Rating: PG
Warnings: potentially triggering affliction – see prompt
Prompt: loss of hearing
Author's Note: Title taken from the quote at the beginning. Holmes's POV. Hope you enjoy it! :D
"The miracle of friendship can be spoken without words... hearing unspoken needs, recognizing secret dreams, understanding the silent things that only true friends know."
... ~ oOo ~ ...
At first, there was no sensation at all. It was hardly surprising. After such an injury as I had sustained during the climax of the last case, I would have expected to be taken to a hospital and heavily sedated.
Watson knew how I despised those places, and procedures, but it really was the only possible way if he was quite out of his depth in treating me, and I had, in fact, given him the permission to act in such a manner if he saw no other possibility. I did not believe there could have been any, not if my memory served me right and he was, indeed, injured himself, to his hand, no less.
But, I had to admit, for all the pride I feel for my excellent memory and observation, I could not quite recall the exact details of the time just before I had lost consciousness. There had been an explosion, to be sure, after our quarry had run out of bullets, and I did recall a bright flash of light, a horrendous bang and Watson's shocked scream, but nothing more definite.
It was, indeed, quite nice to just lie wherever I was, hardly feeling anything. It was dark, but then, of course, my eyes were shut, and I really had not the energy to open them just yet. However, my body was apparently of the opinion that I had slumber quite enough. Thus, my sensation came back in a flash, evicting a gasp I could not hold back as indistinct pain exploded in various parts of my body at once.
I have, of course, been injured before, and it is part of my profession, but I could not recall having felt such a pain before - it was impossible to quite determine its source, or the nature of the injuries I had sustained.
My feeling of time had, quite naturally, deserted me, and I would not have been surprised if I had lain unconscious for more than a day. Slowly, I registered the soft fabric of bandages above my raw skin - burns, then. I should not have been surprised, and I was not, in fact. The explosion had been such that it would have ignited the wooden boxes I crouched behind in an instant, in addition to shattering the boxes into pieces, which would have had much the same effect as shrapnel. Watson, who is the expert for military and medical matters in our association, would certainly have been able to either confirm the accuracy of that metaphor, or else suggest a more fitting one, for I have, much to my relief, not had any close personal contact with such devilish weapons. They are, after all, rather impractical for a murder.
I have to admit, I was quite surprised that Watson had not already noticed that I had regained consciousness. I was certain of his presence at my bedside, as certain as if I could sense it, but he had neither called my name in his usual, and somewhat understandable, relief, nor had he grasped my hand as was his wont whenever he fussed over my well-being.
Truth be told, I rather cherished the silence that ruled whatever room I lay in. Having a mind such as mine needs results in very finely tuned and much trained faculties of sensory perception, and I often found it extremely bothersome to be conscious of so much irrelevant information in the mere fraction of a second. I have often found the need to seek refuge in the silence of the Diogenes Club – even though this includes in an inevitable encounter with my good brother – simply because the atmosphere of mutual calm and silence is enormously soothing and indeed conductive to deeper thoughts, more so than any public location. Of course I have often begged of Dr Watson to leave me to myself, or refrain from speaking for a certain length of time in our own rooms, and Watson has an invaluable gift for silence when it is required, but he remains a very active man who does not handle inaction well, which, on second thought, is one thing we, at least at times, have in common.
It seemed wise to alert him to my wakefulness, since he had apparently failed to observe it. Such a breach in his attentiveness could only have been caused be severe exhaustion – no doubt he had kept his vigil over me for quite a length of time.
It was therefore that I opened my eyes, squinting immediately. The light of the lamp somewhere nearby was much too bright. However, my action had had the desired effect, for a warm hand encased mine, which still lay unmoving on the sheets, jostling the bandage I could feel there as well. It was Watson's hand, of course, made easily distinguishable by the callouses between his forefinger and thumb caused by his frequent literary activities, and the strongly developed abductor and flexor pollis previs.
