The rest of the evening passed normally enough; so normal, in fact, that one could almost forget that Sherlock was so ill. What I could not forget was the scene on the beach; being so near to Sherlock and feeling such emotions had rattled me. I had never come close to such feelings before and I did not know what to make of it. However, there had been such a monumental amount of other emotions to process that when Sherlock suggested we go out to dinner and then to the theater, I was happy to oblige. We did not speak about Sherlock's illness or the feelings expressed surrounding it and for several perfect hours it was as if we were back in our clubs in London.
But towards the end of the evening Sherlock's condition became once more apparent. Toward the end of the symphony Sherlock began to cough into his handkerchief; when he couldn't stop, he excused himself, red faced and flushed, out of the theater. I tried to sit back and wait back for him to return but when several songs passed without him, I left to find him.
When I found Sherlock, he was sitting on the bench in front of the theater, coughing and gasping. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching him before ungracefully spitting into the street and dotting the snow in front of him with red. When he turned around and saw me standing there, he flushed with embarrassment. Sherlock's skin was almost grey in pallor, sweat on his brow despite the winter air; he looked absolutely dreadful. My stomach twisted in a way that made me feel ill but at Sherlock's stricken expression, I was determined to make light of the situation.
"Come on…..let's go get some rest. "I said simply, gesturing for him to follow me back to the seaside cabin, which he did willingly, though without words.
By the time that we got back to the cabin, Sherlock's condition was even worse than it had been outside of the theater. He was paler and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles; he looked like he could barely stand. Throwing off his coat, he lowered himself into a warn armchair by the fire and looked up at me.
"Feel free to take the bedroom" Sherlock said, gesturing toward the cabin's sole bedroom.
"You must be joking" I said, looking at his gaunt, weary face. "You are exhausted; you take the bed. I'm an army man; I can sleep anywhere." I had slept in some strange places and though my aging form was making that less possible, I would glad sleep on the table if it meant Sherlock could have some much needed rest."
"You are my guest; I insist" Sherlock said, his voice strong with what I knew even to be forced hospitality.
I sighed, feeling the weariness of the day sink into my bones like heavy metal. "Sherlock, just go to bed" I said, my words heavy and tired.
Sherlock looked into the fire, his face in the shadows for several moments before he looked up at me. "Why don't we share? There is plenty of room for the two of us." He said. There was something of a lost look in his eyes. I must have paused too long because he said hastily. "I will promise, of course, to be a gentleman."
That actually gave me a laugh; the idea that Sherlock could be anything but a gentleman was laughable. Unwarranted, I had so many questions about his supposed unsavory behavior but I would never have had the nerve to voice them. "I would expect nothing less from you" I told him, smiling warmly. "You have never brought me any harm."
Holmes and I had shared rooms many times before. We'd even shared a bed on one occasion, though an ill-fated one; a case in one of the deepest hovels and robbed of our normal provisions found us having to share a room of the most dubious nature, with one battered, infested mattress on the coldest night of the year. Had we not shared the blankets I am sure we would have frozen to our deaths.
The cold of the weather was like that night but everything else had changed. Sherlock's room was cozy with a warm fire to break the chill of the ocean wind and despite the obvious mess of the room, like the rest of the cabin left to neglect, it was still comfortable. Grabbing my suitcase, I changed into my nightgown and dressing gown in the other room before returning to the bedroom.
Sherlock was already dressed and under the covers when I returned. His eyes were closed when I entered but he opened them upon hearing my step, trying to act like he had energy that I knew he didn't have. As I took off my dressing gown to get into bed, Sherlock moved as far over to the other side as he as could; he thought he was making me uncomfortable. As strange as the situation was, I felt oddly composed and at ease.
"If you move over to that side any more, you are libel to fall off the bed" I told him in jest, trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock didn't say anything but he grew still and relaxed. "Thank you, John" he said, his voice quiet. "I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have agreed to stay with me despite the horrible way I've behaved."
Sherlock's eyes were closed; I was overly aware of the feel of his breath warm against my face alerting me to our proximity. Despite the lines on his face and the weathered appearance his illness had given his skin, he appeared too young at the moment to be allowed to be dying. "You haven't behaved horrible" I told him truthfully, "I would suffer much more abuse if it was coming from you."
Sherlock's eyes opened and observed me for several minutes. I felt strange, being watched like that; I did not know what he was thinking. I had meant the remark to be a good thing but I could not see if it was in his eyes. "What does Mary think you are doing?" he finally asked.
