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See, everyone’s got that one thing, don’t they?
Some weakness that could lead you to betray every principle you ever had.
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Watson’s feet lay in Sherlock Holmes’ lap where he had been massaging them. She had been so tired that she had come and lain down promptly after seeing Arthur to bed, and soon she had joined him in slumber. He can’t help but notice how tiny she appears compared to the rather large gray sofa. She is more slender now that food frequently loses its appeal. Her body is evidently trying to recover from the chemo treatment of the day before, and her face is gaunt and pale. Her hair once lush and full is thinning with black and gray roots clearly visible. Before, she never would have left it in such a state, but he seems to have detected a reluctance to appearing before her stylist with her hair in such disarray.
He’s barely working now. His relationship with the 11th all but dissolved when he faked his death, and very few people know that he’s alive to send him requests assistance. His life is now centered around home—the woman he loves and the child he is helping raise. He and Watson are not lovers, and Arthur is in no sense his; but it makes no difference. He tends to Watson when she is weak carrying her up the stairs and spending nights in the chair by her bed, cooks meals and cleans the kitchen, and entertains young Arthur with projects and intriguing facts about the world. At one time, he would have found this quiet domesticity confining and spurned it, but he is not discontent and only scarcely bored. He can’t imagine a life where he’s not with Watson. He loves her and that love is a stronger tie than death. He said once that they were bound, and he’s never been more convinced of the veracity of that statement than he is right now.
As he ponders finding peace in the present reality, he’s transported to the moment so many years ago when he had convinced the killer from the red team not to kill his remaining comrades. In the moment, the killer’s words had filled him with fear. His had been a delicate status really. He was freshly sober; he was deeply conscious of his weakness and had no desire to meditate on it. He had listened only to respond, to reason with the man and win the day. He realizes now that he had been completely wrong about his weakness. Substances were a temptation to him. The cacophony his hypersensitivity produced and the resulting depression could never not leave him craving escape and oblivion. Substances had made him malleable and brought out the worst in him, but no substance no matter how mind altering had ever made him betray his deepest held principles. No, every temptation he had ever felt in that dimension had come from another corner.
For Watson, he would do anything. His care for her had taken him around the world; had torn him from her side when he had most wanted to stay. Now having thought nothing of the cost of staying he had dropped everything to care for her. He thought he loved the work he gave his life to, but he loves her far more than that. He loves her more than the feelings of hatred and fear around parenthood. He loves her more than the claustrophobia that staying evokes. He loves her, and for her, he would stop at nothing. For Irene, he had wounded and contemplated ending a life, and he was forever haunted that when his mother died he had been unable to do anything at all.
When he sees beauty and infinite worth in someone else, he stops at nothing in ensuring they’re safe and well. Love is his weakness; and for love, he would as the man said betray any principle he’d ever had. That’s why the killer had done it too—a promised cure for the woman he loved more than anything. Perhaps he’s not different at all. How desperately he hopes that he will never be the position of being asked to kill for Watson because in the deepest part of his heart, he knows he just might.