As I was still blinking to adjust my eyes to the light, my head was raised carefully and the cold surface of a drinking glass brushed my lips. Evidently, then, there was more than one person in the room. Odd, how silent they had moved; I had not even registered their presence. Not my brother then, for he was quite unable to move silently, and not Mrs Hudson, from a woman's dress would inevitably rustle with every movement.
I did take a sip of what appeared to be extremely stale water. Immediately, the glass was taken away again, even though the little bit of liquid had quite awakened my desire for more. I assumed it was to prevent upsetting my empty stomach.
A small sigh escaped me into the silence as the pain flared up, and an uncomfortable pounding started behind my eyes – a migraine, then, as I had often experienced them in my youth. Thankfully, I had learned to reign their frequency in my adulthood and was only suffering of them now when injured, or quite intolerably bored. Still, I had no desire to slip back into unconsciousness just yet, now that I was awake already. While it was no effort to wake up, quite contrary to staying awake –frankly, I felt exhausted – I had to ascertain at least how long I had been unconscious, and how grave were my injuries. If Watson had felt the need to ask for the help of any third person, quite unknown to me, it must have been severe this time.
After my eyes had finally adjusted to the light, which was not bright at all, but a candle and a lamp, my gaze settled instantly on Watson, who was half-bowed over me, his face wrinkled in concern. He looked very tired and worn, at least a day's stubble on his usually clean-shaven chin, and dark circles adorning his eyes. Those signs pointed to a longer period of unconsciousness indeed, but then, I had not expected anything else.
Watson pressed my hand and mouthed my name with some uncertainty. It was just possible that my prolonged period of unawareness had not, in fact, been caused by my injuries, but rather by an infection resulting in fever, which would adequately explain why Watson seemed uncertain as to my wakefulness.
Why he would not utter a sound was quite beyond me at present. "I'm all right, Watson," I said, raising my free hand before my eyes. It was tightly bandaged, supporting my theory of having sustained injuries due to the heat of the explosion. It also narrowed the time window I had estimated to less than one week, or else a great part of the injuries would already have healed sufficiently to forsake the bandage.
Watson pressed my hand, apparently to draw my attention back to his face. He mouthed my name again, his forehead creased, and his lips spelled a quick sentence. I was unsure what to make of the fact that he did not utter a sound – had the explosion injured him as well? But no, there was no bandage or scar anywhere near the proximity of his vocal cords or mouth. Indeed, he had been so far away from the source of the explosion that I considered it very unlikely indeed that he should have sustained any injury as grave as that, even though he had apparently dragged me from the burning warehouse.
"Watson? I didn't catch that, old fellow," I said, considering the possibility that he had but spoken very lowly, which could well have escaped me through the haze of the drugs and the pounding in my skull.
When he repeated his question, there was still no sound, but I had long ago learned to be just as efficient in reading lips – it is quite useful during those times when one has to observe a person, or persons, who converse just out of hearing, or very silently, but within sight.
"Yes, I do understand you. Why wouldn't I?" I tried to raise myself to my elbows, but Watson's hand came down on my chest and stopped me. His lips were moving again. "Really, old fellow, must you speak so low? I am afraid I have not yet regained my usual level of perception."
To my surprise, Watson froze in his movements and stared at me, horror clearly written on his features. He was indeed very quiet at the moment, no doubt to be gentle with my much tried body, but it was odd that I should not be able to hear the sound of his breathing, even though he was so very close that I could smell the scent of his tobacco in his clothes.
To my surprise, there was some movement on the edge of my vision, and as I turned my head, Mycroft stood at my other side. Brother mine had certainly practised his bedside manner, for he, too, whispered to the doctor so lowly that I failed to catch his meaning.
Watson shook his head as an answer and turned to face me again.
It was then that it occurred to me that even through the drugs and the pain, I should have been able to hear something – if not the hushed conversation, then the sounds that inevitably occur in a public hospital, as this one no doubt was, even though I was screened from the view of others by a curtain drawn around my bed. Such place were never entirely quiet, and if it was not the hustle-bustle of the doctors and nurses, there would inevitably be the sounds of distress from the other patients. "Watson..."
