Disclaimer: I (sadly) don't own these characters… and though I shall forever love and worship them, they shall never be mine… their owner shall forever be the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom I must apologize for the ruining of his characters while Emo-ing… I'M SORRY!!!
"And that pretty, pretty woman?" Watson questioned his friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was giving the details f his last case.
"Ah, well the marriage was annulled and she got her money back." Sherlock's tone was that of a calculus teacher explaining basic addition. Uninterested.
"My goodness, she was a pretty one, don't you think so?"
Sherlock shrugged, indicating, not only boredom, but irritation as well. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times! I really have no interest in women and I mean it!"
"Honestly! You can't tell me you didn't take the slightest-"
"For the positively final time, I don't care about such things!!!"
"Good heavens! You really can be so inhuman! You're like some machine! I really am beginning to find you vexing!"
"Well then, Doctor, you need not find me so any more this day!" With that, the detective slammed the door to his room.
Holmes looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was pale and rough looking. Mostly because he had been working since yesterday morning. With a sigh he reached for the pitcher of water and poured some into the basin before him. Watson was right. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he really did act like a machine. He rarely showed any emotion at all, and when he did, it was when he was under extreme pressure.
He picked up his razor and soap.
"Am I even still human? Do I even possess a soul? Am I destined to suffer the fate of Faustus? Trading my soul for knowledge?"
"NO!!!" A voice in him cried. If he were a machine, he wouldn't care what the doctor's thoughts were. He wouldn't care for Watson the way he di-"
"NO!!!" His internal voice cried again. He mustn't allow such thoughts. He mustn't give in. If he did, if he gave in…
The blade slipped. A cut was made. One inch long and not very deep. Still, as blood fell down his face and into the bowl below him, he began to wonder… If he were a machine… surly it wouldn't hurt…
He gasped.
It hurt. It hurt like hell.
So he wasn't a machine, then.
He looked down at his wrist, bloody and dripping. "I'd better stop the bleeding, then…" He took a clean handkerchief and wrapped his wrist.
It bled. Three handkerchiefs were soaked before Holmes decided he needed a doctor, and after their fight, he could not go to Watson. The man'd take the blame for his self-mutilation upon himself. The wound needed stitches. Pacing his room, he decided on a plan of action.
Watson heard his friend's door open. Without a word, Holmes walked to the fireplace and threw in a bundle. He changed his dressing gown for a frock coat.
"Holmes, I-"
"I'm rather too busy for chatting, Doctor."
"But Holmes, I… Good heavens! You're so pale!!!"
"I always am." With that he left.
The doctor slumped in his chair. He had apparently said something in their argument that had touched a nerve. "Ah, well… I'll apologize when he returns…"
The stairs wavered before him. "I must have more blood than I thought…" He decided. He was too dizzy to even see the trail his dripping hand was leaving. He grasped the banister. "Seventeen stairs! Just take them one at a time…" He thought.
He made it down the first two steps before his strength failed.
Watson heard the thud. He rose from his chair and headed for the door. He paused, horrified. The door knob was smeared with blood and there was a trail of it heading for the stairs. He took a few seconds to collect his nerve and heard it. Mrs. Hudson's scream. High-pitched, terrified, and frantic.
Forcing his eyes from the floor, he raced to the top of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was bent over the susceptible detective, calling him, shaking him, clenching her handkerchief to his wrist.
"Doctor Watson!!! OH! Help!!! He's bleeding!!! His wrist!"
Watson bent down beside her. "Go into my room and retrieve my black bag. He's lost a lot of blood already, so we must close this as soon as possible." His voice was gentle to keep the hysterical woman from loosing all control.
She took off, glad for the doctor's orders to keep her from panicking and for the sense of being helpful.
Watson took a good look at his friend. Holmes was still unconscious and the mass of blood matting his hair was a good indication of why. He removed the handkerchief to assess the damage. The wound was deep. Nothing he couldn't fix, but it need treatment, and soon.
Mrs. Hudson returned and handed him the bag. Watson took it and calmly cleaned and stitched his friend's gash. Holmes was still unconscious, so Watson took his head and cradled it in his lap. He wasn't strong enough to carry him up to his room, so he would have to leave him, here, at the foot of the stairs.
"Mrs. Hudson," He spoke in a soft, weary voice. "We can not move him now, so could you please get a blanket?"
"Yes, sir." She wiped her tears and headed for the linen closet.