I felt an unwanted, twisting sensation in my stomach. "I do not want to discuss Mary" I said simply; my tone was harsher than I had meant it to be. I did not want Sherlock to see, though no doubt he did, guilt written on my face. I told Mary I was on a case with Sherlock; while she had been sympathetic in our adventures together in the beginning of our marriage, they were now a source of argument between us. If I had told Mary the truth about Sherlock's illness and where I was going, she would have been more understanding of my absence. But for some reason I had felt the need to lie; I was, for some reason I didn't understand, fiercely protective of these last days with Sherlock and did not want anyone to know about it. It didn't make sense; I didn't have anything to hide. But almost as soon as this thought came to my mind, I recalled the thoughts I had entertained on the beach and I felt my guilt increase. Even the memory of it could make me feel how Sherlock's fingers felt against my face and how his embrace has warmed me. I shouldn't have wanted to recall it but I did.
"I'm sorry if the question was impertinent" Sherlock said when I failed to say any of this; I felt like he could sense it all the same. "I know that your assistance to me in my cases has caused trouble with your wife."
"That is the least of our issues" I told Sherlock, with honesty, "It seems that the quirks we found endearing before our marriage, including my desire for dangerous adventures with you, are now most annoying. Things have not been going well for a long time; it is not your fault."
"I'm sorry; I really thought you two were a good match for each other" Sherlock said. His voice was hopeful; he wanted things to work out between us. But there was a note of sadness behind it and it didn't take deductive abilities to see why. Now knowing the feelings that Sherlock had harbored for me I could only guess how he really felt about the state of my relationship with Mary.
"It is late; let us just get some rest" I said, not wanting to discuss it anymore. I closed my eyes, ready to seek sleep and stop thinking about such things. I was glad when Sherlock fell silent and did not say anything more, the silence only broken by his wet coughs occasionally in the night.
….
We spent an entire week at the cabin without discussing Sherlock's future assisted suicide. He said no more of it after that first day and I surely was not about to bring it up. I had no idea how long he planned for us to stay here but I was in no rush to go home; I knew that going home would mean that he surely was gone from this world and that was something I simply could not think about. Even when he would cough and wheeze, often to the point of looking about ready to collapse, I could talk myself into ignoring that plain fact he was getting worse and worse each day. I needed Sherlock to be alive and I was somehow able to hide the truth in my subconscious.
For most of the time, the ruse was easy to accept. Sherlock tried to act as normally as possible, as if we were just on holiday at the seaside and despite the fact that it was the dead of winter, it was easy to believe. We had our meals at the best restaurants, walked on the beach despite the chill and discussed past cases. Sherlock was animated and lively in his discussions and laughed easier in that week than I had ever seen him do in our acquaintance. For someone who had spent so long on his own, shunning the entire world, he was making up for it. And he was doing it all with me by his side….Our seaside cabin became to me like an oasis from the world. It was our own special place; a secret I knew I'd never share with anyone.
Every night we shared the same bed, the same as we had the first night there. Whatever reticent I had had about this in the beginning was long gone and I admit I found devilish pleasure in going to sleep at night. Sherlock would fall asleep almost instantly, his illness having worn him out, and I would lie beside him and watch him sleep in the flickering lamp light. True to Sherlock's word, he was a complete gentleman and never even tried to touch me. I would, with a quickly beating heart, reach under the covers and close my fingers around his after he had gone to sleep. I did not understand fully why I did this; I only knew that my pulse would thump inside my ears and my fingers felt unduly hot against his smooth, long ones. Sherlock never mentioned anything about this the following day but I'm sure that he knew it; occasionally I'd wake up in the night and he'd be in a different position than the one he was in when I went to sleep but our fingers would still be intertwined.
Everything was on the edges; everything was in the shadows and unacknowledged until one night it all came to a head. We'd had dinner in a seedy little pub, the type of place that normally we would not go but it had been Sherlock's idea and I would not deter him. After several drinks and hearing Sherlock begin to break out in song, I convinced him to go, to the disappointment of several patrons. But that wasn't before Sherlock had grabbed a bottle of wine for the journey back to the cabin.
I have never made a habit of excessive drinking. I think as a physician and having seen so many poor souls in the throes of terrible delirium tremens to want to have nothing to do with becoming anything like the wrenches wasted on alcohol. But that night I was heavily intoxicated; I had thrown caution to the wind and indulged as much as Sherlock had. With each drink, he'd become happier and more at ease; my own blissful sense of intoxication made me feel warm and happy, as if nothing bad could happen. It was just the sort of feeling I needed to keep my worries in the back of my mind where they belonged.
The walk back to our cabin was such a short one that we did not feel a need, even in the cold night air, to try to fetch a ride. But the short walk seemed to take quite longer that night; we had our arms around each other's shoulders for support but we still swayed heavily. Sherlock continued his personal concert of patriotic songs and we would dissolve into heavy laughter when he would forget the words, which was often. Anyone hearing us would have thought us two silly schoolboys instead of gentlemen.
