A/N: I'm very excited because we're finally on Spring Break and now I can spend more time on the things I actually want to do, such as writing, and ignore the things that I am normally forced to do, such as studying Precalculus. Yay!
But that doesn't have much to do with anything, so on with the story!
Sherlock Holmes gazed aimlessly into the distance as he trudged through the streets of London, not paying the slightest bit of attention to where his feet were carrying him. It was as if he had no idea where he was or where he was going but did not particularly care, so long as he kept moving.
He moved past countless groups of people, countless exercises in deduction, without stopping to observe a single one. For once, the citizens of London were paying more attention to the world's only unofficial consulting detective than he was to them. They took in his haggard visage, the blatant fear and anxiousness in his eyes, and his miserably pained expression. The men wondered what could have befallen him and the women were sorry to see a man in such obvious distress. The children took one look at him and were merely afraid. But they all had places they needed to go and things they needed to do, so they all passed by the lone gentleman without a word. They did not spare Sherlock Holmes a second thought as they hurried on to their destinations, leaving him to his own somber musings.
"I will not lie to you, Mr. Holmes," the doctor said. "It's a very serious injury, that bullet was far too close to his heart."
"But you will be able to save him, won't you? He will recover?" he asked desperately.
"We are doing everything in our power. But I must warn you, Mr. Holmes…it is very probable that it will not be enough."
He sank shakily into a chair and glanced at the bed next to it, wishing the patient it contained would say something, anything, to disprove the doctor's statement. But the patient slept on peacefully, not knowing the danger he was in, and quite unable to offer any reassurance whatsoever.
"His wife," Holmes said hoarsely, "Someone must send for his wife."
"I will see to it that Mrs. Watson is notified," the doctor said gently, "Please Mr. Holmes, don't brood on it too much. That's the last thing your friend needs. You have done all you can do and now you must leave it up to us." The doctor patted him on the shoulder and left.
Was he supposed to feel comforted by that? Insufferable doctors! How could he be at ease when his friend was here, when Watson could be dying beside him because of his own carelessness? That bullet had been meant for him. He had not seen the murderer's revolver pointed at him until it was too late, leading the good doctor to fling himself selflessly in the bullet's path. It was his fault that Watson was hurt, and if his poor Boswell died, then the stain on his conscience would never wash away.
He cringed as Watson gave a tiny moan of pain in his sleep. What in God's name had he done to deserve such loyalty? Watson had followed him through the most difficult and dangerous cases. Was a bullet wound to the chest really the only thanks Holmes could give him? Even now, he could do naught but wait for the doctor's return, for he had no way of knowing what painkillers and medications would help his unfortunate friend the most. In an effort to ensure that Watson would at least be warm, he pulled a white blanket over him.
That was one thing he hated about this hospital. Everything in the room was a bright, terrible white. The walls, the floors, everything around him served to create a forcedly cheery atmosphere. There was even a wretched window with birds chirping outside it. How could those birds go on singing their cheerful little songs? Couldn't they understand that he did not want to be happy? Didn't they see where they were? This was a hospital, a horrible, awful place. People bled and hurt here, people were dying here, and still the birds continued to sing. He felt a ridiculous desire to yell at them, to rage at them, to make them understand that they had no right to sing when Watson was here suffering. But he had no right to be angry at them when Watson's agony was his own fault.
The doctor came back with news that Mary Watson had arrived and was waiting in a room down the hall.
"Does she know yet, Doctor?" Holmes asked tersely.
"No, Mr. Holmes, we haven't told her anything. We thought you should be the one to inform her, seeing as you are a close friend of the family."
No, anything but that. He could not be the one to tell her what had happened. Watson's wife had allowed her beloved to go on so many cases, never questioning him nor demanding that he stay behind. She knew the danger involved in the work but she had always trusted Holmes enough to share her husband with him. But he had failed her. And telling her how Watson had come to be so gravely injured would be admitting that.
"Mr. Holmes?" the doctor asked.
And she would cry, yes, she would undoubtedly cry. That would be his fault as well…
"Mr. Holmes, are you listening to me?"
He could picture the tears rolling down her face, the distress in her eyes…
"Mrs. Watson is just down the hall, sir. We shouldn't keep her waiting."
He was walking away, no longer able to bear it…
"The waiting area is the third door on your left."
He turned to the right; he was hurrying through the hallways, running down the stairs. A voice was calling after him but it faded away as he burst through the front doors, only to be replaced by the sound of those intolerable, chirping birds.
The sound of thunder startled him out of his reverie. The rain was pouring, coating the city in a sheet of precipitation. Holmes continued to ramble along as though the sun was still shining. He had left his coat and his umbrella at the hospital, but he hardly noticed the torrent of water around him. It did not matter if he was soaking wet, he could hardly feel anything anyways.
