All right,chapter length doesn't much differ from the last one. Maybe I can try and keep that up.
Big hugs to StarsOutlineOurStory and Rock is Freedom for taking the time to review the last chapter. You guys made me happy. :-D
4. Memories
A fond smile wriggles its way up to Watson's lips when notes arising from a violin fall onto his ears. Holmes is in his chamber, alone, but the music he elicits from the instrument is still audible in the room next door.
He has been playing a lot lately, obviously drawing comfort from an ability he still possesses, a talent he can literally admonish blindly. But they have been doleful melodies most of the time, pieces, that, being put into the strings with an exceptional depth of feeling, have quenched the doctor's heart more then once.
Even Mrs. Hudson had been touched. "It's beautiful, but it sounds so sad." she had explained when Watson, upon finding her standing listening in the stairway late at night, had asked if she minded the playing, hoping he could convince her to endure it for now, but that had not been necessary. Mrs. Hudson's kind heart had not intended to shut her late-night-sessioning lodger up, but she had seemed affected and a little weary.
However the sounds that come through the wall now, are merry and down-to-earth. A light shanty, even if the same passion cannot be felt behind these strokes. They seem hesitant, like someone trying out a new part, but soon gather speed.
Watson recognizes the ditty, it is one Holmes used to play from time to time when they were still living together. On those cosy evenings when no one felt like going out but still like having a bit of fun. And they got a little drunk and talked lots of nonsense and started to do the most idiotic things like rehearsing silly dance numbers or building devices to do household chores for them (which never worked of course) or, once, testing how far one could lean out of the window without topping over – that one had nearly ended up in a fatal accident – and sooner or later cooking up the most awful stew from whatever left-overs were to be found in their lodgings.
And the doctor remembers exactly when he heard that specific tune for the last time, because it is an especially dear memory of his. The last time Holmes had played this very song had been the time when he had suddenly stopped playing abruptly and kissed him square on the mouth.
And then had nearly burst with laughter at Watson's own shocked and probably rather silly expression.
"I should move out soon. You are a horrible influence on me." the doctor had declared jokingly.
And Holmes, laughing, but still seeming serious had only said "Don't."
Smiling resignedly at the man in front of him Watson had shaken his head: "You know I couldn't leave you." It was true, there was something irresistible about that seductive smile.
And Holmes had grinned at him, saying: "I need you you know. To have at least something nice to look at in this dump." He'd gestured at the room, which was, truly, a complete pigpen.
"All right. But only looking, no touching." the other man had jested and Holmes had looked at him, dark eyes glimmering with mischief when he answered "Oh, well, alright then" giving him a penetrating stare. Watson had squirmed under the intense gaze and sighed: "Ah, it's no good, with those eyes of yours you could grope me up and down from a five meter distance."
Holmes had just grinned and put a contemplating finger to his lips.
As in situations like this it was often the case, Watson had felt his legs go soft and he had said something stupid, like in this very instance "I like your eyes." which had made him want to slap himself seconds after saying it, his throat tight, and he had actually been really relieved, when a knock at the door had broken the spell and Clarky had stumbled in all wound up and out of breath spilling: "I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of the night, but you said to alert you immediately when we found the body and I think you should really have a look at this one …"
A melancholic look creeps across the doctor's face when the last notes die down, but he jumps up, when only seconds later, there comes a loud thump like something being smashed and without thinking he runs to the neighbouring room. He halts in the door frame when he sees Holmes standing at the table, shaking, the violin in pieces half on the floor, half on the desk top.
Before he can think of anything to say, Holmes turns to face him, the barely restricted temper visible in his body language. "What?" he screams accusingly, defensively.
"I, um." the doctor stammers. "I thought I heard a noise, wanted to check on you." "Why do you have to run after me whenever you hear something like a nursery teacher? Can't you just fucking leave me alone for a while?" The detective's voice is strained with emotion and Watson feels sick and guilty for intruding upon this moment of personal pain and break-down of self-control. "Yeah, right, sorry. I'm out." he mumbles and pulls the door close softly behind him, a helpless lump building up in his throat as he withdraws to his own room.
