There was another paragraph I wrote after what's the end here, but I decided the ambiguity was a better ending.
Warning: Character death
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: In need of SERIOUSLY!Vanilla SERIOUS!h/c
Watson discovers he has TB. He starts an argument with Holmes and makes Holmes think he no longer cares. Then, he leaves.
Holmes doesn't believe any of what Watson said. He searches for watson and only finds him as he lay dying.
_Consumed
Mary wasn't surprised that John returned from Switzerland in a haggard state, pale and feverish. He'd had quite a shock, losing Mr. Holmes in such a cruel, abrupt fashion. After the memorial service, she tucked her husband into bed and tended him as well as she could, mopping his sweaty brow and speaking soothingly when fever dreams plagued him.
He was up and about again after a week, though he waited another fortnight before seeing patients again. He called it a relapse, complicated by grief, and Mary had no cause to disagree. After all, the grief was real enough, as was his encounter with enteric fever while still in the Army.
When he deemed himself well enough, he devoted himself to his patients with a fervor that might have been frightening if he weren't also fervently devoted to Mary's happiness. Flowers, dinners, walks in the park, concerts, long evenings -or weekend mornings- in the privacy of their bedroom... between John's attention and her charity work, Mary was content, save her concern that John was overworking himself, as always.
Her concern was justified when John succumbed to influenza merely two months after returning to practice. Again Mary tended him, again he recovered and resumed his practice after a fortnight of convalescence, and thus was a cycle established. John would work ceaselessly for a few months, then fall victim himself to whatever illness was making its rounds amongst the populace. So he claimed, at least, though Mary thought it suspicious that his symptoms usually resembled influenza or his earlier relapse. But he was the doctor, so she tucked away any contrary thoughts and nursed him tenderly.
Well over two years passed in such a fashion. At some point, though Mary never was sure exactly when as his illnesses seemed to blur together, John emerged from one of his illnesses with a cough he couldn't shake. She tried to convince him to seek another's medical opinion, but he waved it away as nothing. Though she discreetly made inquiries via the other doctor's wives she knew, the answer was always that he would need to be examined for a determination to be made, and he steadfastly denied he needed to be examined.
Until the day Mary didn't come home.
Lestrade found Doctor Watson in his study, where he was doing paperwork while waiting to be called to tea with his wife. Watson seemed puzzled to see him, but rose and gestured for Lestrade to take a seat while he poured them both a bit of brandy. Lestrade remained standing and broke the news as gently as he could: an accident, a spooked horse, several at the market trampled. Mary was dead.
It was difficult to breathe, the ever-present ache in his chest tightening and Watson nearly fainted. Lestrade helped him to a chair, obviously taking his difficulty for shock, and pressed Watson to have the brandy he'd just poured. But the brandy made him cough, and once he started coughing he couldn't stop. Between the coughing and the ache in his chest he couldn't breathe and doubled over, clutching his chest.
He must have lost consciousness, as he was next aware of being in a cab beside an anxious Lestrade, who briskly informed him they were on their way to the nearest hospital. Watson tried to object, but Lestrade held out a handkerchief -Watson's handkerchief, he must have pulled it from his pocket when he began coughing- and let him see the small drops of blood sprinkled over its surface.
Two nights passed in a blur of coddling, questioning, and prodding. Watson vacillated between stunned disbelief -that he was back in a hospital bed, that Mary could possibly be gone- and recognizing that he really didn't feel well. His doctor reminded him of Holmes in the way he asked questions as if he already knew the answers. Or perhaps it only felt that way, since Watson could guess what he'd ask next and why.
The doctor was brutally honest when he sat with Watson during the morning of the second day. He explained what they had suspected and what was ruled out; there were a couple of possibilities and only time would tell which was correct, but consumption was the most likely. Watson had suspected that, expected it as soon as he'd seen the blood on his handkerchief. He knew what he was in for, having had several patients who'd gone off to sanatoriums and never returned; he only hoped it wouldn't drag on for years, as it did for some.
Holmes was dead, Mary was dead, and now Watson was the walking dead. It seemed fitting, somehow.
He was allowed to leave that afternoon to make the funeral arrangements for his wife -that, and there was nothing more they could do for him for now- and was instructed to return if he felt worse or if he coughed up any more blood. Lestrade appeared with a cab to collect him; how he knew to come Watson had no idea and didn't care enough to ask. He prevailed upon Lestrade to let him see Mary, and though the inspector was reluctant, he agreed.
