“I daresay I want it as badly as you,” Holmes said softly as Watson grimaced, not wanting to be patronized. “But I am your friend, and I love you – and I wouldn’t want you to regret it.”
“Well you know, I fancy a man in uniform.”
It was an innocuous comment made over canapes at Mrs. Appleby’s luncheon, some silly little relatable tidbit that had the girls laughing – but Watson knew well enough that nothing Holmes ever said was without implication. And it wasn’t that Mr. Appleby looked particularly dashing in the austere military portrait over the piano – oh no. Watson knew that.
But to him a uniform was nothing. Half the time his own was splattered in blood or halfway off as he drug a wounded soldier through the trenches. To Watson, the acts a man accomplished were far more important than the clothes he wore. He was aware this was not the opinion of the military at large but he didn’t much think of himself a military man – he was a doctor. And so pulling out his uniform once more was uncomfortable for no other reason than that he didn’t see the point. What about this particular article of clothing made him more attractive than any other distinctive coat?
Still, he was aware of Holmes’ little games, and he indulged when it suited him – and now, it quite literally did.
Holmes was sitting at his desk when Watson walked in and he didn’t even look up to greet him, just threw him a casual “good morning.” So Wason cleared his throat.
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