Work Text:
I am not by nature an affectionate person, at least not overtly or in the excessively effusive displays prized by so many. Indeed, as my dear companion Watson has written, I am frequently presumed to be cold and unfeeling, machine rather than man.
These misconceptions do not trouble me, as I have little time for those with such a narrow view of the world, yet I did occasionally worry that perhaps my limited expressiveness and tendency to be a little reticent would cause my dear Watson to feel neglected. To my mind, the mere fact that I wished him at my side said far more than any little speech about devotion could possibly communicate.
And I did wish him at my side. Nothing brought me greater pleasure than his steady presence while I investigated a scintillating case. Even my simpler cases were enriched by his company, as were the dull stretches between investigations.
It was a bitterly cold evening when these worries drifted through my mind again like snowflakes through the ashen sky. I attempted to brush them away as lightly, and had little luck.
Abandoning my current chemical preparations, I moved to sit on the sofa beside Watson. He looked up from his writing with a hopeful smile. “Holmes? Is there something you need?”
I needed him beside me, always, and to be assured that he understood that, but no words would express the full depth of my devotion. Instead, I took his hand and smiled. “Well, well, I merely wondered whether I might sit with you. It is a cold night.”
“It is,” he agreed, squeezing my hand, “and of course you may.”
Holding his hand as we sat together, my worries faded. Of course Watson understood. He did not need words, for he always understood my actions.