Any Port in the Storm
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: T or PG-13 for sickies (or a sicky, anyway)
Disclaimer: Uh, public domain, but I didn't create them. If I did, it wouldn't be under fanfiction.
Warnings: Extreme angst and extreme sickness.
Author's Note: A challenge from holmes221b at Watsons_woes on livejournal. She prompted, I fulfilled. Special thanks to medcat who made the second half of this happen. Enjoy.
He has a serious dilemma and has been awake far too long to solve it. The fire before him falters in the chilly mists and the wood nearby has dampened to the point of uselessness. He needs to search for more, to keep the last of the flames from dying out and leaving them without heat, but he dares not move from his position. Already, Watson barely breathes and he has no way to prop the other man up than to hold him. Tiny, unpleasantly inadequate wheezes send chills up his spine and he discovers he's never felt so helpless in his life.
"Physician, heal thyself," he murmurs to his friend who can no more hear him than fly. Watson has long since slipped into a fever induced catatonia which he cannot penetrate; he has no idea how to without Watson's gentle advice.
He has rudimentary knowledge of medicine, mostly of what diseases do to organs and how they change the consistency of blood; he can bandage an injury properly in a pinch and, if the situation is dire, can test his hand with a needle and thread. But beyond a cool cloth to tame a raging fever and elevation for the cough, he has no idea how to cure what plagues Watson, now. It sickens him, hurts, and he feels so utterly useless that he could scream. Even with his deductive skills and solving capabilities—which he has used to figure that this cough has progressed to a vicious case of pneumonia—he cannot blend the proper medicinal roots, nor provide a room, roof and bed for his ailing companion.
A whimper, a hushing sound from him, the sounds of whatever animals dwell on the island, the slight crunch of the largest log splitting in two, a thick, harsh sounding cough; his mind stirs in crazy circles as he searches for a solution. There isn't one, his mind taunts, the most important case of your life and there is nothing for you but failure. His arm, wrapped about Watson's chest, tightens ever so slightly. He would prefer not to hear such negativity but concludes, with a swallow, that it is truth, not pessimism.
He cannot believe that two days ago they'd been on a ship, returning home. In the sickeningly romantic phrases of his friend, it feels like an eternity. Watson had been pale then, drawn from their last case, ready to return to Baker Street, to bed, and he, similarly, had been prepared for a hiatus in his caseload. Secretly, he'd started plotting a trip to Mycroft's country home; fresh air could do much to revive them both and the peaceful atmosphere, no doubt, would do something for their nerves. He had not considered that the ship would not make it to port, that a storm would wipe it into shoals and they would be flung out into the open sea.
At first, they both felt lucky to survive, panting as they dragged themselves onto the tiny section of land amidst the waves and thunder. The strange bubbling Watson's lungs acquired did not disturb him overmuch as Watson assured him that it was nothing—even as he choked a bit—merely inhaled some water. Together, they'd walked their new prison, discovered little other than a pool of questionable water and stray scrub bushes and a tiny overhang of rock which slanted upwards and forward, where he'd retrieved the wood. Together, they'd built up the pathetic fire and watched the raging winds and rain until the storm tired itself out and left nothing but fog to console them.
With its decline, he watched a steady failure of Watson's health. He had not known any disease to advance so quickly, so viciously, until he'd watched the progression with his own eyes. The bubbling developed into a wheezing cough which became pained hacking which led to high color on his cheeks which was followed by a hollowed brightness in his eyes. All this time, he attempted to console Holmes, telling him that they had a fire, that their clothes would dry, that, no doubt, someone would find them, that the fever was not so bad, that the choking would remove the fluids from his lungs. He said it, then he whispered it, then he spoke fractured sentences, then he whimpered.
And he fell silent.
He shifts so that Watson balances against him and he prods the fire with a brittle stick, wincing as it snaps off midway, finally dissolving to ash. The embers glow and spark, weakly radiating much needed security. A sudden correlation forms in his mind between his ailing friend and the fire; should one fail, than the other will as well. Immediately, his logical side berates him, informing him that the only connection between Watson and the fire is warmth; considering how high the fever has become, he doubts that it's even necessary.
Watson coughs, pathetically small and unproductive, and he pats his friend's back in an attempt to soothe. Distressingly, the fit continues, worsens until Watson heaves out far more air than he drags in, lips purpling, neck straining, throat convulsing. He chokes, literally, as though someone squeezes his airway shut and Holmes desperately wracks his mind for something to help. Shoulder patting does nothing, does not even tear away whatever fear they both feel, so he acts on impulse, foolish, outrageous, impulse, and strikes his friend squarely between the shoulder blades.
A thick, slimy substance splatters onto his shirt, dark in the fading light and Watson relaxes against him, wheezing and stricken, but no longer fading into death. Holmes studies his face, noting the better color in his cheeks, the lessening of the blue in his lips and heartens.
