The Problem

Chapter 7/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that I am not a doctor and have no medical experience, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!


Chapter Seven

It happened in the late afternoon when Watson was napping and Holmes was drifting off next to him. He hadn't been able to speak all day, but Watson supposed a fair amount of pain was enough to bring Holmes back.

"Watson? Watson! Please, wake up."

Holmes's voice was strained and raspy. If he hadn't been the only other person in the room, Watson wouldn't have even recognized it as his. It took Watson a few seconds to register the fact that Holmes was actually talking before he realized why his eyes were large and pleading and his face was twisted with pain. The broken ribs made breathing practically intolerable.

Watson crossed the room to his bag and, within a minute or so, was injecting the morphine into Holmes's vein. He waited, holding onto him, as the drug took effect.

"Thank you," Holmes whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as he rode out the last few spasms of pain.

"You're speaking," Watson whispered after Holmes had relaxed against him.

"Well spotted, old boy."

Watson grinned and kissed his eyelid. Holmes sighed and caught Watson's lips, gently moving them against his own. After a moment, Watson ended the kiss with one last, quick peck and watched Holmes carefully. He reached behind his head and began gently stroking the bandage there.

"When you're ready to talk about what happened, say the words."

Holmes laughed bitterly and shook his hand off, cringing. "What happened? My dear Watson, I've deduced that much, I assure you. My current grotesque state tells me quite enough."

Watson winced and shook his head. "You're not grotesque, Holmes. You do realize you're going to be just fine in six weeks time, don't you? Yes, we'll need to work on walking, I'm sure. But…" he trailed. Holmes was too busy staring down the length of his body at his bound ankle. Watson quickly pulled the blankets over it and tried to direct Holmes's attention back to him. "You'll be just as you were. I promise."

Holmes smiled tightly. "If you say so, Doctor."

Watson smiled back, beginning to draw circles against Holmes's hip. "In fact, I do say so. Now, what do you remember?"

Holmes stared at the opposite wall for a moment, chewing nervously at his bottom lip before he began to speak. "After you left, I remember being led back to the falls where he … Moriarty … found me. He let me write that note to you, Watson, before he tried to overpower me. I remember thinking I might come out of it alive, but nothing else after that."

Holmes was baring his teeth, a look of revulsion on his otherwise handsome face. His eyes flickered to Watson's and he let out a strangled laugh. "Although, as I've said before, all these broken bones and cuts and gashes tell the story quite well."

"Don't think about it," Watson whispered, gliding his hand up and down Holmes's arm as he spoke. "Do you remember anything from the hospital? You were out for a week."

"Should I?"

"Not necessarily. That's uncommon."

Holmes's shrugged his shoulder. "I don't remember anything. But I remember your voice. I don't believe I actually heard it, but somehow I always knew when you were close by."

Holmes turned his head away as if he were embarrassed. But Watson smiled and kissed the sensitive skin behind his ear, causing Holmes to make a small sound in the back of his throat that verged on pleasure.

"Could you please refrain? I'm in no condition for … for this."

"Sorry," Watson murmured, gently urging Holmes to turn his face around so he could press their foreheads together. "You're recovering wonderfully, you know. Just last night you couldn't speak. The night before you weren't even conscious."

"I know. It still doesn't change what happened. Watson, what if I can't walk again – "

"Holmes, you will," Watson sighed. "If anything, you'll have to walk with a cane for a year or so."

"A year?"

"Well, it's better than having to use one for the rest of your life, isn't it?" he snapped, stung.

Holmes's face softened. "Oh, Watson … I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Watson replied shortly, rubbing his own thigh and avoiding Holmes's sympathetic eyes.

Holmes sighed and kissed the side of his neck, breathing against it. "We'll get matching canes," he joked lightly, eyes raised to watch Watson.

Even if he had tried, Watson wouldn't have been able to stop his smile.


Three weeks passed slowly, marking the halfway point. In another three weeks, all of the bandages and casts would come off and Holmes could try walking again.

By this time, Holmes had seen his reflection in a handheld mirror provided by Watson. The stitches on his cheek had been removed only a few days after he regained consciousness, leaving a bright red scar along his cheekbone.