All of the people had scurried inside or else found a vacant hansom. No one took any notice of the lone figure walking through the downpour. No one opened their doors to offer him shelter.
Of course that was not surprising. Why should anyone bother about him? Why should they care when he spent so much of his time and energy in keeping them out? His rule had always been to avoid emotional attachments to others and the one exception to the rule was lying in a hospital bed far away.
It had never bothered Holmes before to know that he was alone. But when he had met Watson, everything had changed in so many ways, some of which he was just beginning to understand and some of which he never would. He had not asked for friendship or acceptance, but Watson had given it anyways, when so many other people would have left the cold and calculating consulting detective to his peculiar ways. Watson's presence had been something that Holmes had always taken for granted. And although he would never admit it to anyone, least of all to himself, it was something he had come to rely on.
Now, as he lumbered through the rainy streets of London, he was very likely to lose all of that because of his own blunders. It had been several hours since he had fled. Watson could be dead by now. Holmes would be utterly and completely alone again, and that knowledge hurt more than any bullet wound would have.
There was a stubborn sparrow flying up above him, somehow managing to struggle through the rainstorm. Holmes marveled at the sheer tenacity of the thing. It foolishly continued flying through the stormy skies until he could no longer see it. He did not understand. Why would that small, insignificant bird endeavor to keep going through the cold and wet? It would be so much safer, so much easier to land.
A hansom was traveling down the street and to his surprise; it stopped in front of him. A small woman with blond hair climbed out of it with a small blue umbrella and rushed to his side.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she cried, "Thank goodness I've finally found you!"
He realized with some embarrassment that it was the lady whom he least wanted to see. Mary Watson was as white as a ghost, save for her red-rimmed watery eyes. She tried to smile at Holmes warmly like she would have done on any other day, but it was the ghost of a grin which he saw on that horrible stormy afternoon. It appeared that the news he had been unwilling to tell her had affected her even more than he had anticipated
"How may I be of assistance, Mrs. Watson?" he inquired, bracing himself. The poor woman was probably most irritated with him for abandoning her earlier.
"You would do me a great favor if you would return to the hospital. Oh, do please come back, Mr. Holmes," she implored, "You gave John and me quite a fright when you left so suddenly."
"Dr. Watson is awake?"
"Yes, he regained consciousness for a short while after you left. He was so worried about you Mr. Holmes."
"About me?"
"Do you think I would leave his side to look for you if he had not requested it? Now, I am most anxious to return to my husband, so let us be on our way."
"You wish that I return with you? Aren't you angry at me?"
"Why, of course not! Why should I be angry with you?"
He forced himself to say what he could not say earlier. "I do not know how much the doctors told you, but I must confess that your husband would not have been hurt if it had not been for my carelessness. It is my fault that he is injured."
"No, Mr. Holmes, that isn't how I see it. You aren't to blame," she said kindly, "It is part of John's nature that he protects the ones he loves, no matter the cost. Now, I would appreciate it very much if you would get into the hansom so we do not have to keep him waiting."
"As you wish, Mrs. Watson," he said as he complied with her request, feeling as though one of the many burdens that had shadowed him that day was being lifted.
"We will need to stop by your apartment on the way," she declared as the hansom began to move, "John will be concerned if you show up in those drenched clothes."
"I suppose I'll have to find my spare umbrella as well."
"I daresay you won't need it. The rain's already begun to lighten up."
Mrs. Watson was correct. By the time they had arrived at the hospital, the sun was shining again and the birds had continued their inexplicably cheerful song.
The doctor met them at the door to Dr. Watson's room.
"Ah, you've found him," he said, "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."
"I am sorry if I startled you earlier," he replied sheepishly.
"That's quite alright Mr. Holmes; it's been a long day for all of us."
"Yes, it certainly has," Mrs. Watson sighed, glancing anxiously at her husband's room.
"I have some news for you both," pronounced the doctor, and the room became deadly silent.
"Then please, let us hear it," Mrs. Watson requested calmly, though her hands were shaking and she was blinking rapidly.
"I have noticed a great improvement in the patient's condition over the past few hours. I think it's safe to say that he'll be able to make a full recovery."
"But earlier you said that it was a very serious injury," Holmes recollected, flabbergasted, as Mrs. Watson burst into tears.
"And it so it was, Mr. Holmes. I must say, though, your friend is a very remarkable man. A lot of gentlemen in his position would have given up and lost all hope. But I don't think the thought of giving up ever crossed his mind. I don't think he ever stopped believing that he would recover. And it seems that he was right."
"Please, Doctor," Mrs. Watson sobbed, "Could we see him?"
Dr. Watson had fallen asleep again, but yes, they could see him. As Holmes waited for his friend to wake up, he looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly. He could hear the birds outside, singing away, and finally, he understood.