Thank you sooooo much for all the kind words of encouragement. Honestly, I think that at this point, your reviews are about the only good thing in my life and I can't tell you enough how much they mean…

Being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was fascinating and exciting. You got to meet interesting characters and visit the corners of London you never even thought existed. But being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was also unhealthy for one's mind, because getting sick with worry was commonplace. Holmes could probably manage to get himself arrested by Lestrade for offending him after breakfast, be awarded knighthood for saving the Queen straight after lunch and knock himself into another cocaine-induced slumber before bedtime, all in one day. Holmes was also dirty, careless and for the love of God, he played the violin at the most inappropriate times of the day, or night rather.

Regardless of all those flaws in his companion, doctor Watson refused to leave Holmes's side when he was asleep. Watching the detective writhe in agony on the bed was not pleasant, but Watson thought it necessary. Contrary to all his medical knowledge and common sense, he felt as if sitting by his friend's side could somehow alleviate his suffering. He was getting increasingly worried however. Holmes's temperature seemed to have risen over the few preceding hours, and Mycroft claimed to have found his brother in a cold, moist basement. That was definitely a bad sign. So were the silent coughs that shook Holmes's fragile body every now and then. At first they didn't appear to be much to worry about, but the moment that the detective started struggling to catch a breath in his sleep, Watson started getting suspicious. A new pile of woollen blankets and cold compresses followed, without any acknowledgment from Watson's patient and dearest friend.

The worst came when Holmes finally came out of the drug-induced sleep. He didn't seem to remember where he was or what was happening to him. He attempted to remove himself from his bed again, which resulted in even more pain and confusion. Watson grabbed him by the shoulders eventually and pinned him against the bed, trying to avoid touching any of the major injuries on his torso and arms.

'Why, why, why…'the detective started murmuring, as soon as he realised who was looming high over him and restricting his ability to move. His voice sounded so utterly broken and hopeless that Watson thought he might break down here and now and cry openly, upon seeing the shadow of what his friend still used to be a couple of days ago. 'Stop this, now…p-please, no m-more. K-kill me, p-please…I c-can't…W-why W-watson!' somehow Holmes managed to raise his voice by the end of the sentence and his words turned into a heart-wrenching wail.

'Old boy, you're safe. You're in Mycroft's house and I thought that we already established that all those…unpleasant things that happened to you did not…didn't involve me anyhow,' Watson said gently, without releasing his grip on the arms of the detective. He didn't seem to understand the words at first and reminded Watson of a scared animal that was being shot at and didn't have anywhere to run to.

'But C-cav-vendish s-said that y-you l-lied 'bout that,' Holmes whispered and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed time to think things through in his head. At first Watson kindly helped him go to bed, so that he could get some rest, but then Cavendish appeared and told him that it was all just lies, that he had never been rescued, that Watson still wanted to take his revenge.

'Cavendish?' the doctor replied questioningly, looking up at Mycroft in search of any indications as to what Holmes might be talking about. The elder Holmes shrugged his shoulders, and then kept staring pensively out of the window. 'Like in one of your last cases? This is real, I swear on my life.' The doctor did not dare move any closer to his friend. He wanted to help him so badly, but it seemed to him like Holmes was truly losing his mind. No doubt the tortures he had had to endure would have a profound effect on him, but he needed help especially if that was the case. So far, all his efforts to give it have gone to waste.

'N-n. H-his brother, y-your f-friend,' Holmes spat out. He tried to make his voice sound venomous, stressing the word 'friend' for better effect, but by the time he finished speaking the words were no more than agonised gasps.

'My friend?' Watson turned away from Holmes. He would bet that the people present in the room could hear the wheels in his brain turning, as he was rampaging through his memory in search of an acquaintance of his named Cavendish, who could be anyhow associated with the hanged murderer. The doctor was lost in thought as the rain pounded heavily on the windows, and magically, as he heard a thunder outside, he remembered. He remembered the tall, slim but at the same time well-built soldier who used to talk to him in the evenings sometimes when they were in Afghanistan. The man who praised his brother as if he was some sort of a saint. He remembered the man who for some reason decided that the burden of helping him get the said brother out of trouble a few weeks back rested upon Watson's shoulders. He would be appalled at not remembering him immediately, had he not dismissed his letter without second thoughts and thrown it into the fire almost as soon as he realised who it came from.

'We…I wouldn't describe him as a friend, he is more of an acquaintance really…' Watson whispered, ashamed of himself as the pieces of the puzzle started forming a clear and well-defined picture in his head. 'We used to talk sometimes. He was worried about his brother. I was a doctor, I was the closest thing these men had to normality, so I had to listen.'