Watson pulled Holmes closer to him, his heart was racing. He didn't know exactly how much blood his friend had lost. Quite frankly, he didn't even know if he would survive.
Mrs. Hudson returned with a thick blanket. "Thank you," Watson whispered as she covered Holmes's long, lean body. "There's nothing more you, or I for that matter can do. You may as well go to bed."
"Alright, sir. Call if you need anything.'
"I will." There was a pause. Watson placed his hand on the older lady's arm. "I'll take care of him. Don't you worry."
"Thank you, sir."
As soon as Mrs. Hudson was out of the room, Watson brought Holmes even closer. Stroking his hair and fighting tears, he began to whisper in his ear, "My dear Holmes, you must wake. I can't loose you in such a way. Please, please don't give in to this. You must pull through. Think of all the cases you'll miss if you die now…" There was no response. He gave into his tears as his friend's breathing slowed. Sobbing into his hair he gathered his courage. It was now or never. He must say what had been on his mind since they began to live together, almost five years ago. "Oh… Sherlock… I… I love you… I'm madly in love with you… please… don't leave me… If… If you leave me… If you die… I'll… I'll follow you. I swear! I'll die with you!!!"
Somehow he heard it. His unconscious mind heard his friend's whispers. "Yes," He thought, "I must pull through… I WILL pull through…"
His eyes fluttered. Watson started. "Holmes…"
"After what you just told me… don't you think you should call by my first name?"
"HOLMES!!!"
"Please… not so loud…"
"Sherlock!!! How dare you?!? How could you do something like this?!?"
"Oh… Watson… have you no idea? I feel the same way… but when you called me inhuman-"
"NO!!! I'm sorry!!! Oh my love!!! I never meant it!!! I loved you… and you-"
"Hush… There's no need to continue… just… hold me…"
Watson obeyed. After sever blissful moments it was Sherlock that broke the silence. "I think it'd be best if I was in my own bed now…"
"Can you climb the stairs?"
"As long as you'll volunteer your arm as support."
"Most certainly."
As soon as a weary Sherlock washed his hair and was tucked into his bed the doctor turned to leave. "NO!!! Don't leave me!!!"
"Holmes… I-"
"NO!!! If you leave me… I'll wake up and find it was all a dream!!! Just another dream."
It was the "another" that made his heart wrench. How many times had his friend awoke to an empty bed, after dreaming that it would bear the presence of another. "He's lonely!" Watson realized with horror. "I'll stay… but…"
"Yes?"
"You must call me John."
"I… I… alright… please come here… John…" Sherlock arranged the bedclothes inviting his friend to lie beside him.
He hesitated only for a second, and then sank down beside him with a contented sigh. The detective snuggled up beside him and soon they were both asleep.
The next morning, a slightly stronger Sherlock attempted to climb out of bed. "Don't you dare" Growled a certain doctor.
"What are you going to do?"
"Sherlock… really… you should sleep…"
He walked back over to his friend. Gently he drew his hand across John's face. "I will, but as soon as I get something to eat…"
"Alright… but Sherlock… please… let me know if anything ails you…"
"Will you prescribe me cocaine?" He asked with a smirk.
"NO!"
"You DO know I was only joking… right…?"
"…Holmes…" He received a stern look. "Sherlock, then… I really worry about you… your cocaine binges… you really… you get so nasty… and you talk… of… Sherlock you talk of suicide…"
"Well apparently I've tried it too… JOHN!!!" The doctor was crying, sitting up in his friend's bed. Sherlock went to him.
"S-Sherlock… you're my best friend… one of my only friend's… if I were to loose you… I couldn't go on… I love you… I really do…"
"Oh, John… I never meant to go so deep… It was an accident… I'll never do it again… I swear"
"Alright… but… how are we to continue? Now that we know each other's secret…"
"What do you mean?" He gave his friend a concerned look.
"Well… it would be horribly immoral, not to mention ILLEGAL to live together… let alone let this go anywhere…"
"Does that mean you don't want to?" He stood up and took a few steps back.
"Sherlock! I-" He threw himself down onto the bed. "I want you. I want you so much, but it's a sin… I can't have you go to hell for me… God knows I am willing… but-"
For an answer, Sherlock walked back to him. He kissed him. Passionately. "Watson, I am more than willing. It was hell not knowing whether to confess or not and it would be even worse to not be together now."
"Sherlock… will you… tonight…?"
"Yes." He kissed him again. "Yes, I will."