All he saw was her face, marred only by a scrape across her right cheekbone, but it was enough. Watson felt something break inside him, some tiny bit of hope dashed to pieces. Lestrade hovered near him anxiously, as if afraid he would break down, but Watson was stronger than that. He would not embarrass himself by breaking down here.
En route to his home he had the cab stop again so he could perform an errand; he wasn't sure he'd have the wherewithal to think about coffins once he allowed himself to fully realize that Mary was gone forever.
Watson was home in time for tea, a cruel echo of merely forty-eight hours earlier, when everything in his life changed so abruptly. Lestrade seemed reluctant to leave and awkward in staying; he lingered near the front door and opened it with alacrity when the bell rang. The guest he ushered into the sitting room was none other than Mrs. Hudson, suitcase in hand. "Begging your pardon, Doctor, but it seems to me you could use a familiar face about the place for a while."
Watson was never sure quite how he made it through the days before and immediately after the funeral, though he was certain Mrs. Hudson had something to do with it. He felt sick with grief, having lost both of those closest to him, and his physical deterioration seemed to mirror that of his mind. Another few days in the hospital was the end result, and this time the doctors seemed certain about their diagnosis. Watson was advised to withdraw from his practice and mind only his own health, preferably by retiring to a sanatorium for a time to recover.
Mrs. Hudson was a great help, though Watson did not tell her what ailed him or what his doctors had recommended. Even so, he began to consider possible buyers for his practice and privately reviewed the literature from several sanatoriums -information originally intended for his patients, but useful nonetheless.
A fortnight after his release from the hospital the second time, Watson started seeing a few patients again. He was very careful not to overextend himself and do everything possible not to infect his patients, and slowly he began to recuperate. His grief was still close to the surface, and his health was fragile, but time helped with both.
Weeks passed into months, Mrs. Hudson returned to her own abode, and his disease seemed to subside, leaving only a lingering shortness of breath and the infernal cough. Watson wondered if selling his practice was truly necessary at this point, for he was feeling nearly well. He was even nostalgic for his time with Holmes, as he knew the Adair case would be of great interest to his old friend.
And then the man himself appeared in Watson's study, so suddenly and improbably that Watson's lungs seized and he was thrust into unconsciousness.
Holmes took his fainting spell as mere shock and Watson wasn't going to enlighten him, preferring to focus on his friend's miraculous escape and activities during the three years of their separation. The rest of the day found them once again hunting a suspect, with a successful resolution as is the case in most of Holmes' endeavors.
Holmes had been back for a fortnight before he suggested that Watson move back to Baker Street. Watson demurred on account of the difficulty of locating a buyer, though privately he thought this would be a good time to bow out of active practice for reasons of his health. What he quailed at was living under the same roof as Holmes again; surely his keen-eyed friend would notice Watson's health wasn't was it had been!
Yet he was feeling markedly better; perhaps the diagnosis was a false alarm and he had suffered something quite benign? But no, he knew the truth in his bones. If he did take up with Holmes, how could he extricate himself from the flat when his condition grew serious? Telling Holmes wasn't an option, not now -Watson couldn't stand to live with Holmes again and not have it be like old times, yet Holmes would surely choose to leave him home on occasions that he wouldn't have otherwise if he knew of Watson's condition.
While Watson dithered, a prospective buyer materialised, willing to pay the rather outlandish sum he'd tossed out one day when Holmes had insisted upon knowing how much a practice would cost. Watson suspected Holmes' involvement in finding the young man, but considering that he'd be well able to pay for nearly any sanatorium with such a sum, he agreed. At the beginning of summer, when his patients began leaving town on holiday, he handed over his practice and moved back to Baker Street.
Returning to his old flat, his old room, was like stepping back into the life he'd had five years ago. Holmes was quite busy once word of his return spread, and brought Watson into the thick of things when he needed to voice his reasoning or required backup that wasn't the police. In this and all other things, life quickly returned to normal, or at least what passed for normal given the eccentric influence of Sherlock Holmes.
Normal could be quite convenient. Holmes knew Watson was a man of routines and habits and endeavored to allow him to maintain those routines, and Watson found that -despite accompanying Holmes on occasion and the irregular hours that resulted- he was able to regularly obtain far more rest than had been available to him while he was in active practice. And if he occasionally could not keep up with Holmes' long stride, his injured leg was invariably to blame; Holmes never seemed to suspect Watson had trouble with his breathing.