Holmes's eyes were fixed on him. The expression on his face showed that he was more than attentive. The detective appeared to be awaiting Watson to attack him and he finally managed to move his maltreated body into a position that would facilitate self-defence best. Not that it would help anyway.

'A few weeks ago, when the case of his brother was concluded, he approached me asking for help. He knew that I was close to you, so maybe he was hoping that you could take your word back or…I don't know. But I turned him down, quite bluntly I am ashamed to admit, old boy…'

Holmes relaxed suddenly, as much as his poor health permitted and laid back against the pillows. His gaze was still not as playful and trustful as it used to be, even simply at the mention of Watson's name, but it seemed to have warmed momentarily. That information was yet another piece of the puzzle, that could maybe help him get the picture of the situation, that he would give his life to see.

'W-why w-would h-he im-impl-lic-c…' As Holmes was trying to finish the sentence, another violent cough ripped through his body. He was so frail that he was about to fall over and roll out onto the floor, and Watson had to support him with his own tired arms. He could see the battle that was going on inside of Holmes. He evidently wanted to trust Watson and to lean against him, believing that he finally found the much needed shelter and safety. On the other hand, the tension that suddenly entered his muscles indicated that he was terrified of yet another cruel act of betrayal.

'I think he might have tried to implicate me in this for revenge. Think about it, that way he could get to us both, old boy. You for catching his brother, me for refusing to help,' Watson mused, only to receive a questioning look from Holmes. 'What?' he asked, seeing blunt surprise painted on the detective's face.

'I w-would n-never t-tell the p-pol-lice ab-bout y-you,' Holmes whispered, seconds before another wave of agony caught him in its relentless grip and made him cry out loud. He felt that if something or somebody didn't catch him right here and there, he would disintegrate into a mass of burning particles. Watson's hand was the closest thing, so held on t it tightly until the worst of the pain passed. He didn't even notice that Watson was grasping his arm in between his two hands, as if trying to prevent the poison from taking his friend away. 'How w-would he g-get t-to you then…th-rough t-this,' the detective rasped out finally.

Even through the black and red mist that clouded his vision, he could see that Watson's face turned unbelievably pale as if somebody had just slapped him on the cheek.

'How dare y…' Watson stopped himself before he could say anything else that had the potential to upset Holmes. 'You…How? How? Do you think that I'm enjoying myself now? Do you think that I like seeing you like this, or having to nurse you through this ridiculous…' Watson didn't manage to finish the sentence, before Holmes tore his hand out of Watson's grasp and to Watson's displeasure, the detective started biting his lip nervously.

'I h-hate being a n-nuis-sance…L-leave n-now,' he finally whispered, without even looking at the doctor.

'Holmes, I didn't mean it to come out like…'

'LEAVE NOW!' It took Holmes every ounce of his remaining strength to muster the harsh reply, but he was more than sick of all this deception, and not understanding anything. He always understood everything, and now the person he used to consider his best friend was confusing him most of all. He didn't even realise he was coughing, and choking on his own sobs, until Mycroft slammed the door shut behind Watson who had just been thrown out of the room by force.

He wouldn't take this any longer. No more lies, no more deception, no more pain and tears and humiliation. He calculated it all, it all made sense, as opposed to Watson, and Cavendish and all this pointless suffering. Mycroft was still by the door, making sure that Watson's attempt to re-enter the room would prove fruitless. It took Holmes a while to move out of bed, especially without avoiding his brother's attention at the same time, but finally he managed. The moment he stood up for the first time, he almost fell down, but thankfully he managed to find leverage against a nearby shelf. Two more steps and he had it. The long thing knife that was laying on the windowsill. Now he just needed to measure it out carefully. They wouldn't be able to do anything if he managed to hit his jugular vein, but with the shaking hands and how weak he already was…

He had to give it a try. If he didn't he would be forced to live with the knowledge that the only happy memories of adventure, of friendship that he used to have were all just lies. His dignity wouldn't allow him for that. Neither would the nerve endings in his body, that kept begging him to put himself out of the physical misery.

He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't see anything. He didn't care about anything, but his hand and the knife. He was almost there, and he almost…smiled, at the thought that this would all be over soon. But of course, his lungs needed to protest, and he almost fell down with the force of the coughs and shivers. He needed to do it now. If he didn't, Mycroft would try to stop him, but he couldn't allow this. He needed to finish.

The moment he tried to raise the knife to his neck again, something wet and soft suddenly covered his nose and mouth and it felt rather funny. He felt rather funny, with his hand going limp almost immediately and dropping the blade to the floor. His knees went only seconds later. The tremors intensified at the very thought of having such a close encounter with the hard wooden floor, but suddenly somebody was holding him and easing him gently to the ground.

