My first Sherlock Holmes fanfiction! Yuss! I hope this is good. Obviously I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Please review! :)
It was a dark and dreary December night when it happened the first time. The full moon was eerily bright and the wind whistled and rustled ceaselessly through the trees, while constant, quick showers of rain pounded on the streets like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, much to the dismay of the unlucky onlookers who were caught in the storm. A great roar of thunder echoed through the streets of London, accompanied by brief flashes of lightning striking in different spots every time across the star-ridden sky, startling the drenched horses that were forced to draw the carriages throughout every weather condition, making travel almost unbearably slow. A murder of crows glided swiftly through the large English city, creating the effect that there were supernatural shadows lurking about... and perhaps there were, with what happened in the residence of 221B Baker Street that night.
At exactly 10 o'clock when Doctor John Watson arrived back to the apartment that he shared with his friend and roommate, Sherlock Holmes. He was out the whole day making house calls to his patients, all of whom were simply stuck in bed with bad colds brought on by the dreadful winter weather. The ailments were treated easily, but that did not stop it from becoming time-consuming when practically every susceptible person in London was ill. The doctor was exhausted from bustling from house to house, especially because of the fact that he walked with a limp, courteous of the Afghan War that he had taken part in during his more youthful years. He was looking forward to taking a nice, warm bath to sooth his aching leg and a long rest so that he would be both physically and mentally prepared for the next day on the job. Although no training he had gone through would prepare him for what he would find inside the residency.
As Watson wearily dismissed the landlady, Mrs. Hudson's, offer of tea and climbed the flight of stairs up to the second floor of the lodging, he was consumed with tired desires for a peaceful night of sleep. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen. A deafening noise broke into his hazy train of thought and stunned him awake. Recognizing the origin of the sound, he burst into Holmes' room, intending to see if he was alright and figure out what the cause of the ruckus was. Expecting to find a mess strewn about the room because of another botched experiment that Holmes had been researching, he was amazed to find no broken bottles of addictive and dangerous liquids nor any new and troubling stain on the carpet. What he did find, however, was even more distressing.
Holmes was curled up on the floor in the corner of the room, his dark hair rumpled and untidy, and his gray eyes turned black with terror. His clothing was completely disheveled, and he was continually rocking back and forth, back and forth, as if he was the pendulum on a grandfather clock in perpetual motion. His fear-filled eyes were glued to the opposite corner of the room, although he occasionally glanced in another direction, seemingly checking to see if there was anything else out to get him. His lips were moving as if he was talking, although Watson couldn't make out anything that was being said.
The drastic change in his companion left the doctor recoiling in shock, but only for an instant. His professional medical instincts soon emerged, and he rushed over to Holmes' side. The detective did not seem to realize that he was there, as he did not even bat an eyelid.
"Holmes," Watson whisper-shouted, careful not to cause any more distress to the man if he could hear him, but still worried enough that it wasn't possible for him to conceal the panic in his voice. "Holmes, please! Tell me what the matter is!"
Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. The closeness between the two men, however, allowed for Watson to make out what was being uttered from Sherlock's mouth.
"No, please. Make it stop. Please, make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop-"
On and on the desperate words went, but Watson could hear no more. He had to know what was ailing his friend if he was to help!
"Holmes, please... calm down. Tell me what's wrong. Please."
Watson's pleas seemed to break through the horror that was overwhelming the detective's mind, as he seemed to only then notice the doctor's presence. His eyes were less dilated, though still freakishly wide, and you could finally see some of the gray that was previously impossible to perceive. The ghostly-paleness of his face receded if only a little, and his attention focused on Watson's face.
"You have to help me, my friend..." he muttered, looking more than a little lost. "They're here to get me, Watson. They're here. They're going to hurt me!"
At this point, it was natural for Watson to be highly concerned at his friend's behavior. Holmes appeared to be hallucinating about things that couldn't possibly be there, and Watson was not trained to treat mental illnesses. The tone of his voice as he spoke his fears, however, caused the doctor to look behind him to make sure that there truly was nothing in the room. All clear.
"Holmes," Watson spoke forcefully, pulling the detective's attention from the delusions once more. "Holmes, I need you to concentrate on me. Can you do that?"
A shaky nod was the response, albeit it appeared after a moment of hesitation. At least it was more than nothing.
"Watson," he whispered, "I'm scared..."
If you spend even just five minutes with Sherlock Holmes, it's already apparent that he's a very confident man. He's not the type to willingly admit that he's scared about something, even when he is more terrified than he had ever been before in his life. That is what caused alarm to make it's appearance in Watson. He had never heard those words ever verbalized by his friend. He's never heard him speak with such a fearful tone of voice before, either, for that matter. It caused more pain in Watson's heart than he ever would have imagined.
"It's alright," the doctor murmured, "Everything's just fine. Relax. Calm down. Everything is going to be alright."
Something in Watson's voice managed to calm Holmes' desperate mind, and he grew limp in his arms, his face the mirrored essence of tranquility. The gray was fully apparent in his seemingly all-knowing eyes, and although there was a thin sheen of sweat across his face, he had more color in his skin. A tiny, peaceful, smile graced his features as he voiced his gratitude to his friend under his breath. Watson had to strain his ears to hear the soft-spoken words, but it warmed his heart to a great extent.
For the next few minutes, Watson just sat there listening to the detective's rapid heartbeat slow dramatically until it was apparent that he was completely asleep. During that time, he bewilderingly wondered about what just happened. What had caused such a huge mental deterioration in his friend? Did he drink something he oughtn't have? Was there a chemical reaction of some kind with one of the experiments that he had been working on? Or was Holmes really just insane? He hoped it was not the last one, and certainly not only for the reason that he was not adequately trained to deal with mental patients. When he was one hundred percent sure that the man was resting peacefully, only then did he have the courage to speak aloud his previously bottled-up feelings.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
Watson would definitely find out what had happened to Holmes, but it could wait until the morning. For now, he contented himself to staying with him through the night. You know, to keep an eye on him. Just to keep an eye on him.
Just keep telling yourself that, Watson. Just keep telling yourself that. ;) REVIEW!