"A friend can tell you things you don't want to tell yourself." ~ Frances Ward Weller
Unfortunately, Holmes soon realized all would not simply be returning to normal any time soon. Watson all but abandoned his practice. Most days he simply sat in his room, staring listlessly out the window. He hardly ever touched the food Mrs. Hudson brought up to him, and he often drank whiskey over the carefully prepared tea. More times than he would like to count, Holmes' own work was interrupted by the young Miss Watson's cries, and he would enter his friend's room only to find him still in that blasted chair, seemingly unaffected by the baby's tears. The third time Holmes came in to discover that Watson had gone out gambling again, leaving his daughter unattended, was the night he decided to permanently move the cradle into his own room. If Watson wanted to waste his life, so be it. But this little girl was not going to suffer because of it. The very same morning, when Watson finally came stumbling up the stairs and into their flat, Holmes was waiting for him. "Have you any idea what time it is, Watson?"
Watson frowned. "You have a watch. Look for yourself."
"Watson it is ten o'clock in the morning! Look at yourself! You cannot keep doing this!" Holmes said, perhaps more sternly than he had ever spoken before in his entire life.
"And who says so? You?" Watson barked a laugh. "What would you know, Holmes? You have never loved a woman the way I loved Mary! You have not had your heart ripped from your chest, the sole reason of your existence cruelly taken from you long before you should have had to let go!"
"Yes, I have," Holmes shouted back at him, matching in volume but not venom. "I loved Irene, Watson. Do you hear me? I loved her! And I lost her. She was taken from me before she could ever truly be mine. But I know she would not want me to waste my life, just as Mary would be devastated if she were to see you now!"
Watson tried to take a swing at Holmes, but the detective ducked out of the way just in time. Watson continued to throw punches, seldom actually making contact, as Holmes simply attempted to defend himself. Finally though, enough was enough.
Situational assessment: Watson, obviously intoxicated, reflexes slow, depth perception off, sleep deprived. In short, running off fumes of alcohol and his overspent emotions. Personal danger: Little to none. General danger: Great, if Watson continues in such a self-destructive fashion. Only possible solution: Make Watson see reason by whatever means necessary. First, block right hook. Next, bruise ribs. Left cross taking advantage of Watson's old war injury on upper right leg. In unspeakable pain, adrenaline fades, anger doubled. Watson on his knees. Move in to force reason. Summary: Bruised ribs, aching leg, disoriented and quite possibly filled with rage, but restrained. Physical healing time, one hour. Emotional healing time, unknown.
Enacting his plan of action, Holmes had Watson pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds . "Listen to me, Watson," he ordered, both breathing heavily from their brief scuffle, "you have even more of a reason to live than I ever did. Your daughter! Remember her?"
Watson's eyes darkened. "Get off of me."
Holmes stared at him, barely recognizing the man before him. His heart sank as he obliged, a horrible thought invading his mind. The Dr. John Watson he once held in such high regard was gone. And Holmes was not sure when, if ever, he would reappear.
*~*~*
Days passed slowly with Holmes watching helplessly as Watson slipped further and further away. He could not help but wonder if this was how his dear friend felt when he himself would slip into one of his depressed states where he shut out the world and lived only within his own mind as he turned over every detail of a case. However, Holmes would always emerge from such states once he had made a discovery. He was beginning to doubt that Watson would.
One evening, Holmes was working on an experiment to determine just how high a frog could jump when injected with a stimulant of his own design, when the cry of young Miss Watson filled the air. After a moment or two, Holmes groaned and made his way to his own room, passing Watson's on the way. "Don't trouble yourself, I'll see to her," he called to his rather comatose friend. With a sigh, Holmes approached the cradle he had placed near the window. Reaching in, now finally having learned out of necessity the proper way to hold and transport a child, he lifted the still wailing baby into his arms and cradled her against his chest. "You know, you are quite persistent, Miss Watson. A quality which I believe will serve you well later in life, though as of just now, my dear, it is completely unnecessary," he said, as she began to quiet and snuggle deeper into his perpetually warm body, his familiar scent of his pipe tobacco, gunpowder, a bit of dirt, chemicals, and a touch of peppermint comforting her as only her dear Uncle Holmes could. "Alright. I see your point. I never would have left that experiment of mine had you quieted on your own. You have won this argument, Miss Watson, but have no fear, I shall prevail when next we meet."
Holmes began to walk the floor while gently bouncing her, something he found she liked immensely, and tilted his head as he examined her. A new thought occurred to him rather suddenly. "I don't know why I did not think of it before, but I suppose I cannot call you Miss Watson indefinitely, now can I, my dear?" he asked her. "Well, I could, but when asked your name you must have a suitable answer. Especially once you begin to attend school, for despite my arguments which suggest the opposite, I do indeed see education as a valuable asset in life. And since your father seems incapable of doing so, I see the task of christening you falls to me. What do you think of Christine, perhaps?"
The little baby's face scrunched up as if in disgust.
"Yes, I agree," Holmes nodded. "That won't do at all. Marie then? Or Ann?"
