Notes
I've always been fascinated with the morals of Sherlock Holmes (and playing Crimes and Punishments did absolutely nothing to dissuade me from trying this idea out). Justice and perception, after all, are curious things.
This first section started off in my 221B drabble thread Journals and Pipes. I wondered if it should get its own story (because I'm really very interested in pursuing this thought to its fullest capacity [intimidating for someone with so poor an updating schedule as myself]), and after receiving some advice from two particularly helpful reviewers (*winks*), I've decided to move and expand it. So, my apologies if the first chapter seems peculiarly… blocky.
Reviews, comments, and criticisms are always helpful and appreciated.
Well, dearies, here we go… *pulls out cloak and disappears inside, chuckling malevolently*
No Rest
There were few things quite as unnerving to John Watson as Holmes, in the midst of a dark mood, disappearing without word.
For the better part of a month, Holmes had fallen prey to a brooding despondency. Watson presumed it was set off by some failure in a case. Whatever Holmes' musings were, Watson knew not; only that his eyes had remained dull since his return from the unreported affair at the Pritchard estate, and that any efforts to draw him out of his depression remained unsuccessful. The detective maintained reticence, his infrequent responses resigned to nothing better than passionless observations.
Only upon one occasion – earlier the same afternoon of Holmes' disappearance – had he offered a statement demonstrating any presence of thought. Emerging from his dark room and wrapped absently in his old mouse-colored dressing gown, Holmes had stared into the fire, expression hollow.
"Reputation is an idle and most false imposition;" he intoned, "oft got without merit…"
"… And lost without deserving," Watson finished quietly, eyeing Holmes' expression warily. "Holmes?"
The detective continued to stare, apparently lost – again – in thought. Not for the first time, Watson marveled sadly at the change that had overtaken his companion. Holmes was pale and his eyes frightfully shadowed; he was obviously weary. But the most frightening change in Holmes' appearance was the sense of defeat that had settled so immutably upon his bent shoulders, drooped head.
And still, Watson knew not how this weight had taken root.
Holmes had said nothing more, and, spying the trembling hands and clouded gaze, Watson felt a growing sense of urgent concern. "Holmes, old fellow, are you alright?"
With a start, Holmes returned. His expression cleared (although, a mournful despondency lurked about his eyes) and he turned to Watson, seizing a sudden breath.
"Yes. Yes – My apologies."
He shuffled towards the fire and collapsed limply into his armchair, his right hand coming to rest over his eyes.
Watson did not bother to ask if Holmes was sleeping well (quite obviously, he was not; Holmes would only deride the question as one lacking observation). Nor did he try and draw Holmes into conversation. Instead, he kept his silence and watched.
Even while the gloom of melancholy still hung about his companion's shoulders, Watson sensed that, possibly, Holmes had reached a turning point in his depression. The emergence of Holmes from his bedroom was itself an improvement. There was more, however; Watson could not place his finger on the precise attribute that had led to the conclusion, but he felt as if Holmes was no longer completely consumed in whatever grief had haunted him the last couple of weeks.
Likely, it was nothing more than the instinct of a friend, but Watson suspected that Holmes had made his mind up about something and, whatever that decision was, he could at last move forward.
Watson continued to discretely watch his friend, making sure to turn the pages of his book every so often so Holmes would not hear his diverted attention.
Sure enough: slowly, Holmes' breathing began to even out.
In no more than five minutes, the detective's posture slumped in such a fashion that Watson was sure his weariness – or some quiet decision settling in that over-thinking mind of his – had overcome his insomnia.
Silently, Watson closed his book and eased a blanket from its position across the back of the settee. He draped it about the detective, dimmed the gaslights, and shut the door behind him as he left the sitting room.
Downstairs, gathering coat and cane, he informed the landlady that he would return later. "Holmes is resting, and I daresay he is in dire need of it. Perhaps the chemist can suggest something to help him sleep – preferably," he clarified with a tilt of his head, "in bed."