Holmes' steps are hesitant when he joins Watson at the breakfast table the next morning, pale face suggesting that the night has seen little sleep. Without sitting down he starts speaking to the empty air: „Sorry about yesterday." He sounds contrite.
"That's ok. No need to apologize." his friend replies automatically. The detective winces. "Come on, give me a chance to act like an ass and be treated like someone who acts like an ass. All this handling with kid-gloves makes me feel like an invalid." This induces the doctor to give a more detailed response: "But really. I did not take offence, so no need to apologize. I didn't think you're being mean because your inconsiderate or don't appreciate my concern or something like that, but that you were having a tough time."
"Still, it wasn't right to yell at you like that." the other insists. Watson shrugs and before he remembers that this passes for no reaction to someone who can't perceive the gesture, Holmes' voice already carries a hint of hurt when he adds: "Please don't tell me you pity me so much that nothing I say or do can affect you anymore."
This of course is not the message the doctor wanted to convey. "No, ok, you're right. I didn't like being yelled at, but I understand why you did it, so, apology accepted."
"Well, thanks." the detective replies and, feeling around for a chair and pulling it up, he only now sits down at the table, carefully avoiding to brush his sleeves over the board.
"Ham and egg, right in front of you." Watson prompts routinely. "I put the mug far enough from the fork, so you have to make an effort if you want to knock it over while picking up the cutlery." Holmes wordlessly takes the fork and starts to shovel the breakfast into his mouth rather accurately. Suddenly he sighs, putting the fork down. "You know what I regret most?"
"Breaking the violin." Watson answers without doubt.
"Hm, yes. Do you think it's beyond repair?" The doctor pulls a face. "'fraid so. But we can get you a new one."
Resting his chin in one hand, Holmes slowly shakes his head: "I don't think my finances are too rosy at the moment."
Watson doesn't even look up from his eggs: "That's alright, I can get it for you."
"You don't have to." Holmes answers a little stiffly.
"I know I don't have to, I'd like to." his friend counters slightly surprised, but realizes that the talk is taking a bumpy direction when the answer to that is openly deprecative.
"Well I wish you wouldn't."
Watson feels irritated. This would not have been a problem between them just two months ago. But a lot of things have changed since then, there's no denying that, so the doctor takes the time to justify his offer: "Look, it's not like a hand-out or something. It's a gift, among friends, ok? Because it's important to you."
"Oh is it?" There is something threatening in that altogether too polite question but Watson misses the subtle warning signs: "Sure it's…" he stops, trying not to choose the wrong words, but he is already too far down that road. "It's something you can do, easily, I mean, like your … condition … doesn't hinder you with that …"
The way Holmes' jaw has tightened throughout his pathetic address only confirms what he already knows, that he has screwed up again, and right when Holmes was pulling himself together as well. Why can't he be blessed with some eloquence at times like this?
"And that's great, isn't it?" he adds with forced cheerfulness, but of course that saves nothing and he catches himself hunching in the armchair when Holmes' answering words hit him like projectiles flying across the breakfast table: "Ooh, yeah, that's great. I have a wonderful musical career in front of me, spending the rest of my life in a filthy gutter of my choice, trying to stop the street urchins from nicking my pennies. That's so great, if I wasn't sitting down already I would have to find a stool immediately or my poor heart couldn't take the excitement."
Watson sags, defeated. „I'm sorry, what can I say? Sorry, maybe, maybe you should just get used to me saying stupid things, cause I don't seem to be able to avoid it. Maybe you can just think 'Oh, its stupid Watson again, once more saying something really stupid, but it shouldn't affect me, because he's just to stupid to phrase even one tiny little thought right.'"
He looks up at his friend ruefully, instantly feeling rejected by the blank white bandage that covers his eyes, allowing him no guess as to the other's reaction. As so often these days he feels the need to touch him, to make up for that closed door of the bandage, that shuts him out, puts distance between them. Gingerly he puts his hand on Holmes' arm. "Maybe?" he asks hopefully.
