A/N: Thanks to all you who have reviewed, cheering Holmes on - glad you're liking this!
Watson
I was inordinately pleased by Holmes's telling me the night before that he had successfully resisted the call of that infernal drug – I had fully expected him to try to escape his pain with the substance and I would not have blamed him over-much for it; he looked absolutely miserable.
But he had not used it, and I was proud of him for it. Small victories I well knew would lead to larger ones. And we had all the time in the world to make that journey. I had told no one except Mycroft Holmes, not even Mrs. Hudson, where we were going so that we could not be found. We had plenty of time.
I rapped on Holmes's bedroom door and found him trying to struggle into his heavy overcoat, swearing a blue streak at his still evident weakness. I stepped over and held it out so that he could get it on without trouble, and he had the decency to growl an irritated thank-you at which I smiled.
Ten minutes later we were walking a path along the cliffs, descending to the white beach below. The wind was brisk but not too cold, and I was pleased to see that Holmes appeared to not be shivering any worse than before. The air was laden with salt and water, and between the roaring of the white-capped surf and the obnoxious crying of the gulls overhead, conversation was a little difficult.
We strolled along for a while in companionable silence, which suited my patient's mood evidently for he made no effort to speak. I gazed out over the water, noticing that it appeared perfectly deep and clear; but I knew of the hidden reefs there that appeared in storms. The place did, as Holmes said, reek of treachery and mystery.
I should have to come out here sometime and try my hand at writing about the atmosphere of the place – would be highly conducive to creative inspiration.
Holmes bent down and casually picked up a rock, tossing it out into the blue water where it made a loud splash. Three seagulls dove down toward it, evidently thinking to be food, and I heard him chuckle – also a good sign that he was feeling slightly better after a night's sleep, restless though it might have been.
"Noisy little things, aren't they?"
"Quite," he replied, smiling.
I suddenly ducked as one flew far too close to my head, screaming irately at me, and I heard Holmes snicker. I sent him a glare that silenced him almost at once, and he raised his eyebrows at me, the corners of his mouth twitching.
But three minutes later when one of the confounded birds started diving at him and he ducked, yelping louder than I had, it was my turn to laugh. He took my ribbing with a little less grace than I had done, however, scowling blackly at me.
Finally we started back along the path, keeping a wary eye out for more of the birds, still chuckling over the inane hour we had spent on the beach.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon Holmes spent indoors, lounging about boredly, napping occasionally. I watched him carefully, but I refused to follow him when he went into his room. If he chose to use the drug, I could do naught to stop him.
But I was surprised when he emerged a moment later with a pillow and flopped down upon the couch to doze – either consciously or unconsciously he was relieving my mind on the matter. I wished I could know which it was, but I rather hoped the former.
But his sleep was rather restless, and as I watched with furrowed brow as he tossed and turned fitfully, I could see that he was in no fit shape to be making a several-mile trudge into town. But I was loathe to leave him alone with his own devices…
The final decision will be up to him, I could hear Agar saying to me. If he felt like I was keeping a close watch upon him it would make him even more irritable about the fact that he was already. If he felt that I did not trust him, he would make no effort to refrain from filling himself with that poison. What could I do…
I stopped my pondering as Holmes grew very restless, obviously troubled in sleep about something, his pale face drawn and haggard. I hesitated, my temper at his getting both of us into this mess still irking me, then my conscience struck me a hard blow as I heard him utter my name in his unconscious murmurings.
I crept closer to the couch just as he unconsciously called my name once again – what was he dreaming about, what part did I have in it? I desperately hoped he was not yet again reliving that awful Stevenson case; he had felt so intensely guilty after that case, with reason, but no man deserves to see such horrors repeatedly in his nightmares.
He moved restlessly, hands clenching round the afghan I had thrown over him, and muttered something unintelligible in a pleading voice. I reached out a hand to steady him, but he suddenly snapped awake of his own accord. I saw blank, complete panic in his eyes before he realised where he was and turned his gaze to my worried face.
I sat on the edge of the couch, noting that he was breathing heavily and watching me closely, not saying anything as if trying to bring himself under control. I patted his clenched hands gently.
"I'm sorry, old chap, but you'll be having disturbed sleep for a bit, it's a part of your withdrawal symptoms," I said quietly.
The haunted look had not left his eyes as he drew in a long breath.
"You weren't dreaming about that case again, were you?" I asked, watching his reaction.
He closed his eyes and nodded once. I was smitten with a pang of guilt; my outburst of two days' previous and the knowledge that he had broken a promise made to (he thought at the time) a dying man had obviously taken a strong hold in his vivid mind and was only now working its way out through these nightmares. And despite the fact that he well deserved to pay for what he had done, this kind of mental torture was nigh on unbearable.
"I can give you a light sleeping draught if you like," I said slowly.
"No."
I raised my eyebrows as he opened his eyes determinedly to meet mine.
"Good man."
He relaxed a bit and sat up against the cushions.
"I'm going to go into town now, Holmes," I changed the topic, seeing he was obviously uncomfortable with his personal thoughts.
"Shall I –"
"No," I said firmly, "I want you to stay here. It's too far of a walk when you're not yet recovered that much, Holmes."
His brows knitted, and I saw his eyes flit back to his bedroom. I arose and put on my coat.
"I shall be back in a few hours. Do try to rest, old chap," I said, buttoning the jacket.
"But – aren't you afraid I – that is," he stammered, realising what he had nearly admitted.
I turned from the door to look him square in the face.
"No, I'm not," I said firmly, willing a confidence I did not truly feel into my voice.