"I'm sorry, old boy," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
He has solved one issue but his initial one, the fire, still weighs on him, crushes him with his own inadequacies, reminds him that he's only paused the inevitable. Should the fire go out completely and the wet coolness continue, they will both die of exposure—even with Watson's imitation of the sun—long before they are found. This recent episode emphasizes his inability to leave Watson on his own. Had he been out searching for burnable substances when Watson coughed, Watson would have asphyxiated.
He is lost without his Boswell, he thinks, using the last bit of the stick to scrape away what Watson purged from his system. No doubt, if Watson awoke, he would have any number of solutions to the blasted issue. He would comment offhand, would say something seemingly unrelated; but those things would lead his mind to the proper end. A startling thought descends upon him; Watson has become just as necessary in case-solving as his own mind. He never thought , when he signed the lease at Baker Street, that the quiet, Afghan Veteran would change his thinking patterns so much that he would depend on him to solve the simplest of puzzles. But it had happened at some point, and , now, the only private investigator in London is actually two people. He reels.
"You mustn't give up then," he tells his friend. "How will I make do without you?"
When he receives no answer, he gently wipes the trickle of fluid from the corner of Watson's mouth. And waits for his other half to help; he has no further options.
Fate removes the dilemma from his hands by dropping him into a dreamless, heavy slumber and only allowing him to return to consciousness when the sun weakly touches his skin. For many, this would come as a relief, a blessing from some omnipotent, omnipresent, benevolent being; for him, it will cause problems, for his mind will never, ever solve this issue. In the future months, in the down time betwixt cases, when he has nothing to contemplate, he will return to that night on the island and play it out over and over again until he is half-mad with the game. No matter how fortuitous this sudden turn of events is, no matter how happy he is to awaken to a less fevered body in his arms, he will never reconcile with his lack of action.
The sun does not warm him so much as alert him to a change in the day and the weather. It ushers away the fog and brings forth the dull landscape like an unwanted prize. The terrain appears just as he thought before—barren and hostile—even with its alcoves filled with water from the previous storm and the night's haze. The brush on the ground glistens with rain and dew, completely useless to him, while the water—damned necessary liquid—has no doubt spoiled by now. Both provide no service to the two visitors on these shores; and he and Watson are in dire need of help.
He does not spare time to berate his weakness but records the damages done instead. The fire is extinguished, the grey and black ash completely cool and even a bit damp, no smoke rising from it. It will not start again, not unless he can discover some form of fuel. Lighting it should not pain him even without Watson's help; he is a quick study and Watson's hands shook so badly before that he nearly accomplished the task on his own. The issue boils down to finding something that will burn in this humid atmosphere and he has no hope for that at the moment. If he could, he would burn his clothing but both trousers and shirt still cling to him in a sticky, half-wet manner which assures much smoke and no heat. That would do nothing for Watson's condition.
Unfortunately, he has no notion of whether Watson has suffered from his incompetency in keeping watch. The fever has dropped a degree, maybe a degree and a half, and the unhealthy choking has given way to a pathetic hissing which disturbs him only slightly less. He hazards changing position so he can study his companion more thoroughly and discovers a grey complexion and dusky lips. At first, he irrationally fears the worst—has he held a corpse this whole time and imagined the raspy intakes of air, mistaken his own body warming an already empty shell?—but then carefully quells his fear by touching his fingers to Watson's mouth and then to his throat. A pulse and breath cannot be mistaken and he laughs a little at the amount of relief that washes over him.
"There's a good man," he encourages, lowly, as though he can disturb some passing neighbor. "You're a fighter." Watson's head lolls on his shoulder, body lax and completely dependent on his support.
Once he has arranged the facts before his slowly degrading prowess, he begins his analysis. No bird calls mean they still dwell far from shore, far enough away from necessities that large animals do not wish to test their luck. He does not know much of astronomy or its application to travel, leaving him with little knowledge as to their exact location. So, he concludes, they are appropriately stranded on a deserted isle with no certainty of rescue. The wood is not able to be lit, their clothing slowly pulls them both towards the Underworld, the water provided for them is questionable; the odds, clearly, have stacked against them but he has faith in facts and logical plotting, and hopes that it will not let him down.
He realizes he must leave Watson here, alone, so he may better explore their prison. The weather can change instantaneously and his best observational work needs to occur before another storm begins and the rain covers all data. Slowly, he experiments with elevation and Watson's breathing, one of the few experiments where the results threaten to cause him anxiety. In his lab with his chemicals, the outcome is simply the outcome, recorded whether good or bad. Even if it were another's life, he realizes, as he rests Watson on his side, his hands still under the other man's head, he would not hesitate to continue the process.
