A/N: Written for my hc_bingo prompt "accidents".
_Mistaken_
The first gunshot was integrated into his dream.
The second gunshot roused him enough that he sat up, blinking sleepily and wondering why he was awake.
The third gunshot startled him into full wakefulness just as he was starting to lie back down. He clumsily pulled on his dressing gown as he stumbled toward the stairs.
"Holmes, what on earth are you doing?" he asked heatedly as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His answer was another gunshot and, from the sound of it, the bullet embedded itself in the sitting room door, which was then flung open with such force that it bounced off the wall.
"Did you get him?" demanded a wild-eyed Holmes, clad only in his nightshirt and clutching Watson's revolver in a shaking hand. "He came right through here. Did you grab him?"
"Who?" Watson asked uncertainly when Holmes didn't elaborate.
"Moriarty!" Holmes bellowed, throwing his hands into the air in impatience. "Do keep up."
Watson grabbed Holmes' arm before he could stalk away and carefully slipped the gun from Holmes' grasp, asking, "Is that who you were shooting at?"
"Yes, of course," Holmes snapped irritably. "But I missed. I think he poisoned me."
"Poisoned you? What makes you think so?" Watson prompted, shifting his hand to Holmes' wrist to take his pulse and simultaneously usher him back into the sitting room.
"My hands won't stop shaking"-his entire body was trembling in a rather alarming fashion-"I feel rather warm"-his temperature was elevated and he was sweating profusely-"and . . . and . . . " Holmes' speech faltered and he seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders curling forward even as his knees buckled and he collapsed.
"Holmes!" Watson cried out in alarm, tightening his grip on Holmes' arm to slow his descent and keep his head from striking the floor. He followed Holmes down, falling to his knees beside him. Holmes' pulse was rapid and fluttering, his breathing shallow and panting, and his eyes were half-lidded and staring, the pupils large and unreactive.
Watson shook him with no result. Casting about for a way to rouse Holmes to find out what he had taken-that he'd unwisely imbibed in something seemed beyond doubt-he saw the water pitcher on the sideboard.
Paying no heed to the carpet, Watson dumped the pitcher's contents onto Holmes' head. Holmes twitched and groaned. Watson returned to Holmes' side and held Holmes' head still while he asked insistently, "What did you take?"
Holmes swallowed and tried to speak but could not seem to get the words out. Finally he gestured toward his writing desk before going limp again.
On Holmes' desk Watson found his medical bag, its contents disturbed, and a small bottle and a syringe beside it. Watson knew which one it must be even before he read the innocuous label written in his own hand: icocaine, 5% solution/i. Holmes must have run out of his preferred seven percent solution and turned to Watson's stock in desperation, no doubt adjusting the dose according to the listed concentration.
But the contents of the bottle did not match the label.
The chemist had run out of the five percent solution and offered to dilute some of the ten percent for him, but Watson had been in a hurry and took a half-measure of ten percent. He had intended to dilute it himself but hadn't yet done so.
All of this passed through Watson's mind in a flash of revelation, leaving a profound sense of guilt in its wake. With some effort, he turned his thoughts to what he could do to ensure Holmes would survive his irresponsibility. He could administer something to counter some of the effects, but he hesitated to do so since he did not know how long it had been since Holmes took the over-large dose. If he guessed incorrectly, he could make Holmes' situation even worse. No, he would have to rely on watching and waiting and administering what supportive care he could.
There was nothing he could do about Holmes' unconsciousness without medicine. His elevated temperature, on the other hand, he could address with a cool bath and that might help bring his pulse back to a less worrying tempo.
The only problem was getting Holmes to the tub: obviously Holmes couldn't walk and Watson didn't think his leg would hold up if he tried to carry him. In the end, it was easiest to pick up the edge of the long, thin rug Holmes had collapsed upon and drag it down the hall to the bathing room.
Holmes didn't rouse until after Watson awkwardly lifted him into the tub and turned on the taps. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned, his limbs flailing against the rising water.
"Calm down, Holmes, you're not in danger," Watson said.
Holmes' hands found the rim of the tub and gripped it tightly as he began to mumble incoherently. From the tone he might have been trying to say something of import but his words made no sense when taken together. He fell silent when the water reached his chest and he relaxed with a sigh.