Watson spent a cautious hour and a half finishing errands so as to leave the flat perfectly restive while he was away and afford opportunity to purchase a sleeping agent (should occasion arise that it be necessary.)
Unfortunately, he returned not to a resting Holmes but an apologetic Mrs. Hudson.
"I'm sorry, sir. I know you wanted him to sleep. But not even twenty minutes ago, he came plodding down the stairs, all bundled up in coat and whatnot, and he just… took off."
"Holmes," Watson sighed, desperate frustration evident. "Drat that man. Did he say where he was off to?"
"Not a word, Doctor. I tried to get some explanation out of him, but he was silent as death. Just kept marching along, right out that door."
There was little to be done; he could investigate where Holmes had been seen going to, but to what end? Watson shook his head curtly and huffed. "The man is deucedly stubborn. There is no help for it, Mrs. Hudson."
Comfortingly, she touched his arm. She did not speak until he'd lifted his eyes to hers. Unsurprisingly, her expression was knowing; after all, he was not the only one to worry after Holmes' health. "You just keep by his side, as you've always done, sir." She smiled gently. "He'll come 'round."
With little more to be done, he returned to the sitting room. An hour later, Watson heard the downstairs door open.
Strange; was he relieved or irritated to hear the familiar baritone?
However, while Holmes' voice was familiar, his appearance was not. Watson watched the door open and was unprepared to discover that his friend had been replaced by a seedy, bearded vagrant.
"Watson, I've just had the most curious discussion with—" He paused in his flurry of motion to squint at the doctor, who was frowning in confusion. "Ah," he smiled wanly. "The disguise?"
"Holmes," Watson answered instead, "several hours ago I left you here. You were sleeping."
A dark flicker crossed the detective's features, gaunt beneath the heavy coat, hat, and facial hair. "Your statement indicates the presence of a question," he replied coolly, "and yet you've voiced none."
"I only mean—" Watson paused and took a hasty breath, realizing his voice had snapped. Anger would do little good; he wasn't angry, after all, he was simply concerned. He settled back into his chair resignedly. Holmes, for his part, seemed to recognize that Watson did not intend accusations and relaxed.
"Look, Holmes. I've said nothing. I've not pressed you for details on your previous case." The detective stiffened in the process of removing his disguise's accoutrements, but remained silent. "I am aware of your 'dark moods', and I only wish to help.
"It does not take a physician to observe you are exhausted," Watson continued kindly. "And that is why I react so poorly when you forsake rest for business."
Silence. Holmes faced the table and set aside his disguise. Watson heard his tired friend chuckle wryly as he gazed at the abandoned costume. Watson heard him softly echo "business," his tone pitched as if perceiving some secret connotation in the word. He wondered if Holmes had meant to speak aloud.
When he turned again toward Watson he gave a listless, but gracious, smile. "My dear fellow," he addressed quietly. A few moments' contemplation and the detective went to the side table, pouring two brandies and delivering one to his friend.
"I understand your concern, Watson, and I am once again flattered by the generous friendship you continue to extend to my churlish self." He gave the doctor an observant glance, appearing for a moment the detective of old. "I perceive you've brought something from the chemist."
No desire to talk, then, Watson concluded disappointedly. However, he was pleased to hear the gentleness and patience in Holmes' voice; as noted before, his spirit seemed further removed from its previous depression. Now, it was his body that needed recovery. The illness of one would inform the other, Watson knew. As such, he decided cut his losses and let the matter drop, if only for the moment.
"Well, if you're so inclined, old fellow, I've bought a sleeping medicine."
"To be honest," Holmes exhaled, eyebrows lifting in an oddly open expression of surrender, "I would be… appreciative." His expression grew dark, and quietly he admitted, "My dreams have not been kind, of late."
"Holmes, perhaps if you talked—"
Quite suddenly, there was a pull at the bell downstairs. Naturally, Holmes' attention was immediately diverted, and Watson was unable to retain his composure: he groaned aloud bitterly at the untimely interruption.
