Well, somewhere along the way here, I crossed a line. It started out with this melancholy feel to it, but then became too unrealistic and weak. Holmes's recovery seems too out of character to some people, and I have to work on it some more before I figure out a better way for them to reconcile their differences and be "so civil to each other suddenly."
Holmes slept through much of the trip home, and only half awoke as Watson supported him with an arm and brought him out of the carriage at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson saw them coming and opened the door for them. She greeted Watson effusively, expressing now in her face what she could not in her replies to Watson's telegrams from Paris--that she was quite glad that he had returned at last. "You are so good to Mr. Holmes.... I knew you could not stay away for long," she murmured as she rang for the page and [the maid] Martha to get the luggage and pay the cabby. Mrs. Hudson half shut the front door, and then helped Watson bring him up the seventeen steps. "I know you gentlemen have had your disagreements," she patted his arm, "but you must both put them aside, I beg you, for all the good that you do!--for how well you work together."
Watson sighed. Work together? Sometimes it felt as if he were useless, worthless. What real partnership had they? He was tempted to use the phrase he had found in that Paris hotel: "I'm only his dog." [Watson had rushed, bitterly and reluctantly, to Holmes's sickbed in Paris. To Holmes's whisper of "I'm sorry," he was cold. Holmes asked, "Will you come back?" He replied, "Why not? I came here, didn't I? I came just as you've trained me. I'm only your faithful fool. I'm only your dog."]
Mrs. Hudson continued as they entered the open door of 221B, "I have kept your room just as you left it, save I changed the bedclothes of course. Mr. Holmes wasn't interested in the arrangements when you went, and I hadn't the heart to close it up completely, as if you never were to return."
They brought Holmes through to his bedroom and laid him down.
Mrs. Hudson started to go. "I'll just go down and bring up some dinner for you, Dr. Watson, unless you're too sleepy? Good. I'll be back in just a moment, while you finish in here." She started to close the door behind her, but paused. "Dr. Watson?"
He looked up, and found an expression on her face so near to tears that he came forward quickly and put his arms comfortingly around her, realising at once how small and old a woman she was, though strong.
She smiled and murmured into his shoulder, "How I've missed you, missed you both! Mr. Holmes left for his case in France almost immediately after you departed, and it has been so very quiet around these old rooms all these weeks." Then she giggled, an amusing schoolgirl giggle which made Watson smile. "I believe Mr. Holmes has made me unable to bear peace and quiet in this house."
He kissed her cheek spontaneously. "You amazing, dear, sweet thing! I came back for you, not him," he grinned.
"Oh don't say that! You adore him too, I'm sure." Then she touched his hand seriously. "Do take care of him, please. I was so upset when I read that telegram from the Paris police about Mr. Holmes's collapse that Martha could not calm me down for several minutes, and--" she broke off, shaking. "It was she who finally thought to find your address again and forward the telegram to you. I am so glad you came, doctor, so glad that you rushed to him and agreed to come home again, despite everything."
He looked down, away from her glance. "I could do no different," he said.
"I knew it," she smiled. She embraced him warmly once more and then pulled away in restored decorum, coughing, before she hurried off downstairs.
He stared after her for a time and swallowed. "Did you?" he whispered to himself, "You couldn't have warned me, could you?" He closed his eyes and leaned a little against the doorframe, feeling weak. In truth, he was ashamed of himself for being able to do no different.
Finally he turned away and went looking for Holmes's night-clothes, undressing him and putting him snugly to bed before Mrs. Hudson brought up supper. Within a few hours Watson came again to his bedroom, pausing for a moment at Holmes's door. He walked on, not checking in on him. Watson undressed and slipped into his old bed. Such was the sum of his first night back.
Amazingly, Holmes loved it, being coddled head to toe. He felt oddly amused that Watson hovered over him like a hen as he lay, still too weak to rise from bed. The two of them were so civil to each other suddenly, as if the last few months of argument, then absence, had not occurred. He smiled to think that this was apparently all Watson had wanted of him from the beginning, to humbly be his patient for once. Was it as simple as giving in to him now and again, to satisfy his restlessness and his ennui? Funny how Watson could be as frustrated with boredom as Holmes.
Watson served him his meals on a tray the first few days, puttering about in almost a domestic manner. He had not even thought to touch his manuscripts again, merely lingering at the bedside in his free moments. When he did not respond to Holmes's query about Watson's activities during all these absent weeks, Holmes looked up at him with half-closed eyes, then decided not to press any further. So Watson massaged his back and read books to him, mere fiction, as he repeatedly monitored his health. It appeared that Holmes had told the truth; he had not sunk to taking any cocaine during his case again. However, Holmes's lack of attention to his sleep and nourishment requirements had weakened him severely, and Watson was all the more careful with him.
Watson realised surprisingly that he was happy to be back. Holmes was good-tempered and responded well even to delicate nagging by Watson: "Less tea, more food, Holmes.... No, not a pipe now.... Careful, I don't think you can stand." More than that, Holmes had played his violin to him in that careless, draped-over-the-knee way again, and he insisted on being read the agony columns every day. It felt like old, happy times. It was better than old times--for Holmes quietly accepted being nursed and prescribed to by his now officially designated doctor.
Considering Holmes's pale complexion, Watson decided that a week in the country might do Holmes some good, if he could but be convinced to depart London. Besides its having so much crime to investigate, he loved London dearly as a city, fog and all, and never appreciated any truly sunny and clear place like Paris. Watson thought carefully of how to plan the trip, and he wrote to his friend Colonel Hayter in the meantime.