The Devil Lies In Silence, Part 1

Watson had just crossed the threshold of the little cottage he and his colleague shared during their small country holiday, for purposes relating to the great detective's health and state of mind. Not that Holmes had felt any such rest was necessary and had put up a great fuss over the whole thing, but Watson for his part was relieved when his friend eventually conceded to the trip – but only once Watson himself promised to accompany him. He had planned to go anyway to keep an eye on Holmes, to make sure he used this respite for its intended purpose and not use the seclusion of the remote Cornish peninsula as an excuse to descend into either one of his madcap science experiments or the contents of his precious morocco box. Watson gave an audible exhalation of breath, placing his hat and cane by the door as his brows twitched together. He had quite a lot of time to think on it, what with being in his own house, away from Baker Street and unable to look after his companion, and had decided that Holmes' dependence on both these activities had grown increasingly worse in his years of absence. He didn't know which was more difficult to watch anymore - the sometimes vain struggles to create problems his brain considered to be of appropriate scale, or the glazed and defeated eyes that spoke of, as the detective would often say, "no other possible stimulant."

As much as he knew Holmes was much cleverer than that (and much too fond of himself), the poor doctor had learned to entertain that gravest of possibilities; that one day he would walk through that door as he always did only to discover that his dear partner, the closest friend he's ever had, lying in a pool of his own blood amidst the scattered debris of whatever hadn't worked this time. He refused to think on the alternative – the stillness of a form propped up in a chair, for all appearances normal except for the head drooped to one side, sleeves rolled, and the sinister sight of the syringe hanging limp from one cold hand. Watson would much rather the man perished from fighting the good fight against some vile criminal and tripping up…anything to escape the fate of being killed by his own mind, his own private freedom. The notion of Holmes dying in silence drained of his overabundant essence of life unnerved him in a way few things did.

Silence he was accustomed to, as it was in most cases preferable to the pain and brutality of most of his medical experiences. But it was not the way of Sherlock Holmes.

It was with these thoughts so prominent in his mind that the two of them arrived at their small seaside abode near Poldhu Bay two weeks ago. Watson's fears had been realized on that first day when he walked in on a hastily hidden forearm, a foot slammed on the table as he approached – a foolish attempt to hide the small black box beneath. He was still, gripping the back of Holmes' chair a bit tighter than necessary, and turning to leave muttered something about collecting the luggage as he passed. He refused to watch these self-destructive habits his friend was dead-set on pursuing. As he went to close the door behind him, he caught the barely audible 'thank you' from the other room just before the latch clicked shut. Dropping his hold of the doorknob as if it burned him, he stalked down the hall and outside, too busy to notice that the lack of something to hold made it impossible for his hands to stop shaking.

It had been a few days since their arrival. Their time was mostly spent roaming the Cornish countryside in relative peace, excluding the few occasions when one of them – usually Holmes – would break the somber atmosphere in favor of purely academic conversation. These exchanges were never long and once quiet had again settled, Watson was always left with feelings of inexplicable guilt and sadness that he didn't want to face. The sharp, hawk-like gaze never turned to meet his own – the rich voice dull with a note of coldness that was not the product of coastal air. That invigorated spirit seemed gone.

It had been several years since he went to live with Mary. He still saw Holmes on regular occasions, but he could see the toll his absence had taken. Before, Holmes had wheedled, bribed, manipulated, and used every logical argument his brain could produce, trying to force Watson to see reason and return home. Watson wasn't making sense, and as long as there could still be hope, Holmes found that infuriating.

But now Holmes knew he wasn't coming back, and he was slowly giving up. The experiments began to take on an air of distraction rather than genuine inquiry. And the black depression that accompanied this behavior – and the fact that he was trying so hard to stifle it – was almost worse than the silent death of Watson's imagination.

"Where there be slabs of granite…ancient tombs." Holmes sat leaning on a small jut of rock situated next to one such granite slab, one of many similar monoliths that dotted the rocky coast, his stony eyes fixed before him. "Scattered throughout the length and breadth of this peninsula."

Watson glanced at him, leaning an arm against the stone pillar. "Like the sea."

Like your thoughts. Everything about you is spread so thin.

"I suppose death is always with us."

He hadn't meant to say it, but it was too late. Still, he was surprised when Holmes actually looked at him…and was shocked by the look of loss and pain his eyes burned through to the back of his scalp before again glancing away.

Watson's tongue went numb. The look had been long enough to not be imagined, but brief enough to tell him it had been some secret accidentally told.

"Quite so."

Holmes' voice said nothing of the mutiny in his eyes and after a second of pause he pushed away from his seat and began a slow, sedate pace away from his companion, his retreating form looking over-swaddled in layers against the cold. A physical manifestation of the man's many impenetrable walls.

This time Watson did notice the shake in his hands, rocking like the lid of a teakettle. Thankfully, the unforgiving stone was a more than suitable surface for alleviating the steam.

Holmes took his walks alone after that. Not out of any desire to avoid the good doctor, Watson perceived it as the man making an effort to actually take advantage of this time of convalescence. Whether this was just a show for Watson's benefit, he couldn't say. He would have been worried by the increased amounts of solitude, but there had been no sightings of any scientific-looking instruments and of the cocaine and its telltale side effects he saw not a trace. The doctor considered that maybe the break was doing Holmes some good after all. There was less bitterness in his laugh now, his eyes occasionally crinkled with real amusement during their dinnertime discussions. Watson spent less time absently fingering the scar on his neck, absorbed in thinking about how all this could have ended differently.

