversation, and I wonder if I may be coming down with something.

But meanwhile, poor Watson looks abjectly miserable. "My dear fellow, it cannot possibly be this bad," I offer, worried and disturbed at the fact that I am obviously missing something. My dear friend is acting as if he had committed a crime, but surely he cannot consider it criminal to befriend an Afghani. Not Watson.

He seems inconsolable. "But it is, my dear, dear friend," he cries. "It is worse than that."

I must admit that I am growing ever more confused. "What is the worst thing that can happen?"

He looks at me, desolate. "To lose you."

Lose me? Because of his friendship with that man? "As a friend?" I seek to clarify.

He nods, looking away again.

Ridiculous. "You could only do that by doing things that are completely against your character. Betrayal, deceit, or by moving out." None of which I can, presently, imagine, and certainly not for a friend. Now, if ever a woman were to capture my Watson's attentions... But that is something upon which I prefer not to dwell.

For a moment, he says nothing. "Two out of three..." he finally whispers, looking as if about to faint.

I am completely at a loss. "What have you done?"

He sits up straight and looks me in the eye with all the staunchness I have come to expect from him. "I have betrayed you, and yet, I have not. I have deceived you, and yet, I should not call it that. Rest assured that I did intend to do no wrong, and yet, it was the only possible thing I could do." He shakes his head. "But tell you, I cannot."

"I see," I say slowly. "You do not trust me. You think I might be moved to extreme reaction. If you have done nothing to harm me, then there is nothing you have to fear from me. You are much too decent a fellow."

"Decent!" He barks out a laugh. "Oh, but I do trust you. If I do not tell you the truth, it is to prevent you from being harmed."

Truly, sometimes Watson can be too chivalrous to be real, and too prepared to carry all the burdens of the world upon his shoulders. Once again, I obviously have to be plainer than this. "What is this harm that you fear would come to me? What do you think you could do to harm me?" Illustrious criminals have failed to do so. It seems laughable that Watson should consider himself capable of achieving anything of the kind.

He turns away with his familiar sulky expression, the one he uses when he does not want to let his feelings show. "I can still break the law, even if I am not that... worthy."

That does not make it any plainer for me. I know that he can break the law. But surely his doing so would bring no harm to me?

*

Watson

Without turning back, I can feel my good friend looking at me, probably with honest concern, and yet I cannot force myself to turn back, or perhaps even to talk to him. The poor fellow is truly without a clue, and I curse under my breath for letting myself be carried away to give away those subtle hints that did not improve matters, but rather contributed to an even more complicated situation.

I am completely at a loss. Nothing is further from my thoughts than harming Holmes in any way, be it by words or actions. On the other hand, I cannot explain, alas! I cannot even dare hint at what exactly is going on, for I know in my heart that this would put a nasty end to our friendship, and heaven forbid I was the cause of that. All my endeavours, all the secrecy and the subdued emotions, would have been in vain, should I fail him now.

Realizing that this cannot possibly go on, and that my limited faculties of deceit will not make the grade eventually, in the face of the master of deception, I must seek flight once more, and escape to the one friend who could help me. His appearance earlier this week had already shown me that he cares, and that I wronged him utterly by leaving him the way I did, and thus I might be able to make up for this and at the same time gain some knowledge as to how to behave in a situation as muddled as this one.

It is ridiculous, indeed, that I seek advice and shelter with the one man who's existence called our little discussion into life, but what else can I do? Biting my upper lip in order to suppress the bitter laughter that wants to creep up, quite inconveniently, I finally turn to look at Holmes. "My dear friend," I say. "I beg you to be patient. There is no feasible explanation for my outrageous behaviour, and yet, I must ask you to trust me and not to press me with further questions. Right now, I first and foremost must straighten things out with myself, and only then will I be able to give you further explanations."

Even though there is a grain of truth in this, I cannot avoid the feeling that it is a foul excuse indeed, yet it must suffice for the time being. And without awaiting a word of consent or protest, I grab my hat and coat and take my leave. The fresh air will do me good, and I dearly hope that I will come up with a proper excuse on my way to Hassan.