She yawned.
"Of course. Much too plain and oh so very ordinary for a woman of your stature," the detective chuckled. Then after a moment's thought suggested, "Suppose we name you Mary, after your mother? Mary Irene Watson. I do believe that has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Young Mary sighed contentedly.
"It's settled then. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Mary. You know, your mother and I used to give each other a terrible time. But, in her own way, she was a remarkable woman, just as I have a feeling you will be one day. She was a good friend, and she could not wait to be a mother. You must know that, my dear. She loved you very much. And, despite how often I tried to convince him otherwise, I know she made your father very happy. You mustn't fret about him, my dear. He'll come around sooner or later," Holmes said, unsure whether he was reassuring Mary or himself. "He is still grieving, you know. Just give him time. Your middle name, you ask? Irene Adler was another friend of mine, well... someday I'll tell you the whole story. Suffice to say, she was a most fascinating woman. Strong. Brave and cunning. One of a kind, that woman. I'm afraid I've given you much to live up to, Mary Irene. But something tells me you will by far exceed anyone's expectations."
He smiled at her and shifted so her head now came to rest against his good shoulder. "Now then, what say we find Nanny and have her fetch you a bottle and brew some tea for your dear old Uncle Holmes, hmm? I promise to watch her closely. You never can be too careful with that woman, you know."
*~*~*
Holmes thought he didn't hear her. He thought he didn't care. And for once in his life, he could not have been more wrong.
Watson heard his daughter's cries. Every scream that passed from her small lips pierced his ears and shattered his heart. He cared. Oh how he cared! But caring... caring hurt too much. It only brought grief in the end. He had cared for his wife more than anything in the entire world and still he had lost her. Closing his eyes, Watson bowed his head and gripped the arms of the chair tightly as he let the memories over take him.
Mary had awoken in the wee hours of the morning, and Watson knew why right away. The baby was coming. Although it was a month early, the soon to be father was not worried. He was a doctor after all. He had helped numerous women give birth before. Everything would be fine. But after just a few hours, the hard labor began and her contractions grew closer together. Watson had never seen Mary in such pain and it frightened him. He knew then he would not be able to do this alone. Well, if it were anyone other than his own wife, he could. But his nerves were so frazzled... so he had Holmes fetch Mrs. Hudson. Grueling hour upon grueling hour passed after his old land lady, and dear friend, arrived. Mary grew pale as she gasped for a breath between the waves of pain that crashed over her. His own heart galloping wildly, Watson tried his best to guide her through. Beads of sweat glistened on her skin and matted her golden curls down onto her forehead, but she was still beautiful. "John!" she cried, tears now rolling down her cheeks. "Help me, John! Help me!"
Just breathe, darling. You're doing marvelously. Just breathe," he would say in a low, soothing voice. Mary would take a deep breath, attempting to calm herself as Mrs. Hudson wiped her brow with a cool cloth before yet another contraction hit her with alarming force. Finally, Watson announced to his wife that she was ready to bring their child into the world. As long as Mary had to suffer before hand, actually giving birth to the baby took surprisingly little time at all. Watson soon held a very small wailing girl in his arms. With a grin that stretched from ear to ear, he looked at Mary and laughed, "It's a girl!"
"Oh," Mary sighed, tears of joy now running down her cheeks, "John, she's beautiful! May I hold her? Please?"
"Of course, darling," he said, and still smiling he gently cleaned off the baby and handed his daughter to his wife.
"Hello sweetheart," Mary whispered. "Mother loves you very much. Always remember that."
Watson watched the tender exchange with a heart filled to overflowing with pride and love. He kissed Mary's lips and then the baby's forehead. "Papa loves you too, sweetheart. And he loves your mother very much."
"I love you too, John," Mary smiled wearily. "Oh, I'm so tired. Will you take her, John?"
"Gladly," Watson smiled, taking his daughter up into his arms. Wrapping her gently in a white blanket Mary had knit a few month ago, he lay her down in her bassinet. Then, he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp and whisper his name. He never knew that his own name could strike such fear into his heart. He turned to see his former land lady with tears in her eyes, her hand pressed to her mouth as she looked down at his wife. What in heaven's name was wrong with that woman? Mary was simply sleeping, not unusual for a woman who has just given birth to her first child. Upon closer examination though, Watson saw how unnaturally still Mary looked. Her chest did not expand with the intake of air, and for the first time, Watson realized just how much blood there was. It made his stomach churn. With feet that seemed to move on their own accord, Watson crossed the room to the bed where his wife lay. With a hand that paid him no mind, he reached out and placed two fingers against Mary's throat. Nothing. "No," he choked, reaching for her cold hand and clutching it tightly. "No, no, no! Please no! Mary! Oh God, Mary!"
A choked sob escaped Watson's lips as the memory faded. A few tears slipped down his cheeks. Oh how he wished he could have died in her place! She would have been a far better mother than he was proving to be a father. But he just didn't know how. How was he supposed to function without her? How was he supposed to care for a child on his own? He couldn't do it, and he didn't want to.
A life without Mary was no life at all.