"Gentlemen, I urge you to consult the police. Holmes is a sick man!"

Where the mighty walk, trouble is bound to follow. Watson was not a man prone to hasty judgment, especially where a client or patient was concerned, but he found himself hating the kindly faced village vicar and his haunted-looking companion as they sat across from him, even as he stood to offer them tea. He hated himself for not expecting something like this to happen, cases always seemed to follow them wherever they went. That any such person should dare to intrude on his friend's much-needed rest was outrageous and it took all of his impeccable respect for propriety to not dump the hot liquid all over the other man's lap.

"This is a matter of extreme urgency, Doctor. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes is the only man who can truly help us."

"Oh, is that so? How extremely fortunate for you, then." Watson turned to see Holmes walking through the door from outside, looking slightly ridiculous with the thick wool scarf he wore covering his hat and draped over his shoulder, and though it was not sunny outside he wore the dark round glasses that had been a gift from Watson ages ago. He looked like a lunatic Eskimo. Watson sighed.

"Holmes…."

"Now now, Watson," he shed his coat and dropped it carelessly into an unoccupied chair. "We can't very well leave these gentlemen to the mercy of the police, however much an improvement they may be over our own official acquaintances." His eyes flashed, lips twitching upward. You worry too much.

If only you wouldn't make it so I have to, his own look said and Holmes sighed before turning to the two anxious faces watching him.

"Now, how may I be of service?"

Watson hadn't really believed Mr. Tregennis – the vicar's gaunt companion – when he'd told his remarkable story. A sister and two brothers attacked sometime in the night, the sister killed and the brothers driven to insanity by what they'd seen, or by some other diabolical means. Holmes was, of course, immediately fascinated and requested that they make for the Tregennis house as soon as possible.

"Holmes, don't you think this is a little counterproductive?" Watson murmured in Holmes' ear as they approached the house behind their two guides, the building looking bleached and unnatural against the dark cliffs. The other man's eyes flicked in his direction in such a way that was more a reaction to their sudden close proximity than to Watson's words. Thankfully, he was no longer wearing the glasses. His speed seemed to increase by the tiniest fraction.

"Nonsense, my good man. I believe my 'fragile state of mind' has gleaned all it can from my period of ineptitude. It is now time to once again put it to its proper use of dazzling the locales with deductions my gran could read from her tea leaves." His particular shade of bland sarcasm was back, it seemed. Watson could already feel the knot of tension between his shoulders.

"Well, do try to not put yourself through too much trouble, will you?" His own tone was biting as he held the front door open.

Holmes stopped dead in front of him, so quick Watson was momentarily taken aback. The detective was looking at him with that quiet ferocity that had always made Watson second-guess himself in the past, but he'd always been able to overcome. Since living with Mary, that look had shown up less and less until he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Now, he was nearly shamed by how quickly the blood rushed to his face.

"I make no promises," Holmes replied softly, breaking the moment of silence. But I will try, for you.

Watson heard the unspoken words as clearly as if they had passed his friend's lips. His own twitched upward in response.

"I'm not patching you up if anything happens." An empty threat, as his own voice was strangely off-balance.

There was another moment where Holmes lips curved the slightest bit as well before he gave a curt nod that said Agreed and they entered the house.

Watson nearly fainted when they entered the room.

There was a small table, cards laid across it as if there'd been a game interrupted, and in the chair directly facing the door, body rigid and eyes rolled into the back of his head….

Was Holmes.

It was Watson's greatest fear somehow in the flesh and blood.

The face looked even gaunter, his features arranged in an expression of absolute terror, dark hair tousled, his long fingers clutching desperately at a throat that would never flow with air again. Watson felt the panic rise in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Holmes was so still. It was the overdose vision, but a thousand times worse. So unnaturally still….

"Watson. Watson! Wake up, man!"

Watson blinked. The Holmes in the chair was replaced by the Holmes very-much-alive as the detective's aquiline face filled his vision. Watson looked over his shoulder at the chair. The body in it was not that of his partner, but a dark haired woman who must have been Mr. Tregennis' sister, Brenda. The whites of her eyes seemed to stare accusingly at him as he gulped, quickly regaining his composure. He looked again at the real Holmes and his heart fell when he saw the concern his eyes, around his mouth. Things only he ever got to see.

He cleared his throat and straightened. "My apologies, I…my leg feels something terrible in this chill." The lie was directed more towards the two other men in the room giving him questioning looks. To Holmes he thought desperately, Don't push it now. Save the prodding for later.

Holmes waited another second, as if to ensure he really was alright. Here's hoping I'm not putting myself in trouble instead, Watson thought with a touch of bitterness, embarrassed by his inappropriate display. But Holmes eventually turned sharply from him and began his systematic investigation, inspecting the body as well as the fireplace directly behind it, the mantle, and other invisible points of interest. Watson watched him move about the room blankly, taking notes of his findings as if on autopilot.

The horrific sight of Holmes' body in that chair would never leave the doctor's memory.