"It will fade to white," Watson had told him as he watched Holmes's face fall and his lips quiver. He kissed the scar as he took away the mirror. "Soon you won't even think twice about it."

Holmes's reaction to his twisted and deformed earlobe wasn't nearly as bad, but Watson still frantically assured him that he could probably do some sort of reconstructive surgery to help with the appearance. Holmes didn't seem to care too much about his hands, either, even when Watson explained that the nails that grew in the place of the missing ones might not be the same.

But the scar on his face still seemed to haunt him more than anything else.

"Since when do you care about such superficial things?" Watson had asked, stroking the raised line with his thumb.

"Since you," Holmes explained, as if it were obvious.

"Idiot," Watson growled, immediately smothering the area with kisses. "You could be scarred from head to toe and my feelings for you still wouldn't change."

That seemed to ease Holmes's self-consciousness for the time being.

The fourth and fifth week came and went. It was a rather peaceful time, and Holmes seemed genuinely happy to just be with Watson. But these blissful seven days didn't prepare them for the coming storm.


"We're going to have to talk about where we want this … this relationship to go," Watson whispered, his breath hitching slightly as Holmes's stubble grazed his cheek.

He had been crouched over Holmes's body for nearly ten minutes now, hands and knees on either side of his shoulders and hips. His leg was starting to stiffen under his weight, but he was lost in the pleasure of the tingling sensation that went up his spine each time they brushed lips or Holmes nipped the skin on his neck.

"Just one more week and you can try walking."

He tried pressing his tongue between Holmes's lips, but he jerked back slightly and made a small, protesting sound. Watson quickly pulled away.

"What is it?"

Holmes's face was flushed, but he forced a smile. "I'm afraid if you continue this any longer a problem might, um, rise."

"Oh," Watson gasped, swinging his leg back to his side of the bed. "Holmes, I'm sorry."

"That's all right."

Watson sat down next to him, refraining from touching him in any way. He couldn't imagine how uncomfortable Holmes would be if he became aroused while there was no possible way to relieve himself without jolting one of his injuries. He watched as the redness faded from his face and the creamy, pale color returned.

"Has this been happening often?" Watson asked. "If all my … attention … has been causing a problem, I can stop."

"No, that's not necessary. But if you must kiss me, please keep it chaste."

They stayed quiet for a minute or two before Holmes nudged Watson with his good knee. "You should know that I am, of course, willing to do … to do more once I'm healed."

Watson held up a hand, urging him to stop. "Holmes, really, we don't have to talk about – "

"Meaning I wouldn't be against…" he took a breath. "…sodomy," he continued on the exhale.

"Holmes, don't call it that."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"I don't know, just not that! That makes it sound…bad."

"It is illegal."

"Holmes!" Watson cried, placing a finger against his lips. "We don't need to worry about any of this right now."

Holmes knotted his eyebrows. "Do you … not want to?"

Watson squeezed his eyes shut. "Of course I want to. I was actually afraid you wouldn't. It seems to be quite the opposite, actually." He opened his eyes again and gave Holmes a half-smile. "I just don't want you to concern yourself with it. At all. Concentrate on getting your strength back. Once we get back to London in a few weeks…" he trailed off, stroking his hair.

Holmes suddenly fell very silent and leaned away from his touch to stare at the door. Watson frowned and brushed his fingertips against Holmes's arm. "What's wrong?"

"Watson, you idiot," he breathed, closing his eyes and sighing. "I can't go back to London."

The following silence was intolerable. Holmes was now staring at Watson, whose jaw had literally dropped in surprise. It would have been comical in any other situation.

"I thought you knew," Holmes whispered after a moment.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Watson croaked. His attempt at sounding angry had fallen flat. "I don't simply follow your train of thought as you do mine, I …" he trailed off, waving a hand shakily.