Normal wasn't without its problems. Watson didn't realize how infrequently he now smoked until he watched Holmes casually smoke his way through several pipes a day. When Holmes was deep in thought and smoking like a chimney, Watson often had to sit next to an open window or withdraw from the room entirely lest a prolonged coughing fit give him away. And as before, Holmes had a tendency to neglect himself while his mind was occupied; Watson pestered him with food and rest like always, but felt an inexplicable anger rising in his chest even as he did so.
When Watson witnessed Holmes dosing himself with cocaine for the first time since he'd moved back, a wave of resentment nearly swallowed him whole. Only then did he realize the depth of his rage at his friend who had the audacity to misuse his body, to intentionally wreak havoc on that wonderfully functioning frame. It was an outrage that Holmes should take his body for granted in such a fashion. What Watson wouldn't give to have Holmes' constitution, his strength, his health! While he recognized that Holmes had every right to behave as he liked, part of him burned with the injustice of it.
Even so, he recognized that Holmes' habit hadn't changed; it was his changed perception that gave rise to this indignation. Thus Watson endeavored to react only as he always had, and hoped Holmes wouldn't detect his change in attitude. Holmes did seem oblivious to the emotions roiling beneath Watson's affable exterior, and with time Watson was able to mostly shut away those feelings, letting them out only when he could direct the rage at a target other than Holmes.
Despite the annoyances, the weeks and months passed quite comfortably. Holmes emerged triumphant on a myriad of cases -Watson was sure there were some Holmes didn't even tell him about- and Watson was proud to have stood by his side at the conclusion of a great number of them. Accolades for Holmes came from far and near, and the stream of cases was steady enough to ensure Holmes was never truly bored; for a time, life at 221B was idyllic for both detective and doctor.
.
Holmes returned home from a four-day stint in disguise at the docks with not only the information he needed to resolve his case, but also with a bad summer cold. He concluded the matter via telegram before resigning himself to sneezing and snuffling miserably in his armchair or on the settee. Watson was sympathetic and offered what he could to make Holmes comfortable until the third day, when he also fell victim to the unrelenting illness.
But where Holmes was feeling much improved after a week, Watson was laid low for a fortnight, and even then he found it exhausting to simply move from bed to settee. Holmes was quite solicitous when Watson first began to mend, but soon seemed to lose interest and returned to his usual pursuits, leaving Watson to himself unless Watson specifically requested something of him. Watson rather thought this confirmed his decision not to tell Holmes of the consumption -if Holmes couldn't even tend him through a temporary illness, he wouldn't be able to understand or cope with a long-term one.
With another fortnight of convalescence Watson's symptoms abated, except for a lingering low-grade fever and the ever-persistent cough. Holmes was almost always gone in those two weeks, and when he was pacing the sitting room he was uncharacteristically reticent, so Watson focused on his own wellbeing and tried not to worry about Holmes and this evidently difficult case. Watson periodically ventured out on short walks to regain his strength and to avert the boredom of constantly remaining indoors. In Holmes' absence, Mrs. Hudson insisted on accompanying him for his first few outings until she was certain he was steady enough to venture out on his own.
Watson was setting out on a mid-morning walk when a cab pulled up and a drawn, exhausted-looking Holmes disembarked. Watson tipped his hat to Holmes and proceeded along his planned course; after a pause in which Holmes paid the cabdriver, there were hurried footsteps and Holmes appeared beside him. "It's a nice day for a walk in the park," he commented.
"Indeed," Watson replied, not questioning how Holmes had guessed his destination -he knew it must be obvious.
After completing a circuit of the park in silence, Holmes proposed lunch at Simpson's and Watson assented readily, realizing only after they had been seated that he wasn't at all hungry. The smell of the other diners' food was even making him feel slightly ill. Watson could feel Holmes' eyes on him as he pushed his food around his plate, and he felt anger rising at what he was sure was a calculating gaze, judging him and finding him wanting.
Finally he looked up at Holmes, ready to say something, anything about Holmes staring at him, but the words died on his lips as he took in Holmes' expression, which had none of the disgust or pity he'd been expecting. All he saw was concern in his companion's face, and he flushed in embarrassment at his wild assumptions.
"Your appetite has not yet recovered," Holmes said softly.
"No," Watson admitted. The pretence of eating no longer necessary, he laid down his fork and pushed his plate away.