Two breaths, three, another; it does not sound any healthier but he cannot hear it worsen. Carefully, he arranges Watson's arm under his head and sits back, legs drawn up to his chest. The motions, to his disgust, have made him dizzy, wasting precious seconds of his time. Acquiring his feet becomes a task that almost overtakes his senses and he struggles to keep his body erect. Exposure, lack of nutrients, he observes clinically, and then he dismisses it before he leaves. He has gone days without food, without rest, without water; while those times, he did not take a swim in the ocean, he certainly survived without any disgusting weakness.
He grows more stable as he treks over the rocks to the highest point of the island and stares out into the choppy waves. Nothing on the horizon, he notes, but the shore holds a variety of flotsam from their chaotic arrival. As quickly as he can manage, he descends towards it, observing the comings and goings of small crabs and the occasional bug. Something more may have thrived here years before but the island has fallen to ruin, no doubt shrinking as the ocean drags back precious soil and stifles the plant life. This is a grave for anything that cannot escape by water or air, now-a-days; possibly his, if he does not find a route of escape.
Wet wood greets him aplenty, along with a body which he avoids. He barely pauses but to drag up what may be helpful so that the waves do not steal it from him. A sail could provide protection, a solid piece of mast could help with tenting, a rope for binding; but all the while, the nagging fright of Watson's condition eats at him so that he does not see as clearly as he should, does not seek as well as he ought. He reaches the end—where the shoals arise and the cliffs hover—in no more than ten minutes. Looking back, he reviews the few items and decides that he may have found a way to prolong their existence but no manner to save them.
The return hike tries both his patience and his miniscule strength. He pauses with increasing frequency as his feet catch on each other and his breath deserts him. At first, he curses the frailty of his body; he often refers to himself as a brain with a body which is as necessary as a semi-useless organ and he will, in the future, use this scenario as support. However, when he staggers and crashes to his hands in knees, his opinion nearly changes. The aching in his palms and shins does not overcome sudden rapture at seeing a case, clearly labeled, bobbing in the ocean waves. He scrambles up, out, and latches onto it before the current sees it off.
"Hah," he murmurs, fingers caressing the waterlogged wood.
He enjoys chemistry because of its logic. Through careful measurement and exact timing, he can use specific chemicals to achieve a predictable outcome. The same process he applies to his sleuthing can apply to the compounds, minerals, processes. Elements lead to solutions; facts lead to conclusions. As such, he finds it distinctively satisfying to use his chemical knowledge to rectify the problems in his life. Despite Watson's doubts, his seven percent solution keeps his mind from turning itself inside out. And now, his understanding of alcohol and its components will free them.
His first action, checking on Watson, makes his stomach twist with more than just the vague notion of hunger. His breathing has become hampered in his support's absence and he sits Watson up once more to avoid asphyxiation. This has become normal for him, though, quite like the chill in his extremities and the damp state of his clothing. What concerns him most about Watson comes later, when he's thoroughly secured his plan in his mind; his hand rests against Watson's chest so he can feel the distant heartbeat while he smoothes details and visualizes his next action and he feels a subtle change in the shivers that wrack Watson's frame. He leans forward and spots eyes roaming over the landscape.
"I'm afraid there's not much to see, old chap," he murmurs close to Watson's ear. "Needn't worry about it though. Rescue will soon be within our grasp."
Watson coughs, light and unproductive, then his lips move without making a sound. He cannot read the minute twitching from his position and when he attempts to rearrange the other man, a deep throated groan stops him mid-movement. The unpleasant sound turns into a half-gasped word, "S-stop" and he holds himself exactly where he is, despite the discomfort.
"Easy," he says. "Just trying to situate you."
"Holmes?" Watson breathes out.
He presses with his hand, trapped under Watson's good arm, against his ribs. "Unfortunately, until we find someone better educated to tend to your condition, I'm afraid I am the only one keeping you company."
"Wouldn't…much matter," he thinks he hears but dismisses it until Watson continues, "bad off."
"But on the mend," he replies brusquely. He should get started on the process but he doesn't want to put his friend down. He senses finality in Watson's words that he neither appreciates nor believes in. "You are quite a bit better than you were even a few hours ago."
"Weak," Watson mumbles and he closes his eyes. "Sorry."
He purses his lips. "Then I only ask you to stay with me."
It elicits no response, nor does a gentle shake. He checks breathing, pulse and temperature but finds nothing to support Watson's prediction. The same man has spoken in the past on a patient's will to live and how it applies to the odds of the patient's recovery. Should Watson actually believe that he lingers at death's door, his lack of drive could as easily kill him as the disease himself; a pessimistic conclusion which he will not acknowledge. Instead, he arranges Watson on the ground again and pursues his means to get them to the safety of their rooms on Baker Street.