Watson let the taps run until the tepid water had submerged Holmes to the neck, then wetted a washcloth to run over Holmes' face. He waited ten long minutes before attempting to speak to Holmes again. Holmes responded with some nonsense about Moriarty, and his pupils and pulse made it clear he was still in the grip of the drug.
Every five minutes thereafter he spoke to Holmes and checked his progress. A half hour passed before Holmes returned to his senses.
"Watson," he said slowly as he opened his eyes. He detached one of his hands from the rim of the tub and rubbed his face wearily. "I am not entirely well."
"No, indeed." Watson would have explained, admitted his fault, but Holmes was swallowing repeatedly and had paled several more shades. The vomiting began shortly after, a late effect of the overdose.
Watson pulled the plug on the tub as soon as Holmes started retching, but Holmes' wet nightshirt seemed to attract the mess and it was quite thoroughly ruined by the time Watson helped Holmes remove it.
Holmes was weak and shaky and required assistance to climb out of the tub, though he was able to stand under his own power while Watson fetched first a towel and then a clean nightshirt. He made quite a miserable picture, dripping onto the rug, his lean limbs shaking, his complexion several shades too pale, and his shoulders hunched as he tried to fit himself within the confines of the towel.
Watson had to help him dress and stagger the short distance to his bedroom. Once Holmes was settled in bed, Watson again checked his vitals.
"The worst is over," Holmes said, waving him away.
"As a doctor, I believe I should be the one to make that determination."
"And I believe I have more experience with this particular situation."
Watson stared at him for a moment. "How many times have you been in this situation?"
"Twice. The first was accidental, the second was intentional. It was an excellent experiment, though that was not the original plan."
"What- no, I don't want to know what you had originally planned. Just how much did you take this time?"
Holmes frowned. "I may have been slightly generous in my calculations, but what I took should not have caused this reaction. Given the weaker solution-"
"The label isn't correct," Watson interjected. He explained what had happened and how it resulted in Holmes taking roughly twice the dose he'd intended, and apologized at least three times in the process.
Holmes dismissed the apologies. "It has done me no permanent harm."
"Perhaps this will teach you to stay out of my medical bag."
Holmes grunted and put an arm over his eyes, the tip of his nose just visible under the crook of his elbow.
"How do you feel?"
"I've a terrible headache," Holmes admitted quietly after a moment's hesitation.
Watson immediately turned down the lamp beside Holmes' bed and, suspecting he knew the answer, asked, "Would you like-"
Holmes' refusal was immediate and unyielding. Watson in turn insisted that he wouldn't leave the room until Holmes drank at least one full glass of water. "Dehydration would worsen your ills," he said practically. Holmes didn't seem to appreciate the imposition but he complied without resistance.
After leaving Holmes to rest, Watson wrote a brief note to Mrs. Hudson to apologize for the noise and request a light breakfast be brought up later than usual, and he took it down and left it in the kitchen where she'd see it come morning. Only then did Watson return to his own bed, peeking in on Holmes on his way past, and settled down in hopes of sleeping a few more hours.
He was by no means well-rested by the time he rose mid-morning, but he felt better than before. Mrs. Hudson brought up breakfast promptly at ten-thirty, as requested, and he ate his share before taking Holmes some toast and tea.
Holmes, curled up on his side, appeared to be sleeping peacefully when Watson entered. Watson hadn't even set the teacup on the bedside table before Holmes said, "Not hungry."
"You need sustenance, Holmes. We both know you've hardly eaten for days." Watson cast a reproving glance at him, but Holmes' eyes remained closed.
"I'm not hungry," Holmes insisted.
"That may be, but you still need to eat something," Watson said as he set cup and plate down.
"Watson." Holmes' voice changed, sounding almost like a groan. "Watson, you must take that away," Holmes said pleadingly.
Watson was almost shocked by the begging tone in Holmes' voice, and he looked at Holmes more carefully. A sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead, he was still quite pale, and his expression was pained. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Take that away and leave me be," he said quickly, then added, "Please."
Watson turned away reluctantly and took the tea and toast as he retreated. He was barely out the door when he heard Holmes retching. Comprehension followed quickly after: the smells must have aggravated some lingering nausea. Immediately he set out to ensure Holmes had a ready supply of ginger tea available.
For three full days Holmes remained abed, not speaking another word and not looking at Watson when he came in to replenish the tea and water and monitor Holmes' condition.