"I'm sorry, I should have asked if you'd rather eat at home."
"I did accept your suggestion of coming here," Watson reminded him.
"In that case, do you mind if I . . . ?" Holmes gestured to Watson's plate.
Only then did Watson notice that Holmes' plate was completely empty. 'How long was it since you'd eaten last?" he asked as he pushed his plate toward Holmes.
"Too long," Holmes replied with a wry grin, already tucking in.
Watson grinned back. "Will you tell me about the case?"
"Yes, but not here. The matter was of some delicacy."
"Is that why you didn't say anything about it earlier?"
"I did not wish to disturb your rest."
"Listening doesn't take much effort, you know."
"If you insist."
They walked back to Baker Street in a companionable silence. While Watson settled in his armchair Holmes retrieved and lit a pair of cigars from the coal scuttle. Watson held his cigar uncertainly as Holmes began his tale, waving his own cigar with emphasis as he prowled about the sitting room, but the smoke wasn't overwhelming so he ventured a shallow draw. It was milder than he expected -obviously not Holmes' usual brand, and he could only guess at the reason for the change- and didn't make him cough, so he set to smoking leisurely as he watched and listened to Holmes.
Holmes was perhaps midway through relating the case when Watson was struck by a sudden pang of melancholy. He would miss this, when he had to leave, and he wondered how much longer he might have before withdrawal was required. Months, perhaps, if his body could continue forestalling the symptoms as it had been. But he could already feel the gradual decline, slightly accelerated by his recent illness, and knew he would soon have to pull away from Holmes.
.
Since the coughing would give him away if Holmes were to notice, Watson tried to avoid doing so in his presence, and when that failed, he resorted to clearing his throat, chuckling, sipping tea or water, or even just allowing himself to cough once in a while. The fever was easier to hide, particularly as winter set in and grew quite cold -even shivering indoors was excusable given the way the cold seeped through the windows and crept along the floorboards no matter how much coal was on the fire. His gradual weight loss was hidden by the season's requisite layers and bulky clothing; Watson had never been more grateful for braces as he was the day he realized his trousers wouldn't stay up without them.
Say what he would about Watson being incapable of lying to him, Holmes was not as schooled in evaluating a man's health as he was in seeing guilt. Though he spent a good deal of time in Watson's company during that long, cold winter, he did saw but did not observe the subtle changes in Watson's manner and appearance.
As his strength began to wane and his weariness grew ever more insurmountable, Watson's temper was often in evidence. This was not exceedingly unusual, though if Holmes hadn't somewhat enjoyed the tiffs to alleviate the boredom, he might have realized that Watson was picking fights over things he hadn't mentioned in years... The noises -musical and otherwise- in the middle of the night. Holmes' failure to tell Watson where he was going or when he'd be back. The pungency of his tobacco and the rate at which he smoked it.
And, of course, the cocaine, to which Holmes now occasionally resorted when his workload exceeded even his ability to remain fully functional; his cases that winter had a tendency to arrive on his doorstep in threes and fours and fives. After enduring several weeks of boredom, Holmes invariably accepted them all, then extended himself somewhat too far in resolving them. Watson disapproved strongly of this alteration in Holmes' usage -he would only have approved if Holmes had dropped the drug entirely- and finally became angry enough to tell him so. At length. In rather strident tones. Until the force of his speech precipitated a coughing fit that stole his breath away and drove him to his knees.
"Watson?" Holmes asked, crouching in front of him when the fit seemed to be over.
Watson pushed him away. "Just go," he said roughly, not looking up. "I know you were going to leave me behind anyway."
"Are you all right?" Holmes persisted. "You do not sound well-"
"Go!" Watson repeated more vehemently.
Finally the door opened and shut and Holmes' footsteps receded down the stairs. Only then did Watson unfold the handkerchief he'd been clutching; more blood, as he'd feared. He needed to consult with his doctor at the hospital, and then . . . he balked at the thought, but had to concede that leaving was his only real option. His illness was progressing more quickly than he'd hoped, and he needed to take himself off to where he could be cared for.
He carefully regained his feet, packed a small bag -it was all he could manage to carry- and spent a moment gazing around the sitting room for what he expected would be the last time. Grief nearly choked him, and it was a relief that Mrs. Hudson wasn't there to see him leave -she would have recognized that something was wrong.
Watson hailed a cab and disappeared from Baker Street.