The night had a chill in the air but it was not as bitter as it had been the past few days. The day had been sunny and brilliant, melting all the snow of previous days. The sky was such a heavy black that though there were stars dazzling up there, you could barely see them; only the full moon gave us any real light, reflecting off the waves of the active ocean. When we lost our balance and fell onto the sand, we were sufficiently warm from drink that we didn't feel the need to get up immediately. We sat in the sand, passing the wine bottle back and forth, caring nothing about manners, until we finished it, and drunkenly appreciating the ocean before us.
Sherlock had long given up his song and was quietly contemplating the scene just as I was. I did not find anything alarming about this until I began to hear the sound of broken sobs coming from him. To my horror, when I turned toward Sherlock, his hand was covering his mouth as great, wracking sobs grew louder and more violent from him. In a few short moments, he was bitterly weeping.
"Sherlock, whatever is this about?" I burst out, indelicately, I admit. I was so surprised to find him in such a state. I have known many people to dissolve into a state of drunken weeping after too many drinks but never had Holmes been this way. True, he rarely drank to this excess but still, he could hold his liquor better than this.
Sherlock could not answer me for several minutes, his weeping was so heavy. In my heavy, drunken stupor I wanted to help him, wanted to reach out to comfort him. When I tried to put an arm heavily around him, swaying unsteadily, he shrugged away from me and I was sufficiently hurt that I didn't try it again.
"This is not fair! I do not want to die…."
I had never heard Sherlock speak like this. His words broke from his throat, harsh and anguished, hardly distinguishable between sobs and wracking coughs. Of course, I should have been able to predict this was what was wrong; under the influence of alcohol, Sherlock had become more aware of his mortality and more open to express feelings about it that he couldn't do otherwise. It was callous and ignorant of me to have not seen it coming.
"Why is this happening to me?" Sherlock continued, crying into his hands. "Are my sins so great that I am being punished? Why have I been forsaken like this? This illness is a curse from God."
It was most unsettling to hear Sherlock speak this way; I could instantly feel myself sobering up because of it. It was not only distressing to hear Sherlock wailing in self-pity but his mention of sins was uncharacteristic as well. If anything, he was a firm agnostic; he never spoke of religion. But then again, near death made believers of many men…..
"It is not a curse; you're a good man, Sherlock" I told him earnestly, "You're a man of science; you know why this is happening. As much as I wish it wasn't, it isn't a curse."
It was cruel really, the truth of it; it wasn't a curse but merely an illness. Something small and foreign in the body that should not have been there; not a divine punishment. I could not believe with all of the good that Sherlock had done in his work that any personal sins could condemn him to such suffering.
I wished my words to be a comfort to Sherlock but they were, if anything, cause for more distress. He had seemed to not want physical comfort so I refrained from touching him and waited for him to say something through his heavy sobs
"If only you knew, John, you would not say that. If only you knew all of the horrible things I have done…." Sherlock said in a pitiful wailing voice. "You would show me no pity if you knew some of the things that I've done."
I did not know what Sherlock meant by those distressing words and I did not want to know. If it was in reference to his personal life, what some would call 'ungodly passions' then it was nothing I was sure that I could not have handled. But somehow I found his distress to be too great for it to be just that. Over the years I had heard many people speculate that Sherlock surely must be a criminal to be so inept at finding the source of crime. I never believed it and I did not want to start now.
"You must not talk this way" I told Sherlock, "As I told you already, there is nothing that you could have done that would alter how I feel about you."
Even this did not seem to console him in the least. He was verging on hysteria and it was doing nothing to stop his retched coughing fits. "I should have been found guilty at the Old Bailey long ago!" Sherlock cried, "That's why this is happening to me…..I've been living on borrowed time when I should have hung long ago!"
That at least answered my question whether or not it was some crime Sherlock felt guilt over. Sherlock, having missed a calling in theater, did have a flair for the dramatic. So, I could not tell whether or not this confession was as bad as it sounded or whether his illness and drunkenness had blown it out of its proper proportions. Maybe I should have allowed him to confess; maybe that would have brought him some comfort. But facing the idea of conspiring to help him die I could not also harbor the secret he was a murderer or something worse.
"You must get a hold of yourself, Sherlock. Stop talking like this" I said, in as strong a voice as possible. Grabbing Sherlock by the arm, I helped him up into a standing position. His legs were shaking and he was still weeping but somehow we managed to make it back to our cabin.
I led Sherlock back to the bedroom and sat him on the bed before making a fire to break the fridge dark and cold of the room. Sherlock was still crying though a violent coughing fit stopped him for quite some time. By the time that I had the fire going, Sherlock's face was red and distressed, blood spotting his shirt where he had his sleeve over his mouth; when he started gagging, I darted quickly for the chamber pot and was lucky enough to give it to him in time.