Since Holmes refused to interact there was only so much Watson could determine about his recovery; that Holmes' pulse and respiration had returned to normal was about all he could say for certain. That his headache continued seemed a safe assumption since Holmes turned away or covered his eyes whenever Watson turned up the light.
He suspected that Holmes also had stomach pains, but that was only a guess based on the way Holmes lay in the bed and how his hands were either near his abdomen or clenched into fists when Watson entered the room. The continual refusal to eat also pointed to stomach trouble of some sort, though an abhorrence of food wasn't uncommon when Holmes was in one of his moods.
Holmes' silence and lethargy seemed to imply that the dark mood that prompted his cocaine use had returned and perhaps even strengthened, since Holmes usually did not confine himself to his bedroom when out of sorts. Or was Holmes simply trying to avoid him? Watson couldn't entirely blame him if that were the case, considering his role in Holmes' current state.
Guilt was Watson's constant companion as the hours lengthened into days and Holmes' absence from the sitting room weighed heavily upon him. Certainly he had expressed his disapproval of Holmes' habit on multiple occasions, and he didn't administer the injection, but he still felt dreadfully responsible for what happened. So he did as much for Holmes as Holmes would allow and hoped that would be sufficient atonement.
The fourth morning, Watson paid a visit to Holmes' room after breakfast, just as he had the previous mornings. Holmes was awake and watched him come in, then startled him by speaking. "My dear Watson, you must stop scolding yourself for my idiocy. You have nothing to feel guilty about."
Watson met his gaze for a moment, then responded, "Does that mean you'll ask permission before going through my medical bag in the future?"
"If I had asked, you'd have said no."
"Exactly."
"Why must you make it so difficult to apologize?"
"Is that what you're doing? Then by all means, continue."
Holmes heaved a put-upon sigh and looked away. "It won't happen again," he murmured.
"Is that supposed to reassure me? So long as you insist upon putting that poison in your veins, this could happen again."
"You misunderstand me. I don't intend to take any again."
Watson stared at him, stunned. "Well," he said finally, "I'm afraid I have trouble believing that, given your history." Then he changed the subject. "Will you eat something now that you're feeling better?"
Holmes hesitated, then nodded. "I will come to the table."
Watson rather doubted that but he said nothing. Holmes did better than Watson expected, managing to rise to his feet and venture to the end of the bed, but he clung to the bed's support and once he reached the end of that he could only stand there, trembling. Watson waited while Holmes hesitated, then offered, "Shall I bring you some toast?"
Holmes seemed to wilt a little even as he turned to return to bed. "If you must."
He took all of his meals in his room that day, but he was on the settee in his dressing gown by the time Watson came down for breakfast the next morning. Holmes ate little and spoke less; even though his black mood seemed to be continuing, Watson was comforted by the mere fact that Holmes was in the same room.
For the first few days, at least. After that he became concerned and tried what he could to provoke some sort of reaction from Holmes. But his outrageous statements went unanswered and uncorrected, Holmes showed no sign of hearing the articles he read from the paper, his jokes fell flat, and the excerpts from his latest writing project prompted no criticism from his silent and still companion. Watson found himself wishing for a case to present itself.
Lestrade came calling the next day. Holmes received him politely but showed no immediate signs of interest. It wasn't until Lestrade began to provide the details that had been kept from the papers that Holmes began to get that look in his eye that meant his interest was piqued. Watson was gratified that his reading the paper aloud had been of some use, for Holmes readily recalled the details of what Watson had read and spoke of them in questioning Lestrade. Lestrade departed after extracting Holmes' promise to look into the matter.
"You aren't going anywhere until you've eaten a proper meal," Watson informed Holmes as he rose from the settee.
"As you wish. I have tried your patience quite long enough."
"You are feeling better?"
"I will be. Would you be so kind as to gather the papers with this story while I dress? I'll look over them while we eat."
"Of course. And Holmes?"
"Yes?" He stopped in the doorway to the hall.
"Did you mean what you said about not taking cocaine again?"
"I always mean what I say." He said it with a fleeting smile, then disappeared in the direction of his bedroom.
Watson had to concede the point; he couldn't remember the last time Holmes had said something he didn't mean, if there ever was such a time. He suspected Holmes would regret this resolution, at least for a while, and a thought occurred to him.
By the time Holmes returned, dressed and shaved, the newspapers were stacked neatly on the table and the bottle of cocaine from Watson's medical bag was safely hidden away.