Holmes wasn't terribly surprised to find Watson had left the flat, no doubt to let his earlier anger burn off, and expected he would return within a few days, judging by the size of the bag he had taken. Watson was no doubt stewing in a hotel room and would come back when ready to make amends. They'd had rows before; as long as Holmes left Watson to himself long enough, Watson would realize he was being unreasonable and return.
When Watson failed to return after four days, Holmes began sending inquiries to the Doctor's usual haunts. When those brought back no useful information -Watson hadn't been seen in any of the typical places for weeks- he extended his search to every hotel within a five-minute drive. Every hotel within a ten-minute drive. Fifteen-minute. Twenty-minute.
With every negative response he extended the limit further until he had sent a telegram to every hotel in London. No one had seen him. It was like he had utterly vanished from the city.
Holmes promptly and unceremoniously dropped all of his other cases to locate his missing Watson.
Despite the passage of a week and a half, he located a cabbie who remembered picking up the Doctor at Baker Street and dropping him off at Cafe Royal; the wait staff, however, did not remember serving a man of that description on that day. A dead end, then. Watson had learned how to be elusive a little too well; no doubt he'd waited just outside the restaurant for a few moments before hailing another cab.
Trying to find a cabbie that remembered picking up a particular man from in front of a busy restaurant was nearly impossible, especially when looking for a man like Watson, whose features were unremarkable and his dress commonplace. Even the cane was of no help, given how many gentlemen carried them about. But still he tried, and was unsurprised when he gathered no new information despite days of careful effort.
Holmes retreated to Baker Street to smoke copiously while he brooded. The next logical step would be to inquire at the train stations, but time was not on his side -the likelihood that any attendant would remember anything of use after a fortnight was minimal. Telegram offices were a possibility, but who would Watson telegram other than Holmes? The same applied to post offices.
Mrs. Hudson disturbed him long enough to bring him tea and a recently-arrived telegram. Holmes read the telegram quickly, then growled and wadded it up, ready to throw it in the fire, then noticed Mrs. Hudson was still hovering nearby. "What?" he snapped.
"I suppose that isn't from him, then," she said, sounding disappointed.
"No, from my idiot brother, wanting to know if I'd contacted the hospital."
"And you have."
"Of course I have! St. Bart's is one of the first places I contacted."
"Oh, but he didn't go to Bart's when he was ill. He was at Charing Cross then."
Holmes felt something twist in his gut. "When was he ill?" he demanded.
"Right around the time his dear Mary died. He was in hospital for two days the first time. The second time was a few weeks later, and I believe he stayed three days then."
"Do you know the name of his doctor? The diagnosis?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, he didn't tell me that much and I didn't want to pry. He was fragile enough as it was."
Holmes was out of his chair and donning his coat before she finished speaking. "You have been a great help, Mrs. Hudson," he called as he bolted out the door and down the stairs.
.
"Yes, John came to see me about two weeks ago. I had him stay here overnight, and when he insisted upon leaving the next day, I told him my recommendation remained unchanged."
"Which was?"
"To go to a sanitarium. I hope the fact that he has not returned home means he finally took my advice, but I fear his chances are not as good as they once were."
"Did you discuss with him which sanitarium he should patron?"
"No, I'm afraid not. He said he knew of several through his own patients. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I have patients to see."
Holmes hurried back to Baker Street, already mentally reviewing the places where Watson kept his documents. His first target was the locked drawer of Watson's desk; the lock was easily picked. It was filled to the brim with neat bundles of paper, and as Holmes carefully lifted each bundle out, he realized they were manuscripts, Watson's retellings of some of their cases. He must have been working on them for years, to produce so many.
It was only with extreme difficulty that Holmes resisted the temptation to read them, and it was a relief to shut them away again where they wouldn't distract him. The rest of the desk similarly divulged nothing, and Holmes slammed the last drawer home with far more force than was necessary, his frustration building with every passing moment. He sank into the chair and rested his elbows on the barren desk surface, putting his face in his hands and trying in vain to restore his focus.
He didn't acknowledge Mrs. Hudson when she knocked and entered, setting a small tray before him on the desk. "A sandwich and some tea, Mr. Holmes, and I'm not leaving until they're finished," she said firmly. Holmes let his hands fall and he stared with distaste at the food. Before he could voice his objection, Mrs. Hudson added, "Doctor Watson would want you to."