Holmes shifted uncomfortably in the bed and shook his head, looking away again. "I thought you were aware of the fact that just because Moriarty is finished with doesn't mean his henchmen are. The big fish is done for, but the smaller dart right and left out of the net. If I'm to return to London alive and well, do you really believe I'm to go unpunished for what I've done to their friend and leader? Watson, I made this decision when I thought I would be safe from falling off the ledge and it has been my plan all along. The world must think I'm dead."

Something clicked in Watson's mind as all the pieces finally fell into place and he comprehended what Holmes was saying. "Once you regain your strength you're going to leave. Just like that. And expect me to do what? Tell everyone you died from complications after your fall? Bury an empty casket? Write a bloody narrative about it and move on with my life?"

He all but flung himself from the bed and paced the room. Holmes followed him with his eyes.

"Calm down, old man," Holmes whispered as Watson finally listened to his leg and collapsed in an armchair.

"If you hadn't fallen you were going to run off and let me believe you to be dead, weren't you?"

"In all probability, yes. You never were much of an actor. I couldn't have let you know the truth." Holmes sighed.

"How could you?" Watson cried, aghast. He had expected to be angry – and he certainly was. But the feeling of betrayal outweighed everything else.

"It's a matter of self-preservation. I – "

"You selfish bastard." The words were out before Watson could hold his tongue.

"Selfish?" Holmes whispered. "Watson, let me finish."

"Go right ahead."

"I would have done it to save myself, yes. But also to protect you. I couldn't have come home. The attacks wouldn't stop until I was dead. Why drag you into that, risking your own life while also forcing you to witness my numbered days and deal with my death? If I hadn't returned to England but kept in contact with you, you'd be waiting every day for a body."

"And letting me believe you were dead would've been better?"

"Would it have been better to wait for it, knowing that it was coming? That my time was up?"

"I don't know," Watson admitted softly. "I could've protected you. The police – "

"It wouldn't have ended."

"How long would you have let me believe you were dead?"

"Until Moriarty's men let down their guard and were either imprisoned or killed. Two years, maybe longer. See, Watson. That's not too terrible, is it?"

Watson sighed and stood from the chair, coming to settle back down onto the bed. "And what now? Now that everyone knows you're alive and recovering?"

Holmes smiled and leaned against the doctor. Despite everything, Watson couldn't help but snake an arm around his shoulders and hold him there against his chest.

"I've had plenty of time to think about it, Watson. And I think you'll agree that I'm making the right choice."


And so Watson had to go along with Holmes's elaborate plan. Once the man made up his mind, he wouldn't have it any other way.

While Holmes took off for Florence, Watson would return to London on his own and stay for three months. During those three months, he would give London the performance of a lifetime and pretend as though Holmes were dead. Holmes advised that he spend most of his time out of the public eye, pretending to mourn. Watson and Mycroft – who would be aware of the situation – would bury an empty casket, transported from Switzerland, during a very private ceremony closed to the public and the press. Watson would publish an account of all that had happened during their travels but fabricate the end, stating that Holmes had passed from complications soon after waking from a coma. During those three months, Watson would eventually announce his plans to give up his practice and retire early to travel abroad with his Norwegian friend Sigerson – Holmes's alias. The public would accept this for the most part, Holmes decided, and wouldn't question a man who had gone through such an ordeal and lost his closest companion.

After this, Watson would reunite with him in Florence. From there, they would continue traveling about with the help of Mycroft's money until it was safe to reveal the truth and return home to Baker Street.

Watson was overwhelmed by it all, shedding tears as Holmes delicately explained his plan. Finally, Holmes could take no more of it and kissed the drops away.

"Watson, I hate to ask you to do all these things. To give up your practice and leave home. But I just see no other way."

Watson quickly shook his head, dismissing Holmes's words as he tangled a hand in his messy dark hair and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. "No, it's not that," Watson said as he collected himself. "It's just three months of being away from you. I'm not sure if I can stand that."

"Three months is better than three years, Watson. It's what we have to do to insure that we can stay together. To keep what we have from ending prematurely."

"I know," Watson admitted, resting his chin on the top of Holmes's head. "I know. I just…"

Holmes buried his face in Watson's neck. When he felt the wetness on Holmes's own face, dripping down his neck, he knew the separation wouldn't be easy for him either.