He look at me, and captured my face in both his hands. His lips moved, and from the clear opening of his mouth and the unmistakable movement of his lips I could tell that he was by no means whispering. Still, not a sound reached my ears – or rather, they failed to alert my brain to the perception. Watson had apparently realised the fact as well, for he had asked: Do you hear me, Holmes?
I was forced to shake my head – there really was no other explanation. Even though both my brother and Watson had a hidden evil tendency within them, they would not conspire to distress me in such a manner, not while I was recovering from considerably grave injuries.
It was terrifying, to say the least. Of course the calm was soothing in its own way, but I also felt strangely excluded, almost as if I was just looking at the world around me from afar, without being able to quite grasp the occurrences.
My brother said something – I have never been able to read his lips, he has quite a strange way of mumbling the words through closed lips. How he could achieve as clear an articulation in such a manner was quite beyond me.
Watson, in reply, smiled crookedly, and slipped a hand below my arm to assist me into a half-upright position, stuffing a pillow behind my back before he sat back down on the chair beside my bed and took up the glass again. Holmes, I know you can read my lips, for which I am extremely grateful just now. What is the last thing you remember?
Of course there was nothing wrong with my memory, but Watson had uttered the question with an air of bored professionalism that suggested he knew that already – or, at least, this was what I had read in his open countenance. "The explosion," I said, suddenly unsure as to how loud I had spoken, or how clearly I had articulated my words. I had heard them resounding in my head, but I could not be certain how much had indeed left my mouth. It was disquieting – while I could understand my fellow humans just perfectly, I could be no means be certain that they did. I have encountered various people who are unable to hear, and this affliction has inevitably caused a severe deficiency in speaking, or, if the affliction originated in the early childhood, prohibited the learning of spoken language altogether. Truth be told, I had no desire to be forced to reduce my practice to written consultations, or give it up entirely.
Watson, observant as he is, seemed to have noticed my discomfort, for he had returned to pressing my hand with his warm fingers. It seems the explosion has damaged your ears, and affected your hearing.
I bit back a harsh, and uncalled for, remark and merely nodded, while my thoughts whirled. Suddenly, I felt trapped, encased in my own body, which was utterly ridiculous since I had not lost the ability to communicate, but I felt a shudder running down my spine nevertheless.
Mycroft bowed over me as far as his bulk would allow, and for once, he made an effort of clearly moving his lips. Will it persist?
Watson tilted his head, a definite sign for uncertainty. At this stage, I cannot tell. We will have to wait how the developments shall be.
"Watson."
He looked at me, so apparently he had heard.
"How long has it been?"
Four days, old chap. I believe it would be just as well if we were to take you back to Baker Street. There is clearly nothing more the doctors here can do.
It was, as I had expected, quite an effort to rise, and walk, but between Mycroft and Watson, I did finally regain my balance enough to take some slow steps. Watson had once remarked to me that equilibrium was believed to be connected to hearing, and it came therefore as no great surprise to me that it, too, was affected.
However, I was quite distracted by the equally fascinating and interesting effect the loss of hearing had upon me. It seemed to me, as we walked through the corridors after Watson had convinced the doctors that I should be released, that everything around me had lost a considerable part of it's reality – in fact, it appeared to me that it was the world and not I which had been affected.
The sensation rather reminded me of the several times I had dived in various waters. Underwater, there was no sound either, and the world which presents itself to the diver is equally surreal.
However, it was not that I realised the reality of my affliction before Watson took a tight hold to my arm as we stepped onto the street, and immediately pulled me out of the way of a lady walking her pet dog – a snarling animal which took an immediate dislike in me, and much like the well remembered dog of Victor Trevor, tried to make for my ankle. Had I been in the full possession of my faculties, I would of course have heard the dog's barking and would have avoided stepping in its way.
As it was, I was quite grateful to have Watson by my side, especially as I caught my brother hiding a malicious smirk as he saw us into a carriage before departing himself to fetch another. Mycroft can be very harsh when the fancy strikes him, and the only sign of him I had had while I lay off my heals after the attack of Trevor's dog was a somewhat sardonic telegram inquiring whether I had developed ankles that resembled a rival dog.