She had him there. With a sigh he conceded, mechanically chewing and swallowing and taking sips of tea until both were gone. Mrs. Hudson left with a triumphant air, and Holmes forced himself to his feet. He still had to search Watson's room, but he could only manage to stumble to the settee before his legs refused to hold him up any longer. As he fell headfirst into slumber he could only wonder what Mrs. Hudson had put in the tea.
.
Morning was well underway before Holmes aroused from his stupor. He was still gathering his wits about him when Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tea tray. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Tea?"
"Only if you drink some first," he retorted, eyeing her warily.
Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I assure you this pot is unadulterated."
"I will never trust your tea again."
"Calm down, Mr. Holmes! You needed your rest, so I saw to it you would get some. You have nothing more to fear from me."
"Watson gave you the drug."
"Yes, just before he was married. He said I should use it if I ever thought it was necessary. As for last night, I believe he would have done it himself if he were here."
"Hmph." Holmes finally accepted a cup of tea and, as promised, it hadn't been tampered with.
Holmes did feel more alert when he went up to Watson's room, so he supposed he should thank Mrs. Hudson for the gesture. It was just galling not to have any choice in the matter.
A quick search of Watson's belongings revealed no useful papers, just some mementos from Watson's time in the army and a few bound journals that Holmes rapidly paged through, then cast aside. He carefully examined the furniture for hidden compartments, checked under the bed for any trunks or boxes of papers, and even removed each novel from Watson's shelf to examine them for any papers tucked inside. Nothing.
Holmes stood in the center of the formerly tidy room and considered where he would hide some papers he didn't want found. His eyes fell on the bed and he realized he'd overlooked a significant hiding place. He lifted the far edge of the mattress and he immediately spied a sheaf of papers, which he pulled out and spread on the bed. There were over a half-dozen advertisements and leaflets for various sanatoriums and "rest homes," but what caught Holmes' interest first was a small handful of letters addressed to J.H. Escott at the Holborn post office.
These he carefully extracted from their envelopes to read and examine; all were responses to inquiries about beds available, patient privacy, and the like. Holmes matched each of them to an advertisement or leaflet, then withdrew two of the institutions from consideration, as the responses had indicated a lengthy waiting list for admission. If Watson had continued correspondence with any of the remaining six possibilities, he took the responses with him, for each advertisement had only one letter associated with it.
All six were well outside of London in varying directions, and one was even all the way out on the Cornish peninsula; this one Holmes also discarded as being too distant for Watson to manage in the condition his doctor had described. Which left five, all at least an hour's train ride outside of the city. He would have to send telegrams to see if any would be willing to confirm or deny the presence of a particular patient so he could further refine his choices, but it seemed unlikely they would comply. Privacy of their patients was strongly emphasized in all of the replies.
Once the wires were dispatched, Holmes spent more time examining the papers for signs of wear or fingering that might indicate Watson's train of thought as he considered his options. Though fruitless, this analysis occupied him until the first reply telegram arrived. As expected, the terse response stated only that patient names were confidential. He would have to go about it the slow way, then.
A quick trip to the Holborn post office confirmed that Escott was indeed Watson -Holmes had to acknowledge Watson's cleverness in borrowing an alias from Holmes himself- and that he hadn't been seen there for weeks. The postmaster was kind enough to give Holmes the correspondence that had arrived in the meantime, but to Holmes' disappointment, the few letters were merely inquiries about whether Escott was still considering that particular institution for his care.
Upon his return, Holmes dug up his Bradshaw and began plotting his travel routes. The trains were less helpful than usual, no doubt due to the tendency for doctors to set up their 'rest homes' away from any bustle that might disturb the patients. He would have to hire a carriage or find a public coach at several points along the way -or walk a considerable distance- but he would find Watson one way or another.
By the time all of the replies had arrived it was too late in the evening to set out, so Holmes spent the night in an agitated state, pacing and smoking and muttering to himself. What if Watson had chosen a hospital and taken its information with him, so that Holmes was checking those that had been rejected? What if Watson hadn't made it to his chosen sanitarium and was perishing in a lonely hospital in the countryside that Holmes might never find?
Why had Watson hidden this from him? Why did he leave without leaving any word where he could be found?
Would Holmes be able to solve this case, arguably the most important of his career, before it was too late?
Watson's absence was distressing him greatly, far more than he would have anticipated, and the mere idea that his dear Watson was sick unto death somewhere was almost more than he could stand.