*

Raman

This report I am giving on behalf of my loyal friend John Watson, who also has the kindness to write it down for me, as I never acquired the art of writing.

My name is Alhasan Ata' al Rahman, eldest son of Rahman Akba al Rakin ibn Jibran. My family clan was and still is that of a tribe of Nomads from the Western downs, who had travelled the deserts of Iraq and Persia on their long way from Arabia to Afghanistan, and who happened to stay there, near Candahar , while the Englishmen were having that fateful battle against the lords of the country. There, I learned to know my modest and kind friend John, whom I will spare the embarrassment of forcing him to write down in his own hand the praise I would well like to heap upon his person.

The war separated us, and I did not believe that I would ever see him again. Then, by the will of God, I received notice of his whereabouts, but before I could find him, we were separated once again, and I arrived several days late, only to learn to my great dismay that John had been injured, and that they had transported him to India. There, I could not follow him, due to various reasons that are of no importance here.

It was then that I decided to sell my Falcon in order to obtain enough money to travel to England, for I believed that he had been brought back to the land of his fathers. Had I known that I would arrive there even before him, I would not have hastened as much as I did to get there, and be with him once more. Be it as it were, I arrived in London about one year later, and I did not find John, but I found the humble residence on the grounds of the docklands, where I have resided ever since.

I found work in the docks, and the ships, arriving from everywhere in the worlds, provided me with all I needed. I was astounded to realize that there were many kinsmen working in the docks, just like me, and I soon became their leader, as I was the best to learn and use the foreign language of the Englishmen. I owe this to John, too, because he started teaching me his language when we were still in Afghanistan.

It took me another couple of months until I finally found out about the housing of my beloved friend. But then, he had arrived at London only shortly beforehand, and was still suffering from the consequences of his illness. It was a heartfelt reconvention, and we soon behaved as if we had never been apart. I cared for his health whenever we could afford to meet, and I can proudly state that I contributed much to his fast recovery. We could not, of course, meet in public, or even dare dream of living together, because we come from two different worlds that will never merge. But the time we had together, we spent as closely and intensely as possible.

One day, John told me about Sherlock Holmes, a name I had heard before. He would not have needed to use so many words to describe this man, anyway, because the shine in his eyes told me everything I needed to know, but I always liked to listen to him, and so I listened. Now, my friend, you shall not cry, but rejoice in the faith and love I bestow upon you.

The only question I asked about the stranger, of whom I had already heard the strangest stories, and who had filled my friend with so much pleasure, was if Sherlock Holmes was a trustworthy man. When John hastened to answer in the affirmative, I agreed that he should move in with the man. I knew what would happen eventually, after the two had spent some time together, even though I took into consideration the noble attitude and gentle consistency of my dear friend, but my destiny had been decided long before that, and so I made a solemn oath to myself that I would do everything in my power to contribute to John's well-being, inn shâ'a allâh.

Not much later, John moved with Sherlock Holmes to Baker Street, but nothing happened. We did not meet that often any more, because he was at Holmes' disposal most of the time, but whenever he could afford it, he would sneak away, thus establishing what we called the 'proficiency lie'. It was a dangerous game, but we could not endure going on without each other. And thus, I came to realize that I was mistaken, because nothing happened at all, for a very long time.

When John finally made up his mind, leaving me to stay alone in that fateful night, I was almost relieved, because I found that he took heart. My curiosity, however, made me go to his house, to make sure that he had actually found his happiness. I knew that he might mistake my appearance before his house as a desperate attempt to seek his company, and that it would lure him back to me eventually. But this was my intention: to force him to come to my place another time, driven by his conscience, so that we could talk about the whole matter, hark back to all the things we had never talked about before. When he finally came, I would be ready to tell him that he had my blessings. And I would advise him what to do next.

To be continued...
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The Clueless Watson