However, as much as I was vexed on those occasions by his relentless bickering, I was quite conscious of the fact that he cared deeply for my well-being. His presence at my hospital bed had quite proven that already, for he would under no circumstances leave his customary circle between Pall Mall, the Diogenes and Whitehall, had my injury been but minor.
Watson was silent during the ride in the cab – or rather, his lips never moved. Of course, I would have heard none of his words, and in fact I had the impression that my mind tried to supply the sounds that were predictable, even though I did not hear them. I had, for example, the strong impression of hearing the horses' hoofs on the pavement, and the rattling of the carriage wheel, while I knew for certain that it was quite impossible, as every sound of Watson's movement as he tried to compensate for the swaying of the cab did escape my hearing, while my eyes told me that there had to be the rustling of his clothes.
I have remarked that he had been injured to his wrist, but there remained no further signs to that effect safe a light bandage which supplied scarcely any hold at all. It was a pity, really, for it would have given me something else to focus on rather than my own predicament.
While my mental faculties have always been a source of endless joy and fascination for me, I found it disturbing that I was perceiving things I knew could only have originated in my imagination. In fact, I dreaded the possibility that my hearing would never return, for soon enough, I would lose my grip on what was real and what was not – I could already feel me slipping.
Watson raised his stick to knock on the roof of the carriage – dull sound of wood against wood – and the cab rolled to a stop. Sitting on the left, I was naturally the first to step down, Watson hovering close behind me.
I took the precaution of looking to the left and right for any passers by, but thankfully, there were none, and Watson was quickly at my side again.
It was then, and quite suddenly, that I experienced the most terrific sensation in my ears. I can but describe it a something between a throb and a piercing pain, and suddenly, there was sound, a shrill, disquieting whistling, which quite aggravated my headache. I must have staggered against Watson, for when the sound ebbed, and disappeared finally, I found myself on the ground on the stairs before our front door. I was leaning against Watson, who sat on the uppermost step, his leg outstretched, and his arms folded protectively around me, shielding me from the view of the curious public. It was only then that I realised that my own hands were pressed against my ears, as if to block out the sound that had, in fact, not been there – could not have been there, for the whole world had gone mute again.
Watson was talking to me, saying my name.
I cleared my throat, and staggered to my feet, lowering my hands in the progress. "I'm fine."
Watson looked doubtful, but he did leave me alone, digging into his pockets for the key.
The hallway, to my surprise, was deserted. I should have expected Mrs Hudson to fuss and hover over me after so long a period of hospitalization, but the good woman seemed to be absent.
Watson touched my arm to take my coat and catch my attention. Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister. She has fallen ill, and it could not be postponed.
"I see." Here, in the safety of my own home, I felt that I could try and talk freely, whether it be too loud or too low, for there was, in fact, no one but Watson who could hear me. He had not grimaced, so apparently I had not spoken too loudly.
We should go upstairs. And I would like to have an explanation for that episode just now.
I ascended the stairs slowly, mindful of my injuries. My thoughts, however, were turned towards my violin, which lay waiting in its case on a small table by the door. I had come so accustomed to the instrument that I began to miss it after some time, but I had my doubts as to whether it would be wise to take it up while I was unable to hear what I was playing. My mind, efficient as it was, would no doubt be able to reconstruct the notes to the movements, but whether those were accurate was quite another question. Besides, I had my doubts as to whether I would enjoy the experience.
Watson pushed me towards the sofa, and I saw no reason not to follow his suggestion. Truth be told, the episode on our doorstep had disquieted me greatly, and I almost welcomed the utter silence after that evil moment of shrill and deafening sound. However, I had no idea how I could possibly explain that event to Watson without forcing both of us to face the possibility that I was hallucinating, and quite out of my mind.
Watson settled in his armchair and pocked my arm – as if I wasn't focussing on him anyway. Holmes? What happened just now? I'm sorry to bother you, I know you can't be feeling well right now, but I really need to know, old friend. As your doctor, and you friend, I would like to do everything I can to help you.