He left on the earliest train, but Mrs. Hudson was awake to watch him leave and made him promise to send word when he found the Doctor.
Holmes found that sanitarium medical staff were just as reticent in person as they were via telegram, and often had to resort to ruses to gain access to the patient register or to sneak through the building, peering in each room until he was satisfied that Watson wasn't present. During his first adventure down the halls, he stumbled across a woman in the end stages of the disease. It hardly seemed possible she was still living, as wasted as she was, yet the high color in her cheeks and her rasping breaths were indisputable proof of that fact. Holmes spent every moment afterward praying, pleading with whatever higher power would listen that Watson not be in such dire straits.
Still he pushed on, through three, four, five days of travelling. Late in the sixth day, three weeks after that fateful argument -Holmes now understood all too well the import of Watson's coughing fit at the end- he arrived in a small town in Sussex and secured a room for the night. The fourth institution was several miles beyond the town and claimed to have a view of the Channel. He would leave on foot at dawn.
.
Evidently there was something pathetic about his haggard and travel-worn features, for the weary night-nurse that answered his knock allowed him inside despite it being far too early for visiting hours. She sat him down with a cup of tea and listened sympathetically as he related his (nearly true) story about seeking a dear friend. Her expression brightened when he provided Watson's alias. "I never believed for a second that such a nice man didn't have any friends," she confided. "It's good you've come. He's not well."
"May I see him?"
"He'll still be sleeping at this hour. Would you like something to eat, then I'll take you there?"
Holmes made his excuses -his stomach was churning and he feared any food introduced wouldn't stay down- so she took him down a quiet back wing, to the last door on the left. The room was dim, lit only by slivers of daylight that escaped through the shutters, and it took a few moments for Holmes' eyes to adjust. By then he was at the bedside, fumbling for Watson's hand to grasp in his shaking one and discovering it was difficult to breathe.
He had finally found Watson. It wasn't too late, in a sense; in another, it was far too late. Watson looked marginally better than the woman Holmes had seen, and yet he looked even worse; he knew what Watson used to look like, and the man in the bed was but a shadow of what Watson had been. How much of this wasting had occurred before his very eyes? Without his notice? It was a chilling thought. And he called himself a detective!
Still clutching Watson's fragile hand, Holmes hesitantly laid his other hand on Watson's cheek, shivering at the heat radiating from Watson's skin. Watson murmured in his sleep and pressed his cheek ever so slightly into Holmes' hand. A chair was gently set behind him, and a lamp turned low appeared on the table near the bed. The night-nurse patted his shoulder and quietly left. Holmes sank into the chair and felt the weight of his worry, his weariness, his unrelenting effort of past weeks beginning to catch up with him.
Holmes jerked awake when Watson started coughing, and had to watch helplessly as Watson struggled to breathe until the fit passed. When Watson started regaining his breath, he gestured for Holmes to pour him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table; Holmes did so, discomfited that he hadn't noticed the pitcher earlier.
"You look terrible."
Watson's voice sounded the same as it always had; Holmes almost closed his eyes so he could listen to it and pretend that nothing was amiss. How exceedingly sentimental of him. "You've looked better, yourself."
"True enough."
Neither spoke for several long, awkward minutes. Holmes stood and ambled about the room restlessly, opening one shutter to peer outside; as the advertisement promised, one could see the Channel in the distance.
"Why are you here, Holmes?" Watson asked finally.
"That should be obvious, even to you." Holmes turned away from the window and returned to Watson's bedside, watching him carefully.
"Then forgive me for failing to measure up once again," Watson replied somewhat bitterly.
Holmes sat back in the chair. "I am here to find you," he said simply. "And while I am gratified that you saw fit to make use of several techniques you learned from our cases together, I find it curious that you thought it necessary to sneak away."
"You cannot abide weakness, and I . . . I did not wish to be seen like this." Watson avoided Holmes' gaze.
"So you left without even telling Mrs. Hudson good-bye."
"She was out, and I had to leave before I lost my nerve. I have a letter to send her, to apologize and all the rest."
"You had to know I would search for you."
"I hoped you wouldn't."
"Did you really think that I wouldn't do everything within my not inconsiderable power to find out what happened to you? You might have been abducted, or met some misfortune. I am not heartless, no matter what you may write about me."
Watson nodded, looking miserable.
"Why didn't you tell me you were ill?"
