AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.
Now, for the clarification of my reader and for the sake of my reputation, I will again attest to my own mental health. I am not now, nor was I at the time of this recounting, mad. I awoke to the unique scent of a hospital: disease and blood mixed with medicine and the best cleaning chemicals that can be found on hand. My shoulder still throbbed with the fresh wound, so I had yet to be seen by a surgeon. I squirmed slightly, aware that I was on my laying on my right side and trying desperately to get comfortable.
A rough hand was set on my bare side, and I realized that my shirt had been removed. I had the fleeting thought that I hoped they had taken the time to unbutton the shirt, rather than cut it off, as so often doctors did. "You must try to remain still, doctor. That is quite a wound you have; you mustn't risk further damage. The police who brought you in have chanced enough in the way they handled you." The voice was familiar, as were the words, the attitude conveyed in them, but with the heavy German accent, I couldn't quite make myself believe it. I forced my eyes open and saw something my mind wouldn't allow me to believe.
At first, I thought it must be the drugs they had given me. My head, though still pounding, was light and a certain sort of fuzzy which only accompanies the very best pain killers. Then I thought that perhaps I had died in the explosion, that everything which had followed was my own demented version of Hell, wherein my best friend had died, but I saw him in every new face. Finally, aided by my prior conclusion, I decided that I was, in fact, completely out of my mind.
Then those time old words he had spoken to me so many times over, that the simplest answer is often the correct one, echoed in my head. The face I saw looked so much like his, with some minor modifications. When I looked into his eyes, I saw the same oddly colored pools of liquid I had spent so much time with. The strong nose, the prominent brow, his hair looked ridiculous, but…. Was it possible that it could be him? Lestrade had said…what had Lestrade said? It was all so fuzzy, and my head hurt so much.
"Is that a rat on your face?" I asked after a brief silence. My throat had cleared since the blast, it seemed, as it no longer felt like a fresh burn every time I spoke.
"Doctor, I am sorry if you do not approve of my beard. I will excuse your words because of drugs." The tone was just condescending enough to belong to an actual doctor, and I once again doubted my eyes, and my mind.
But that simply couldn't be. It wasn't just the face, just the eyes. It was in the voice, the set of the jaw, the way he carried himself, the way he looked at me with the genuine concern born only of a long and eventful friendship. This was no doctor. I forgot everything for a moment, just long enough to laugh. I was in tears again. "I thought I'd lost you."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, doctor. You inhaled quite a bit of smoke, perhaps you do not know what you are saying." The man turned around, giving me a view of his back.
As happy as I had been a moment ago, I was now no less frustrated, even angry. "Holmes, you can not fool me so easily. I know that that is you under that awful furry thing."
The "doctor" turned and approached me rapidly. His face filled my vision as he bent to meet my eyes. I saw in his eyes urgency and concern enough to quiet me. When he spoke, it was in quick, hushed tones, as though everything he said was of an importance that I could not miss a single word, yet the words themselves were so difficult to say that they did not bear repeating. The accent was gone, and so was the condescending tone. "Watson, as much joy as the sound of your voice gives me at this moment, I must ask you to stay quiet. These are dangerous times in which we find ourselves."
"Dangerous?" I was confused, upset. The drugs were not at all helping me to keep my head, nor was my tone in any sort of check. As I spoke, Holmes kept looking around, as paranoid as ever I had seen him, as though the walls had ears and a direct line to someone he wanted to avoid like the pox. "Dangerous was running into that factory with no idea what we would find. Dangerous was running down that dock after Blackwood without a thought." I had to grab him by the chin with my good hand and force him to keep my eye contact. "Dangerous was the explosion that I caused, that almost took you from me. Lying in a hospital bed with a man I love, I just don't see the threat." It didn't even occur to me what I had said for a long time. Even now I 'm not sure what I meant by it.
Holmes looked at me, face softening and eyes full of…something I could not quite pin down, but which might have aspirations to something approaching the reciprocation of my proclaimed love. He touched my forehead with the back of his hand. It was rough and cool and wonderful on my overheated skin. "You have a fever, doctor; you have no idea what you are saying."
"I know exactly what I am saying. I need you. A lot more than you need me. You may be the one kicking and screaming about my intention to move, but you have to know that this terrifies me. I can't imagine what my life would be without you. I can't lose you. I don't think I could stand it, survive it." My vision began to blur and I felt unconsciousness again pulling at my brain. I found his hand with mine and held it tight. "Stay with me. For a while." With that, the drugs took over once more.