"I don't know what happened," I said, and then, as he wrinkled his brow, in what I assumed to be a more moderate tone: "I have never experience such a sensation before."
Of course not.
"Watson, while this likely be permanent?"
Not very likely, no. But it has been four days.
"I see. You really don't know."
No, I am sorry.
"There's nothing you could have done to prevent it."
Watson collected his notebook from the coffee table. Would you rather write?
My assumption had been accurate, then. The lack of hearing had already served to impair my speech, and my words were likely jumbled together. I have always found that my tongue cannot quite keep up with my mind, even though it has been said that I talk faster than most.
I took the pen from Watson, and jotted down as detailed a description as I could manage of the attack, for that was undoubtedly what it had been. I hoped that it would not repeat itself, but I had my doubts as to whether this would be possible.
I felt a strong desire to disappear into my bedroom, and lock the door behind me, but I knew all the same that it was not the wisest course of action.
Watson read my notes ridiculously slowly, only raising his head after a time period which, based on my observations and experience, would have served to read what I had written twice, if not trice. "Well?"
I have heard of such experiences before. There is really nothing one can do about it. Has it been the first time?
"Yes."
It could mean that you hearing nerves are regenerating – in that case, the sensation you experienced would have been a real sound, merely distorted by the remainders of the injury. Do you hear anything else?
"Nothing."
Well... The other possibility is, of course...
"I imagined it – hallucinations."
Watson nodded, that worried look I had seen first in the hospital again very prominent in his features. Yes.
I was unsure as to which of the two possibilities was the more frightening. If my hearing had indeed responded to some real sound, it was likely to happen again at any moment, since we could not be sure which had been the trigger for my experience. If, on the other hand, I had imagined the whole episode, my state of mind was quite a cause of concern. One hallucination would likely be followed by others, and I feared that at some point, I would be unable to tell which sensation was real, and which wasn't.
Watson had risen and returned with a blanket and a pillow from my bedroom. You must rest, Holmes, he said, and this time, I could almost hear his voice. He had said that particular line quite often in the past, and I had become accustomed to this particular tone of his. I said as much to him, but he only responded with a tired smile and covered me with the blanket.
I must confess I felt rather exhausted, and fell asleep quickly. Usually, I paid little heed to the content of my dreams, if I remembered them at all. Usually, it were the nightmares that haunted me most, although it would often be the case that after I awoke, only a distorted image of the occurrences remained in my mind.
However, during the slumber I had fallen into on that particular afternoon, I dreamed so vividly and fiercely that even now, I can recall every particular.
At first, I was walking down Baker Street, alone. Watson, for some reason, had been unable to accompany me. However, what was most disquieting, Baker Street was far from deserted, but I could hear nary a sound. The people passed me, clearly talking, some laughing even, but I did not hear them, and in fact, they did not seem to be conscious of my presence.
As I reached the bookshop at the far end of the road, I stopped to look at the shop window. There was nothing of interest in it, and all the books were without titles.
However, as I turned to walk back to the flat, the street was suddenly filled with an enormous cacophony of noises. People were chattering, talking, laughing, screaming. A cab careened around the corner, its wheels cracking, the horse whinnying. A dog barked, the door of the shops creaked, in an alley, I heard the meow of several cats. Above everything, there was the shrill whining of a badly played violin, and the continuous chatter of birds above my heads.
The sheer quantity of noises was overwhelming, and I felt quite as during those episodes of migraine of my youth, where every sound, however small, would serve to bring my mind at the very brink of explosion. During those episodes, all sounds merged together in one large noise, crashing down on my perception without possibility of filtering out single noises, uncontrollable and frightening, only aggravating my headache.
This sensation was exactly the feeling that assaulted me during my dream, and I awoke with the certainty that I was screaming, but unable to hear it – the only sound, if it was a sound, was that shrill whistling that could not be shut out, no matter how hard I pressed down on my ears.
Watson was at my side then, trying to pry my hands away, his face so close that I could feel the gentle brush of his breathing against my skin as he tried, no doubt, to soothe me with words that I could not hear, but knew they were there.
