This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Like No Other
© 2008 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™
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A/N: As the response to my AU challenges has been grand, I am issuing another one. Per KCS's request, another 'what happened next?' fic, this time for DYIN. Enjoy!
Like No Other
I absently ran my thumb along the cuff of my greatcoat as I stood in the anteroom of Scotland Yard, waiting for Holmes to finish with the particulars of the case.
I have never bothered to record the details involved with the arrest of a criminal, the preparing of the evidence, nor the subsequent affairs of the trial, for as I found myself falling asleep in the uncomfortable chair as I waited for Holmes, surely would the reader find themselves in a similar situation, though in far more comfort I imagine.
I straightened myself then, as Holmes walked into the room followed by a rather overcome Inspector Morton.
"I still don't know how you managed it Mr. Holmes. We are forever in your debt! How can we repay you?" the man offered, shaking the hand of my friend with jollity.
"No not a word of this beyond these walls Inspector. The work is its own reward," he said with a tip of his hat. I nodded to Inspector Morton, and we were out the door and strolling casually down the Strand, Holmes whistling an aria from Simon Boccanegra and glancing about interestedly at the passersby.
But a moment later he halted his musical efforts with a choked intake of breath, which he followed with an apology.
"I am sorry Watson, I haven't the energy. Entertainment will have to wait until we reach Simpson's," he said wryly.
"I don't wonder that you don't. Honestly Holmes, of all the unconventional means you have employed in your pursuits of the London criminal, this has to be the worst."
"You did not think it effective?" he asked with sincerity, and I very nearly rolled my eyes.
"Holmes, when it has such a detrimental effect to your health, and I daresay to my nerves as well, it simply is not acceptable."
"Ah," he responded distractedly, returning his gaze to the streets, "well you know I take no account of my own well-being when in the game. You have said so often enough yourself in your florid records of my cases."
"Indeed," I huffed, "but still the fact is not excusable. You must not ignore your health so, or you will find yourself in actual need of my professional services far sooner than you ought."
"Perhaps," he sighed, the light leaving his eyes for a moment as he fumbled in his coat pockets, "have you a cigarette Watson?" he asked, seeming to forget what I had just told him, or more likely he had not been listening to begin with.
I did not carry cigarettes, but handed him my pipe which he took with a grateful nod. He lit it and drew in the smoke with a satisfaction that made me squirm. I was no saint when it came to tobacco, but even the son of the Queen of Scots abhorred the substance, and I could not as a doctor be entirely ignorant of its harmful effects.
"Holmes, I want you to cut back on smoking."
"What?" he laughed.
"And I insist that you eat three full meals every day and get no less than seven hours of sleep each night," I continued, and Holmes slipped his arm through mine and gave it a firm squeeze.
"Good old Watson," he chuckled, "I am indeed fortunate to have such a friend as you. It is not every sailor who has a lighthouse consistently guiding him through the storms to his home port."
With some effort I fought back the feelings of jubilance that were bubbling up in my chest to persist with my argument.
"You must take better care of yourself if you want to continue in your chosen career. It is a dangerous enough occupation without your adding to the risk by letting your health deteriorate. No matter the state of your mind, there is only so much the body can take."
He paused and looked at me intently.
"This affair has really disturbed you, hasn't it?" I swallowed and stiffened my brow and continued walking, he trailing along beside me with a distracted air, "I am truly sorry if I have caused you any increased worry, but I have already explained my reasons to you. It was necessary."
"It was not," I sulked.
"Oh Watson…" he complained, his fingers tightening on my arm.
"It is not fair Holmes. What of my health?" He laughed outright at this, and I wondered if he realized how much the lack of sleep had affected him, what with these rapid shifts in mood he was displaying.
"I am sorry Watson," he chuckled, "but your hair is not grey as of yet. Do you think you can continue to put up with my improvident methods?" he fairly pleaded.
"Of course Holmes, but have a little more faith in me. Your plan would have gone off equally as well had I known of the farce."
"I sincerely doubt that," he said with a straight face, and it was my turn to laugh.
"Well at the least, I could have given you some advice on how to better feign the appearance of illness."
"Oh?" he started curiously, "I thought I had you thoroughly convinced?"
"Certainly, but such a plethora of indications would have raised my suspicions eventually. You must be careful in choosing your symptoms." He regarded me with interest, so I continued, "In essence, all you really appeared to have was a strong case of influenza. To affect the appearance of death, you would have needed an element of jaundice, bowel failure—"
"I get your point Watson," he grimaced, and I returned the look with a hint of mischief. I was due a bit of amusement at his expense.
But as I was still recovering from my shock of his simulated illness, I decided to spare him any further gibes or scoldings, and simply relaxed into an easy silence as we strode toward our destination.
"Ah, here we are!" he said with genuine enthusiasm as we reached the steps of the brightly lit restaurant, "What do you think Watson, lobster or steak?"
"Neither. You are having salmon, and steamed vegetables, and oriental tea, and—"
"I wanted a recommendation, not a prescription," he glowered playfully, and annoyed heads turned toward us as our laughter rang through the foyer.
Author's notes: I know most would write an angst-ridden drama or a brawl between the two, but that is simply not how I picture it. But please, join the challenge and offer your interpretations. I love seeing other opinions!
And again, I did not proofread, because to be honest I have not had a good night's sleep since February and writing takes enough of my energy. Thanks for reading!