"I was well enough when you returned that it didn't seem to matter. After that . . . I didn't want to be left behind. I didn't want to distract you from your work. I . . . didn't want to worry you."
"You worried me considerably these past three weeks, which we would have avoided if you had just told me," Holmes said with some exasperation.
"I know. I'm sorry."
Holmes grasped Watson's hand again; Watson squeezed Holmes' hand in return. "How are you, truly?" Holmes asked with some concern. It had not escaped him that Watson's breathing was labored and his skin was pale where he wasn't flushed with fever.
"Not well," Watson said mildly, smiling slightly at the Holmes' glare. "One of my doctors claims I still have a chance of recovery if I follow his particular treatment cycle precisely. For an extra fee, of course." There was a mocking tone in his voice.
"And the others?"
"They have differences of opinion, but it is generally agreed I could have months yet. Such things can be difficult to predict."
"What do you think?"
Watson sighed and coughed slightly, then shrugged. "I don't know."
Watson took a sudden turn for the worse three days after Holmes arrived. Holmes hovered anxiously as the staff tried to make Watson more comfortable, changing his sheets when he'd soaked them in sweat, propping him up with additional pillows so he could breathe more easily, coaxing him to drink water or broth to ease his throat after coughing. During the brief periods Watson was awake and aware, he tried to reassure Holmes that he looked worse than he felt, but Holmes still cringed in sympathy as he listened to Watson's struggle for air.
"I'm sorry," Watson rasped one afternoon, startling Holmes out of an exhausted doze.
"Sorry for what?" Holmes asked, pressing a cup to Watson's lips so he could drink.
"All of this."
"I fail to see how you could possibly be at fault in any of it. Except, perhaps, in not taking better care of yourself, but I can hardly scold you on that score."
Watson smiled, then closed his eyes and exhaled carefully, his expression carefully neutral.
"Are you in pain? Should I fetch a nurse?"
"No, I'm all right. Just a spasm; it's gone now."
Holmes was unconvinced, but Watson fell asleep soon after, so he couldn't have been in too much discomfort. He watched Watson pensively, feeling that somehow something had changed, but he couldn't say what it was or even what he was sensing. Watson roused again a short while later, and seemed amused to find himself the subject of Holmes' scrutiny. "I'm not going anywhere, you know," he teased, then frowned and had to cough again.
"I have learned not to underestimate you," Holmes replied lightly, pretending that he didn't notice the handkerchief Watson folded and tucked back into his sleeve. They both preferred not to draw attention to certain realities of Watson's condition.
"I don't know if I ever thanked you," Watson mused.
"Thanked me for what?"
Watson gestured vaguely with the hand that Holmes wasn't holding. "Oh, everything. Baker Street, the cases, you know."
"No thanks are necessary, my dear fellow," Holmes replied gruffly.
Watson smiled briefly and clasped Holmes' hand more firmly. He lapsed back into sleep again, and Holmes continued to watch him as afternoon waned into evening, though he felt quite drowsy himself and nearly nodded off once or twice. Watson abruptly squeezed Holmes' hand tightly; Holmes looked up in time to see Watson release a long sigh and then relax, his hand limp in Holmes' grasp.
Holmes listened for a moment, leaning his ear close to Watson's face, but there was no sound of breathing or anything else. He fumbled for Watson's pulse, unable to find it in his wrist; he briefly felt a weak flutter in the artery of Watson's neck, but it ceased almost as soon as he found it. Dread washed over him, and he dashed to the door, calling for a nurse, a doctor, anyone.
The nurse confirmed what Holmes had feared. The doctor only had to examine Watson for a moment before determining that a blood vessel had given way in his abdomen; Watson had quickly and painlessly bled to death. It was one of the better ways to die of consumption, he assured Holmes.
Holmes was stunned. He hadn't been certain what to expect of Watson's last moments, but that wasn't what he would have expected. At least it had been peaceful; Watson deserved that much.
Everyone else left the room, allowing him a few moments alone with Watson. Holmes took Watson's hand again, then lightly skimmed his fingers over Watson's cheek and brushed them through his still-damp hair. Watson, of course, didn't react, and that more than anything else made the whole idea terribly real: Watson was gone, forever.
Life suddenly seemed terribly bleak. Holmes bent his head and wept until he had no more tears to shed. Then he stumbled outside to clear his head, and found himself walking toward the cliffs overlooking the Channel. It really was a lovely place to die.