The case comes first, having to be dragged for the most part due to its weight, and he pauses more than once when his head spins. Settling it by Watson, he pries the lid off with carefully applied rocks, apprehensive about the status of the contents and relieved to find them intact. He removes them all, fifteen bottles in careful rows, and double checks their labels for correspondence to the box. Everything is accurate and he moves on to his next project which will give him some manner of comfort about his companion. Wedging the lid into the ground, he angles it at a slight incline, adding support by building up the earth until he's sure it will not collapse. Then, as gently as he's ever behaved towards any creature, he lays Watson on it so that he can breathe more freely.
He doesn't stay to double-check it but returns to the shore to bring up the sail, rope and chunk of mast. The sail still feels too wet for use, the rope too frayed to employ, but he has little time to waste on such petty issues so he sets them next to the bottles without further thought on the manner. His supplies are now all at hand and all he must do is apply procedure and watch his experiment grow. No Mrs. Hudson to scold about scorched rugs or furniture, no University complaining about the horrible fumes or his late hours; just he and his work, he convinces himself, popping open one of the bottles and taking a swig. It won't hydrate him but it wets his mouth a little and helps focus his mind.
x-x
He awakens abruptly, jerking from a dark haze to the smell of smoke and an ache in his back that often comes from sleeping on the settee. A rancid taste lingers in his mouth along with the lingering kiss of brandy on his lips. Both tell him that he overindulged last night, and in the absence of his lecturing, Holmes has gone off and done something irredeemably foolish. What had Mrs. Hudson said the last time? Something about them both finding a new home should she have to repair the ceiling again. He takes in a deep breath to remind Holmes of such and to turn off the damn burner before he lights the curtains on fire.
All he manages to do is ignite a strong pain in his chest and induce a horrific round of coughing. For a moment, he cannot draw in air, cannot even remember why doing so is important, can only focus on the spasms ripping through him until all that's left is a hollow chamber and two spent organs. Phlegm creeps up his throat into his mouth and he gags it out, nauseated by the experience. The wheezing aftermath engulfs him afterwards and he thinks, dimly, that this is far different than any other hangover he's experienced.
"…honest, thought you were dead, Mr. Holmes," a painfully cheerful voice comes within his grasp. Hurried footsteps scuttle near. "Rather glad to see we were wrong."
"Watson?" Holmes—he knows him anywhere—says close to his ear. He cannot find the energy to respond. Then a low hiss, "Blast it. You say you have a doctor aboard?"
"Damn good one," the voice assures and it too approaches. "Consumption?"
"Pneumonia," Holmes replies with little conviction. "How long before the stretcher follows?"
"Any moment, Mr. Holmes," a pause, "right, I'll go check."
He wants to figure out why anyone would think Holmes dead and what exactly Holmes's inquiries mean and why Mrs. Hudson hasn't stoked the fireplace today. Then he's distracted by how abominably cold he's become, the sudden urge to cough again, and his inability to breathe properly. Before he can focus on either of those, the smell of burning distracts him again and he wants to speak up to Holmes about the matter, focusing mostly on how inappropriate it is to have guests over while one is attempting obscure chemical combinations and reactions. The distraction trips him up, along with difficulty in parting his mouth to produce sound, and he cannot gather up enough coherency to wonder if he's lost his mind.
Being maneuvered against something softer, though not by much, jerks his spinning thoughts to a momentary halt and tests his minute grasp on breathing with another bout of coughing. It ends with the same unpleasant mouthful of phlegm which he nearly inhales back as his energy leaves him. This time, however, Holmes is quite close and bizarrely gentle with him. He'll have to apologize for whatever mischief he's committed that got him into this sorry state once he can find a way to get enough air in.
"I told you," Holmes murmurs and the words vibrate against him. "I only needed you to stay with me and I would take care of the rest. And here we are, my dear, just a ride away from Baker Street. No doubt we'll reach it and Mrs. Hudson will fuss about how dreadfully thin we've both become in our absence. Plenty of scones and tea and toast and eggs; we shan't fit out the door when she's done. I'm afraid you'll have to take the brunt of it for me as I loathe shopping for new clothes." A tentative touch to his forehead to add to his growing list of life inconsistencies, "And all of this means, of course, that you have to continue staying with me."
But there's a question in the last words, one that he feels he ought to answer if he does nothing else. He works his lips, traces his tongue over the little bit of alcohol lingering there. His throat works around the unstable breathing and he manages a croaking voice; unfortunately, the question isn't what he intended, "Holmes?"
"Watson?" Holmes sounds utterly joyful.
"I…" It tickles, threatens to send him into another fit. "I shan't ever… drink brandy… again…"
And yet another query adds to his list when Holmes's laughter sounds as though it's mixed with tears.