A/N: Hopping on the bandwagon here :D I am doing this to hopefully eradicate the rabid plot bunnies that are bouncing around in my head, and stopping me from working on The Counterfeit. Though I think it way have just spawned more...therefore, if you feel so inspired, take them! Please! Just tell me about it so I can read them :) The prompt table is KCS's from the watson_woes live journal. There will 100 sentences posted in increments of 20.
Holmes didn't realize Watson had become such an irreplaceable part of his investigations until, when a crazed gunman pointed two revolvers at them, he instinctually moved to place the doctor behind him.
Holmes' first glimpse of Watson's temper was one the day they moved in, when the man couldn't manage a heavy box up the two flights of stairs; the first time the temper was directed at him, he found he pitied the weakness in Watson, to have such ire directed at it.
After the shadows under his eyes grew so deep that even Lestrade worried, he finally fell asleep, curled into his armchair across from Watson's watchful eyes, and stubbornly refusing to lay on the couch or go–heaven forbid- to his own bed.
The silence in the flat was unnerving, and as Watson ascended the stairs after a long holiday, his stomach tightened in worry at what he would find at the top.
He wrote –and sent!- letter after letter, awkwardly trying to keep up a pretense of normality; he never knew how valued those pages were on the front lines in Europe.
"Holmes, you're bleeding," had been a much used statement, much to Watson's dismay, however on this occasion, Watson wondered how a man so stoic about mortal injury, could pout so badly over a cut finger.
Watson didn't know what demons from the past had cropped up now to keep Holmes from sleep, all he knew was that Holmes could not keep going on like this.
When every component to his trap was sprung with precision and Watson was left standing dripping wet, and covered with feathers, Holmes couldn't help going into a laughing fit at his outraged face.
Holmes had known that Afghanistan had been terrible; but when Watson, under the influence of a high fever unleashed the full horror of that time upon him, he had nightmares for days of desert sands, and Jezail rifle-fire.
The light coming in through the high barred window was just enough to see the handiwork of their captors on the face of the man he held in his arms.
He knew well the thrill of being followed, of angry men closing in around him, of many some ones wanting him dead and gone, even the business end of a revolver was a familiar thing; but never had he felt such terror at the feel of warm blood on his hands, and his friend lying at his feet.
"Doctor, you cannot go," was the entreaty, but Watson wanted to be present to see his dear friend honoured by the Queen, and a case of the sniffles wasn't going to stop him –even if he got scandalized looks for sneezing in front of royalty.
An observer would have giggled to see two grown men hiding in the washroom outside of Lady Mildred Bulstrome's ballroom, avoiding the asserted judgments and matchmaking attempts made by that foul woman.
Winters on the continent were always bitter, but in Watson's experience, he had never seen one so arctic as the one night they spent clinging to each other for warmth, after an upset carriage chase on the plains of northern France.
Swimming in an Italian lake after the conclusion of a successful case was all well and good; but Watson thought they perhaps would not be doing it again, after spending the night treating Holmes for a rather nasty sunburn.
Holmes did not let Watson's marriage affect his work, he did not fall into one of his "black moods"; but when he would turn to Watson's customary chair, a chain of excited deductions on his lips, to see the empty cushions staring back, he couldn't deny that he missed the man.
"You idiotic fool," and other insults served to keep Watson blinking as unsteady hands attempted to stem the blood flow, because, of course, Watson would be the one to jump in front of him, and the family they were protecting.
"Guilty" pronounced the judge, and Watson would wake in a sweat, because he knew that given sufficient motivation, Holmes would make an excellent and capable criminal.
After a dehabilitating injury to his left shoulder, Holmes was given a new appreciation for Watson's forbearance day to day, as even mounting the stairs caused pain, and he had two functioning legs.
On the second day, Watson worried, on the eighth he went to the Yard, on the fifteenth, to Mycroft; on the twentieth, when Holmes showed up none the worse for the wear in his armchair, Watson was either too busy being furious to feel relief, or vice versa.
TBC :D Please review