Repetition
A/N: Character appearances, for the purpose of conjuring your mental imagery, are based on the 2009 Guy Ritchie film with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law as Holmes and Watson. I suppose this is slash if you really squint at it, but I wrote it leaning towards friendship between Holmes and Watson, though it is very open to interpretation. Set post-movie. I hope you enjoy it! It's been bouncing around in my head since I watched the movie for the umpteenth time two days ago, and also in anticipation of the upcoming sequel!
"Oh, don't worry about him. He's fine."
"But, John, I really-"
"Nonsense! He does this all the time."
"John, are you even seeing him?"
"Darling, you worry too much."
Snap. Snap.
"Holmes. Come on now, time to rise, old boy."
Wave. Wave.
"Holmes."
Twist. Twist.
"Holmes?"
Blink. Blink.
"…Sherlock?"
I shudder to think what would've happened had Mary not been there. My blustering might have been the death of this man. I try to will away the memory, but it's fresh and clear in my mind. Then again, it really was only yesterday.
Ah, Mary- what a saint! What would I ever do without her? Even so, I feel almost guilty for my time spent here. She's been in and out as much as she can, but she has duties elsewhere and, even with her vibrant personality, she has to admit, Holmes and her do not always get along. They tend to butt into each others' intellect, for my darling is very smart.
Mary, that is.
And if it weren't for her graceful acquiescence to accompanying me to 221B Baker Street yesterday afternoon, of which there was no need for her to go, other than me wanting to bask in her delightful company, my dear friend would be worse off, or, perhaps, even dead.
And the world is not ready to lose such a brilliant man. I'm not ready to lose such a brilliant man.
He is my dearest friend, my closest companion besides my wife- he has seen me through much, rescued both my body and my mind from the brink of doom. The war left me broken in more ways than one, but Holmes' dogged determination and compelling eccentricities helped me to heal and to forget. I fell into his mysteries and adventures much like rain falls from the sky. Granted, those same eccentricities nearly drive me to the bottle and make me want to scratch at the wallpaper with madness, but I refrain, knowing that, at least, for me, his intentions are always of the caring sort. Who else but a true friend would be nearly strangled to death by a doctor who desperately wishes to gamble (though knowing all along that he shouldn't) and yet simply rubs at his sore throat and quaintly laughs it off?
My thoughts are interrupted again by footsteps. The face of Mrs. Hudson peeps through the cracked door. She wears a mottled expression of solemnity and panic. I feel my lips curl into a subdued smile, trying to calm her sensibility.
"He's going to be just fine, Mrs. Hudson. His condition is slowly improving- I guarantee that he'll make a full recovery."
She seems to soften, lets out a breath I hadn't noticed she was holding. Ah, if only Holmes were awake, he would have made some subtle, yet cunning remark that she should exhale before I spoke my piece. He'd also be loudly protesting my fragile treatment of him, and possibly the precariousness of our corporeal situation. I, however, could not care less. To Hell with what anyone thinks! We are friends among friends, and social order be damned. Mrs. Hudson, Mary…even Lestrade has been in today to visit, and no one has commented on it yet, or even given us a second look.
"Thank you, doctor. I will say I was quite nervous for a time! His color is much better than when I last looked in…would you like me to bring you some tea? Please excuse my saying so, but, caring for that blasted fool has probably made you parched!"
She smiles a little- I can see things will be back to normal soon. It seemed, for the last twenty-four hours, that everyone was walking on broken glass, hopping around the subject painfully. I nod.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
She disappears from the doorway again, and I sigh. I am excruciatingly tired. I haven't slept since we found him this way, unconscious and fading fast. Luckily, his impeccable powers of deduction really have worn off on me- between the three of us, we were able to detect just what he was experimenting with this time, and I managed to concoct an antidote that seems to have taken effect, thank the Lord.
What I have neglected to mention is that what Sherlock was experimenting with would not have harmed him at all, had someone not altered the chemicals involved beforehand. I'm positive it wasn't Holmes. There's no way anything could have driven him to do this to himself. He knows full well what could have happened- and did!
My stomach tightens as my anger- and my fear- grows. But I quell it as Mrs. Hudson reappears, sets my teacup on the small table beside the bed, smiles again before patting my free hand congenially, and leaves the room.
I look at it for a moment, lift it, and take a small sip, before setting it back down with a slightly shaking hand. I really am exhausted, but there's one thing keeping me here, one thing that I've been taking part in repetitively for hours and hours, since my last examination of him ended and since I last had anything else to do besides worry and wait.
A cloud that had been covering the sun suddenly moves, and floods the room with sunlight. My shaking stills slightly, and to my delight, Sherlock shifts a little. Excellent! Superb! Perhaps he'll be waking soon. Maybe then I'll really believe my own assessments that he really will be alright. I honestly won't believe it until he's up and about, bounding down streets and jumping out windows, eyes wide with the thrill of discovery. That's the Sherlock I know. That's my best friend- my brother in all but blood.
But, for now, and until that time, there is but one thing that's keeping me still and sane. My left hand knows the motion now like it has been performing the task my entire life. I keep consciously forgetting I'm doing it, but I continue to move.
He shifts once more, burrowing deeper against my side, cold body seeking warmth from any possible source. He shivers, and I shush him gently. Again, my hand sweeps through his curly brown hair, peppered with gray, from temple to crown, and then repeats, calming my torrent of emotions once again, as it does every time I smooth his hair, reminding me that we are both right here, and nothing can come between us ever again.
I'll make sure of it.