Holmes sighs and pulls away from the touch. "It's not you saying stupid things. I mean, you don't say stupid things like 'Oh, look, now you can't even speak properly anymore', or 'Sheesh, now your bladder control has gone as well.' Now that'd be stupid and it wouldn't affect me, because it's just not true and you certainly don't believe it, even if by mental disability you'd end up saying stupid things like that. What's bad is not what you are actually saying, but what it tells about what you are really thinking and well, you're not exactly phrasing that wrong. It is what you are thinking indeed."
Watson doesn't know what to say to that, he never thought about it, but Holmes is probably right and he feels even worse now, realizing this.
Meanwhile the detective has started to squeeze his hands unconsciously as he goes on. "And I try, I really do try to live with that but it's a strain, it's tough, because that is not how I am imagining myself and I don't think I can get used to the idea."
"I'm sorry." the other man states with honest emotion.
"And I wish you'd stop apologizing to me all the time. It is as if that is all you have to say to me these days, it's horrible. And then I am only left with either getting angry or I might just start crying and I'd rather jump from the tower bridge before that happens."
"Maybe it would help you." the doctor ventures carefully. "You know, letting your emotions out."
Holmes turns to his friend and somehow the latter knows exactly what kind of look he's giving him now. "The day you find me sitting here, crying with self-pity, shoot me. Please. It'll be mercy."
"Now come on …" Watson is appalled, but the detective seems even more shocked at that reaction: "You can't be serious. I mean, I thought, I thought I was trying to find a way of going on with my life in a dignified way, not adjusting myself to the fact that I am now a miserable cripple and I shouldn't aspire to anything else anymore. Because if that is the aim of this exercise then please let me choose suicide before I really start thinking that this might be an existence worth living."
"No, of course it's not, it's …" Watson sighs, lost for words again.
And trying to stop his frantic searching for the right turn of phrase he just says what comes to his mind. "I love you, you know."
His friend nods, choking an ironic chortle: "Yes, I suspected as much when you decided to dedicate weeks of your life to taking care of me."
The doctor is not unsettled: "And I didn't do that out of pity. I did it because I thought that in this phase of your life you could do with a friend to lean on. Because it is a transition phase, it's difficult, but it will pass. And then things will be better. You will find the right way to be. And I refuse to loose you on the way there."
"What's it gonna be?" Holmes asks, for once serious, even seeking hope.
Watson remains silent. If he is honest, he doesn't know himself, he too can't image what a blind Sherlock Holmes is going to be like. He hadn't even given it much thought. Just generally assumed that things would turn out right somehow. And now it isn't that easy. But that doesn't mean the whole endeavour will fail. Because it won't, he knows it. It is just a difficult phase. But they will get through it. Together. "I don't really know, to be honest. But it will be."
Holmes gives a little weary sigh that makes the doctor feel the need to lighten up the atmosphere: "There are a lot of people who are blind and live worthwhile lives. Hey, think of that Greek philosopher you brother likes so much, what was his name?"
After a pause the detective's reply comes sceptical: "Do you mean Diogenes?"
"Yeah, right, that guy."
Now the retort is dry and plainly dismissive: "He wasn't blind."
"No?"
"No. And he lived in a ton."
"Did he?"
"I think so."
Watson wrinkles his nose:"Well, don't do that."
When his friend shows just inanition after that remark he goes back to being more serious: "We're going to see this through together, ok? I make mistakes, you make mistakes, we both say sorry a lot, but we will stand strong, and we will survive, stronger than ever. Because I was serious when I said I refuse to loose you."
Holmes swallows. "I know." he says and fixing his face right vis a vis the friend's he adds, a little pained. "I wish I could see you."
Gently, Watson takes the other's hands and puts them to his face. "Here."
The fingers have barely touched the skin when Holmes lets them fall back down by his side, shaking his head and asking in shocked tones: "When did you grow that beard?"
The doctor is disturbed by the amount of consternation in these words. "I might have neglected the shaving these last days. I didn't think anyone would mind. It's not like I'm going out much."
"That's scary." Homes mumbles, face indeed white now. "You change like that and I don't even notice. That's, … that's so disconcerting. There were times when nothing would get past me and now you could grow a beard 40 inches long and wind wild flowers in it and I wouldn't suspect anything."
"Ah, the flowers wouldn't go past you." the other man disagrees with a grin. "That nose of yours is a frighteningly accurate thing."
TBC