This time, the attack lasted for a much longer time than the first, although, as I focussed on Watson, and what he was saying, the noise became easier to bear. I do not recollect what it was that I read from Watson's lips, but once my mind was sufficiently focussed on the task of trying to piece my recollection of his voice together with what I saw, the whistling was dulled to a annoying, but less painful background sound, until, after some time, it finally ceased.
I felt quite drained after my dream and this new episode, lying on the sofa completely limp, while Watson had made room for himself by my legs and was still talking, trying to calm me with promises and expressions of compassion I could not hear.
He only desisted as I grasped his hand. "Watson. You know I can't hear you."
He focussed on my face, and articulate his next words very carefully. I do know. I wish there were anything I could do... You were screaming, don't you know?
"I do. I did not want to worry you... I had a rather disquieting dream."
I'm not surprised.
Neither should I have been, not when the horror of my present condition was lurking so close on the edge of my consciousness, panic threatening to overwhelm me. I was certainly glad to be awake now, being able to distract myself with something, anything. My burned skin itched below the light bandages, but other than the persistent headache, I felt quite well. I was tired, certainly, however, I had no desire whatsoever to go back to sleep just now. While Watson's presence was a comfort, I needed something to distract my mind – a task ample enough to occupy me entirely and keep the panic at bay. The violin, as I have remarked above, was quite out of the question, therefore there remained only the chemistry set. It had the distinct advantage of not being based on hearing but on sight and smell. "Watson, would you object if I started a small experiment?"
With your chemicals? Do you think that is wise, Holmes?
"I find myself rather in the need of a distraction, Watson."
I won't stop you, as long as you are extremely careful. I also insist that you limit this experiment to a time period of one hour at the most. You are still far from well, quite aside from this new development.
"I do realise that, Doctor."
He frowned. Don't do that. I'm am not in the mood for bickering, and I believe neither are you.
"You are quite correct, Watson."
I am not ashamed to admit that I required Watson's assistance to reach the chemical bench, however, once I was seated, it was quite bearable, even though during the course of my experimentations, the ache in my head had settled in the depth of both my ears, a rather piercing and very uncomfortable sensation that would not go away even as I rubbed the back of my ears with my free hand.
Watson, observant as he was in medical matters, seemed to have noticed that movement, for he appeared at my desk and knocked against the table to get my attention. What is it, Holmes?
"An earache."
Warmth is supposed to help in such cases.
"And how do you propose to do that?"
He turned off my Bunsen burned and led me back to the sofa. Lie down. I will be right back.
I did as he had asked, letting my eyes drift shut. Now that I was no longer distracted, the pain was indeed quite prominent, and while I did have hopes that it was a indication that my hearing would return, it was still a very annoying pain. Suddenly, a warm piece of cloth settled on my left ear, the one that wasn't pressed against the soft fabric of our sofa.
Watson was back, sitting down on his old spot by my feet, his hand applying a gentle pressure to the warm cloth.
I did not bother to open my eyes again to ascertain that he had indeed asked whether I was feeling the better for the warmth. "Much better, Watson."
He shifted a little, apparently chuckling.
I learned later that he had warmed this piece of cloth – a small towel, in fact – on the cooking place of Mrs Hudson, where it had gathered quite an amount of warmth which did indeed work wonders for the pain in my ears.
For the first time since I had regained consciousness in the hospital bed, I felt myself relaxing, and enveloped in the feeling of warmth, I fell into a much relaxing – and dreamless – slumber.
We proceeded to repeating this procedure in frequent intervals during the next few days, during which I spent most of the time dosing on the sofa, and I felt that Watson's knowledge of practical medicine has never been put to better use.
At first, there was no notable improvement other that the fact that the severity of the attacks I had experienced lessened until they seemed to have appeared altogether. However, it was after a week that, as Watson removed the warm cloth from my ears, he said something, and I could just catch the 'Holmes' at the end of his sentence without having watched his lips.
... ~ oOo ~ ...