I have been in enough sickrooms that very little fazes me; I do not have the luxury of being embarrassed. But it's different when the patient is not a stranger but your dearest friend. Seeing Sherlock being violently sick and trying desperately to catch his breath did not embarrass me; seeing his look of pure shame did. He did not need to be embarrassed; I would have attended any medical need he had. But I knew he would never be comfortable showing any weakness around me.
Finally, Sherlock's stomach eased and he was finally able to gather a shaking breath. He wiped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief and looked up at me from where I stood next to the bed. His face was red as his blood shot eyes, covered in sweat and tears he hadn't bothered to wipe away. He was the picture of human misery.
"I'm sorry; I'm being very…undignified" Sherlock said, a wave of soberness washing over him.
Sherlock's eyes were still watery; he was obviously on the edge of weeping again. I went to the basin on the table and wet a towel and came back to him. I wiped his eyes with the towel and tried to force a smile onto my face.
"There is no one here but me. Feel free to be as undignified as you need to be" I told him, continuing to wipe his red, fevered face with the cool towel.
He bravely managed a smile for a moment before his eyes closed, spilling moisture again. I was glad that at least my words had given him freedom to express his sorrow. I was startled when he grabbed my face between his hands and brought my face to his, my forehead resting against his. I was startled at the suddenness of the action but the touch warmed me instantly. It was just as it had been on the beach; I was aware of every brush of warmth of him on me, my heart beating too fast, a rush of need like I never knew and could never fulfil coursing through me. I did not know a simple touch could feel like this.
His face was so close to mine I could feel his tears against my cheek. The press of alcohol in the back of my mind urged me to make ill timed, thoughtless decisions but I forced myself to be as still as the silence in the room. Sherlock's hands were around my wrists and the towel in my hands fell to the floor; Sherlock's breath smelled so strongly of wine that it mostly covered up the smell of blood and vomit I feared would be there. I knew even in that moment that that smell and that feel would be so strong in my memory I would never forget it.
"I am afraid….." Sherlock's words were a whisper, a tremble of fear in them making me shiver.
"I am too….." I shouldn't have said it but there was no making Sherlock less afraid by pretending that I wasn't. I had never been as afraid of anything as I was in that moment. I had faced death, on more than one occasion during the war and while there is no fear like facing your own death, I was afraid of Sherlock's more. I couldn't understand then how I could fear his death more than my own; I do now.
My eyes were closed but I could feel a cold finger rubbing against my cheek; I could feel it like it was down into my toes. "I don't want to leave you" he said. I think even then he knew the severity of the moment; he knew how much time was left.
There were so many things in those small words; so many things unsaid but still understood. My insides shattered; I wanted to weep so much for all that was never going to be but I forced it away with every grain of my self-control.
"I don't want to leave you either." I put as much meaning behind the words as he had and I was sure that he understood.
I didn't sleep for one moment that night; it felt like the end of the world was coming. Days ago the new century had started and everyone thought that it meant a new, better world; for me it meant the end to the world that mattered. Time might go on just as it always had for millennium but I would not.
We didn't say anything else; there was nothing that could be said after that. Sherlock's tears had finally stopped but that didn't stop the pure look of fear that was obvious in his eyes, even in the waning firelight. Slowly, as quick as I could possibly make my body act, I raised my fingers to his cheeks and wiped away what was left of the tears. My fingers felt clumsy and rough compared to the smooth unbrokenness of his skin but he still shivered when I touched him.
I ached so much; for him, for life, for meaning and fairness in life that was never going to be there. I was sure that Sherlock did too; I knew that as much as I was hurting, it could not have been as much as Sherlock's pain. Even so, I selfishly wished I was in his place; I could have suffered the pain of knowing I was dying better than thinking of living without him. Sherlock had come into my life almost as if by divine intervention. I'd had no family, no close friends, and no purpose in civilian life and was too ruined for war anymore. I was ill, I was suffering and I was lonelier than I had ever been. Sherlock had so altered my life and been there so long I did not know what would happen without him. I did not even know what I was anymore without him.
I lay back against the bedpost, too weary to rise and change my clothes. Almost instantly, I felt Sherlock lay against me. All of our touches up until this point had been small and tentative; things that could be explained away later if that was what we wanted to do. But this was not small, shy or unexplainable; it was full of need and desperation and I was not embarrassed by it in the least. Sherlock's head lay against my chest, putting his arms around me like an overgrown child. We still never said anything more but I instantly put an arm around him and I was not the first person to let go. The need inside of me did not go away; if anything, it increased. But odd as that was, it somehow still made it better.