I saw surprise overtake his features, and his brows knitted, obviously not expecting that answer. I knew that he would never have a chance to truly resist the temptation on his own if he were wary that I would return at any time. This gave him three hours to choose or not choose without any assistance from me.
"But –"
"I believe you need some time alone, my dear fellow," I said, retrieving my cap.
He stared at me, as if still not registering my words.
"Now," I went on briskly, "what exactly would you like me to look for by way of research material for you to work on? Anything about the Cornish coast itself? Poldhu Bay legends?"
He gave a dry laugh.
"None of your ghost ship tales for me, Watson, thank you very much!"
I was relieved to see his mood slip back into that more sardonically humourous vein as he went on.
"I should like to find some material about the ancient Cornish language, Watson," he began to detail eagerly, "I believe it has some relations to the Chaldean tongue, perhaps with some connections to Phoenician tin traders, and I should very much like to research further upon the matter."
I glanced out of the corner of my eye at him as I put my gloves on, shaking my head in amusement.
"Write a new monograph upon it, why don't you."
"I was contemplating it."
"Good heavens, and you have the audacity to criticize my writing?"
He threw back his head and laughed, the welcome sound bringing a smile to my face.
"What, you don't think I can write as well as you?"
"Holmes. On Phoenician tin traders?"
"Well I think it is quite fascinating."
"You and maybe three other people in the world."
He glared at me, folding his arms and pulling a childish face in a most immature fashion. I grinned at his annoyance as I slipped into his bedroom for a moment, an idea suddenly striking me.
"Cornish and Chaldean it is, then. Anything you need from town?"
"I don't believe so. Do your culinary efforts encompass a decent dinner as well as breakfast?" he called, apparently quite serious.
"I believe we can manage. It's not as if you eat much or regularly anyhow," I returned with a grin, exiting the room with another blanket for him.
He moaned melodramatically and settled back under the afghan, reaching for a book he had left on the table near the couch earlier on some ridiculous murder trial during the medieval period. Honestly, and the man called my literary tastes rubbish.
He glanced up and nodded as I left, shutting the door behind me and leaving him to his own devices for the next three or four hours.
Holmes
I set the book down when the door had closed behind my friend and sat there for a bit, pondering the man's actions. Had he intentionally forced me to be alone with my temptation?
He well knew that I at least had the courtesy to not use the drug when I knew he was around, partly to keep him off my back with his medical opinions and partly because it was simply rude in the extreme after the events of the last few days. Had he left intentionally, meaning this to be a trial for me?
Was his mind really that devious, or did he sincerely believe I needed to rest and the walk would be too much?
My mind was working far too hard to make these elementary deductions – this fog clouding my thinking processes was thinning but by no means dissipating. And that worried me. I needed something to occupy my mind, something to get the proverbial wheels spinning to bring me back to my full powers.
And now I had three hours, more probably four, for I knew Watson would be rather exhausted after such a long trudge into the town as well as being up late with me last night. I needed to ensure that such a thing did not happen again.
I lost interest in the rather poorly-researched book I was reading in record time and boredly got up to put some more coal on the fire. What in the world was I going to do for three hours? I dared not go to sleep again just yet, for I had no desire to repeat that horrible dream yet again.
I wandered about the room, trying to force my mind to work by deducing items about the last tenants of this quaint cottage, but I found that my deductions seemed rather boring and trivial when there was no one to exclaim over how incredible they were. Watson had more uses than either of us were aware of, I realised ruefully.
I ambled about the room – I always had been rather prone to pacing when bored – studiously avoiding entering my bedroom and the temptation it contained, for the better part of an hour. But finally I could take the boredom no longer and entered the bedroom in search of the newspaper clippings I had brought with me from London; I had fallen behind on my common-place books and brought the latest one with me as a project.
But even as I began to unpack, that confounded pain began to once more make itself felt, and I found I had to rest for a bit from lifting the valises and books. I sat, or rather flopped, down upon the bed and lay back, wincing as my aching head protested the rapid movement, wrapping the afghan Watson had folded across the foot of the bed closely round me.
For a moment I lay there, trying to get a grip upon myself, wishing for the spasms to pass and feeling oddly lonely, wishing my friend would return quickly. But as time went on, I glanced over at the still-open drawer of my bedside table with its contents in plain sight.
As if in a hypnotic trance, I remained staring at it until a loud calling of a seagull just outside the window broke the spell momentarily, and I started in surprise, wishing that twinge of guilt I had just felt would leave me.
My irritation at the guilt flashed angrily through my mind, and I pulled the case from the drawer, drowning my conscience in a sea of justification. I was in pain, I wanted the drug, Watson would never know, and I would not take a full dosage, just a small…
My thoughts trailed away as I saw something else lying in the drawer underneath the Moroccan case. I pulled it out, seeing it to be a small leather-bound book, similar to those blasted journals Watson was always writing in.
Curious, I lifted it from the drawer, forgetting about the case and the cocaine for a moment, and glanced at the item. Had it been left by a previous occupant of the house? But I did not remember seeing it yesterday…
I stopped as I opened it, seeing a very familiar strong handwriting inside.
So you believe you can write as well as I, eh Holmes? I dare you to try it sometime when you're bored. May I suggest the cliffs by the west end of the beach – atmosphere is perfect for inspiration, even on Phoenician tin-traders.
W
I stared for a moment at the page before feeling a laugh rise in the back of my throat. My dear Watson.
I got up to scramble round for a pencil and my coat. No man challenges Sherlock Holmes and comes off the victor.
To be continued...
