He sat up in his room and just stared at the wall. The room was dark and musty smelling, as usual, with no fresh air or outside light. And what a mess it was, things scattered about, clothes and papers and who knows what else buried under a thin layer of dust. Of course, none of this bothered him. It was just how he lived.
He sat in his chair, violin in one hand and pipe in the other, and pondered. He'd be sat there for hours, not speaking a word, lost in his mind. "Deductions," he finally thought aloud, "What might we deduce about last night?" He began to talk to himself in hopes he'd be able to work things out. "Take first the sensation, for example. Anticipation."
He stopped and thought deeper. "No, curiosity. Ah, yes, your insatiable curiosity is what came first," he began, standing up. "The sensations. They were far more real than any hallucination you have experienced, narrowing down the possibility that the encounter was something conjured in your head." He started to pace in the small space in front of his chair. "Though, it is possible a NEW drug was introduced in the wine that that insufferable woman force-fed you...I could have been in a vivid state of lucidity, left to have my own sick fantasies play out before my eyes, which would undoubtedly place the fantasies in my head in the first place, making me admit that I have them. And, the hallucination would have played out with an unusually realistic sense of time..." He took a few steps forward and tripped over an old tea tray. He landed face first on the floor. "Hmph..." he muttered.
He rolled over and rubbed his head. "But what about him? Let's say, for argument's sake, that what happened was a completely real, sober encounter. What would his motivation have been?" He shut his eyes and pressed his closed hands to his lips. "Emotion, perhaps? Something that's lost on me, something I've never quite had a firm grasp on. Perhaps our dear pal Doctor Watson was experiencing some sort of attraction. Perhaps it's the same sort of attraction you've been feeling for him. There's something more, though, something deeper. Something...warm and fuzzy...makes me feel diseased...I've been told that's what love feels like...does John feel the same? That would make the feeling mutual...making the two of us...in love?"
Sherlock sat upright put his head in his hands. "No, no it couldn't have been. John is human. John has urges. John has not seen his female in a few months. John was no doubt taking advantage of a decidedly useful situation."
He looked over at the door and wondered where exactly Watson was beyond it. "But...now what?" he asked himself, flopping back onto the floor and staring blankly up at the ceiling.
*Later that evening*
"Watson..." Sherlock mumbled. He had fallen asleep on his spot on the floor.
"Watson..." he said a bit louder. He tossed and turned about the floor, grumbling, constantly shifting uncomfortably. His breathing became quickly more laboured until he was nearly hyperventilating.
"Watson!" he yelled, sitting bolt upright.
"Holmes!" the doctor said, rushing in the moment he heard the detective calling his name. He found Sherlock in a cold sweat on the floor and immediately checked the surrounding area for syringes or mysterious bottles.
"Watson. Oh, Watson, you're here," he said, pulling John in to him and not letting go.
"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I'm here," he said, slightly shocked at first at the sudden embrace, but quickly returning it to his friend and petting his head. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.
"I had...the most horrible...dream..." he said between breaths, the last word coming across as more of a question.
"It's okay now. I'm here. It's okay, it's over now..." John said, the comforting words spilling out more easily than he'd expected.
"Watson..." Sherlock said, pulling away, a puzzled look painted across his face.
"Yes?" John said slowly.
"You're worried," Sherlock said, very matter-of-factly, leaning in closer and studying John's eyes.
"What? Of course I'm worried. I just found you lying on the floor in a cold sweat screaming my name! Not exactly a peachy situation to be finding you in, considering your reputation."
"No no no, not about that. About something different. You've BEEN worried. It's not freshly introduced."
"Wait...what?"
Sherlock leaned in even closer and inhaled sharply. "You smell different."
"What about your dream? What happened, you were practically having a panic attack!"
"What? Oh, that. Yes, well, it was just a dream. I'm fine," Sherlock said, standing and picking up his violin bow. "You, on the other hand, doctor" he said, pointing his bow in Watson's face, "are not."
"What are you talking about, Holmes?" he said, standing up.
"You usually smell of newspapers and cigar smoke, but not today. No, today you smell of tea and ash, and your fingers are burned, presumably from putting the kettle on repeatedly. Just how much tea have you been drinking of late to calm yourself, sir, how much?!"
"You need to just sit down and tell me what it is you've taken this time, Holmes," he said, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and spinning him round to sit on the bed.
"I have absolutely nothing in my system, thank you very much," Sherlock said with mock offense.
"Uh-huh," John said, checking Sherlock's eyes and pulse.
"Oh, will you stop that?" Sherlock said, swatting Watson away, crossing his arms childishly.
Both of the men now stood, staring each other down, inspecting for little things, little discrepancies in appearance or air, trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with the other. Sherlock gave Watson a challenging look, almost daring him to make a conclusion.
"Oh, I give up!" Watson said, preparing to storm out of the room.
Sherlock looked down at his hands, then up at John. "Wait!" Holmes shouted as Watson was about to pass the threshold out of the room.
John sighed and turned around. "What, Holmes?" he said, an irked tone penetrating his voice.
Sherlock looked up at him, looking truly puzzled, absolutely confused, and almost frightened. John had never seen him like this before, and it was concerning. "What now?" he asked softly, staring down at his feet.
John was taken aback by his inquiry, but, knowing already his exact meaning, answered honestly. "I don't know," he said. He sighed and rubbed his head, then turned and left.
