Chapter 8
Our breakfast passed in silence, for which I was rather grateful. I did not know what I would have said, had either of us started a conversation. Holmes looked for the life of me like a ghost.
His face, while never high-coloured, had now lost every aspect of the living, and was stark pale against his dark hair. The latter was as neatly combed as ever, but that, or the immaculate clothing, could do nothing to distract from the obvious fact that he was far from well. Had he not been moving, I would have felt the need to check his pulse to assure myself that he was alive.
Seeing my friend in such a sorry state set my nerves on edge. I probably would have reprimanded him for defying rest, had I not known that he had no control over those nightmares.
While he continued to munch on his toast without enthusiasm, I put down my cup of coffee with a sigh. "Holmes?"
"Hm."
"Do you want me to give you something to help you sleep?"
"I have been sleeping perfectly well."
"So I have noticed."
The corners of his mouth twitched and I thought for a moment that he would smile, but he did not, and neither did the small amusement at my ironic statement reach his eyes. Instead, he rose from the table, the half-eaten piece of toast forgotten.
For some time, he stood silently by the window, his hands folded behind his back, his gaze focussed on the uneventful nature surrounding us.
"It is worth a try, don't you think?"
"Tonight, Watson."
"As you wish. Is you arm much worse?"
"Why would it be?"
"I heard you. You played your violin for several consecutive hours. It should have an effect." I approached his to examine his arm. To my surprise, he allowed me to proceed without protest, even though he had become rather irate at my daily examinations in the course of the last weeks. The bruising and swelling had of course receded completely, but it was evident that he had not helped matters by overexerting the weakened muscles. I told him to stretch his arm and make a fist, which he did without so much as a wince. "It does not hurt?"
"Should it?"
"Why, yes. Holmes?" He was not even looking at me, his gaze was still locked on the landscape outside.
"Yes?"
"Are you even paying attention?"
At that, he looked back at me. "Why? Ow! Watson, what are you doing?" He pulled his arm back, rubbing it with his left hand.
"So it does hurt."
"What have you done? One would have thought I was feeling miserable enough without you adding..." He trailed off, realising that he had spoken rashly, and without guarding himself against betraying his innermost thoughts. An awkward silence settled over us.
I cleared my throat. "I am sorry, Holmes. But you have done this to yourself with your violin playing. I told you not to overdo it. Now, your muscles will ache. I think you were merely too preoccupied to feel it."
"Frankly now, Watson, what would you have me do? I have to keep my mind occupied, you know that. Still, you keep forbidding me one thing after another. Cases, now the violin, I don't have my chemistry set with me..."
"Holmes. Sit down."
"Why?"
"Because you are going to faint, man! Sit down!"
We did not quite make it to the settee before Holmes's body grew slack in my supportive hold. Carefully, I lowered him onto the settee. The piece of furniture had no backrest, but I settled him down in such a way that his upper body and head were resting on the slightly elevated part of it, as it was designed to be used.
I had seen him sway, sweat springing on his face even as he talked. If any man has perfected the art of ignoring the signs of one's body, it was Holmes, although, in the face of the memories that bothered him, I was not surprised.
The fainting spell had been brought on by the lack of sleep and sheer exhaustion, but it did not last long. I had scarcely removed his collar, when his eyes flickered open again and he waved me away.
"It's all right, Watson. Don't look so worried."
"I have every reason to be worried." I sat by his legs, scrutinizing him carefully. He couldn't possibly have paled further, but he made no effort now to conceal how tired he was. "I don't care what you do, but you are not getting up any time soon. I could give you the sleeping draft now – it would probably be for the best."
"Watson."
"Yes?"
"Will it keep away the dreams?"
My stomach clenched at his timid tone. "It should, old fellow."
"Do it, then."
I went to my bedroom to fetch my medical bag and put the white powder into the rest of Holmes's morning tea. "Here you are, my friend." I had used the strongest powder I had, just in case.
Holmes drank it in one gulp and made a face. "Why is it that medicine always tastes vile?"
"I assume it is supposed to stop abuse."
"I see." He yawned, and blinked. "I must say, Watson..." By that time, his voice failed him, and soon his eyes fluttered shut.
I knew well that it was only a temporary solution. He could not come to depend upon my medicines, and nothing could replace a healthy, natural sleep.
I settled down in an armchair where I could watch him, and opened the window to let in the warm, if salty, air. I regretted that I could not go for a walk on a beautiful day as this, but after all, we had come here for Holmes's sake, not for mine.
Recalling the horrible hours after he had been submitted to the torture of the criminals in the previous case, I could not help but notice the irony. Back then, I had assumed that the worst part was over. Who would have thought that the greatest danger to his health would spring from Holmes's own mind?
But then again, I should have known. His own mind was what drove him to the cocaine, to flee from his own thoughts. Why would memories be any different?
Holmes slept soundly for several hours, hardly ever shifting under the blanket I had placed over his frail form. The draft had knocked him out clean, and once again I marvelled at the fact that he permitted me to see him so vulnerable. It would have been all to easy to harm him in such a state – I only hoped that no criminal would ever get the chance to rob my dear friend of his alertness. So far, no one had achieved that.
I busied myself with scribbling in my notebook, although I fear that it was quite nonsensical. I still have that page here, and it is filled with random sketches of the objects that surrounded me in the room, and various snippets from poems and stories I had just read last night. My mind strayed from one subject to another, until a low muttering caught my attention.
"Celine. Celine! Qu'est-ce qui se passe? Sang. Mycroft! Mycroft, je... Que fais-tu? Je n'ai rien fait! Laisse-moi tranquille! Lâche-moi! Mycroft! Morte... Elle est morte... Pourquoi m'as-tu quitté? M'a trahi... aide-moi." By that time, he was screaming, tossing and turning."Mycroft, aide-moi! Non, ne pas! Qu'ai-tu fait? WATSON!"
The last was yelled at the top of his voice, and I was at his side the very instant he fell back against the headrest, shuddering, still in the clutches of his dreams. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was sobbing pitifully.
"Holmes!" I shook him, but it did not help – the effect of the drug was still too strong. If I had know that he would dream nonetheless, I would never have given it to him. "Holmes, I am here. Don't worry. It is a dream. Just a dream. Everything is all right."
Soon, I found myself clutching his hand, awkwardly patting his head as if he were a child. But in a way, in our dreams, we all are. He was still crying, but his screams had subsided to a low, unintelligible murmur that worried me even more.
By the time he finally awoke, we were both even more exhausted than we had been.
A/N: BTW, I do not speak French, sadly. I hope I made no major errors in translating, but if a native speaker reads this, I would be glad if she/he spoke up if anything's wrong - thanks!
And, a translation of the French part, since I have been requested to put it here, although it is not that important:
"Celine. Celine! What has happened? Blood. Mycroft! Mycroft, I... What are you doing? I have done nothing! Leave me alone! Let me be! Mycroft! Dead... She is dead... Why have you left me? She had betrayed me... Help me!" (...) "Mycroft, help me! No, don't! What have you done? WATSON!"
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