'Easy, old boy, easy. You might pass out in a moment, it's fine. But I didn't mean it to come out like this. You're my best friend, Holmes. Like it or not. You're smart, you're strong and I hate seeing you suffer. It hurts me to see you like this. It hurts me that I don't know what to do to help you and it hurts me that you don't even want to see me anymore. That's how Cavendish got to me. And he did a bloody good job.'

Was Watson lying again? Why did everything had to be so confusing? If he was a nuisance, surely, the doctor would have left at the earliest opportunity he just got, but here he was! Maybe he just wanted to keep him alive for his further entertainment? But what he just said…He said they were friends, he said he wanted to help and Holmes knew he needed whatever help he could get. Watson had tried to explain and he pushed him away without listening to an explanation…But what if the explanation was supposed to be just another lie? He couldn't trust him, he couldn't trust anyone…

Holmes tried to reach for the knife again. Maybe they wouldn't notice and he could finish what he started? His finger found the blade, but Watson was quickly prying his thin fingers away from the contraption.

'Old boy, please, trust me. I would never hurt you. I promise. Listen, I think Cavendish might have been coming to find me at Baker Street, maybe he even overheard our quarrel and then got to you…somehow, I wouldn't know,' Watson said with a voice that denoted pure need and desperation.

It made sense. It could have happened like this. The reasoning was valid, but were the premises true? But if they were false, why would Watson keep him alive, if he claimed not to enjoy watching Holmes's ordeal? Suddenly, Holmes felt something different than the overpowering agony. It was unknown and warm, and he liked it, even though he couldn't identify what it was. The story made sense. It made perfect sense. Watson didn't imply it anyhow, he only gave Holmes the facts. It was him who reached the conclusion…Wouldn't Watson suggest it to him if he wanted Holmes to believe him?

This warm feeling returned, unfortunately combined with another surge of pain, and Holmes instinctively draped his arm over Watson's shoulders, needing something to hold on to. At first Watson allowed him to scream as much as he wanted to. There were no words of comfort, no soothing gestures, only making sure that Holmes would do no further damage to himself. Watson suspected that it would be easier for Holmes if he was allowed to let it all out and even though it pained him terribly, he knew without question that Holmes deserved some private space.

His space constricted momentarily though, when another coughing fit decided to attack. A strong pat on the bask was in order, and once Holmes managed to catch his breath, he slumped helplessly in Watson's strong arms. He tried to tell himself that he simply didn't have the strength to escape the doctor's grasp, which wasn't far from the truth, but deep inside he knew that he didn't really want to. Watson's version of the story seemed plausible enough, and Holmes was far more comfortable with hard facts, than empty emotional promises.

His eyes were half-lidded and his arm still draped over Watson's shoulders. The doctor decided to use the opportunity to scoop Holmes up, putting one arm under his knees, and get him back to bed, kicking the knife under it on the way. Watson was terrified at how hot Holmes's skin got. He was definitely running a fever now, as if they didn't have enough problems already. He used fetching some water as an excuse to leave the room for a moment. As soon as he was out, he smashed his fist against a nearby wall. Holmes stopped fighting him, but what if he had a nightmare again and returned to being all deluded and suicidal? What if he got his friend back, only to lose him again? Well, he needed to help him recover anyway, if not as a friend, then at least as a doctor.

Upon entering the bedroom again, he found that Holmes was almost asleep. Watson hated to interrupt his rest, but some things needed to be done first.

'Up. You need to drink, you selfish bastard,' his voice sounded as playful, as he could possibly make it. To his relief, Holmes didn't refuse help with sitting up. Neither did he push away the glass of water offered by Watson's outstretched hands. Not straight away that is, because when the first few sips of the liquid intensified the burning in his throat, he spat it all back out without hesitation.

'I know it's unpleasant, but you have to drink. You know that,' Watson murmured, pushing the glass towards Holmes once again.

'H-he had t-twelve f-fingers I t-think,' Holmes whispered hoarsely, looking up at Watson with a shade of a smile on his face. The doctor had no idea what was going on. It was probably the fever talking. 'C-cav-vendish. S-so 't must h-have b-been a h-hal-lucination. He h-had t-twelve f-fingers….' Holmes smiled at Watson, ignoring the pain and the difficulties with breathing, that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Watson hadn't been lying. Watson hadn't hurt him…Because Cavendish had twelve fingers, and people in real life don't. So it was a dream. Just a bad dream…

Mycroft was standing in the corner, listening to the conversation attentively, unable to hide his joy at his brother's realisation. Watson was doing an even worse job. He needed to swallow past a gulp in his throat and try really hard to make sure that the tears of joy that had gathered in the corners of his eyes didn't roll down his stubble-covered cheeks.

'So you believe me now? Once and for all?' Watson needed to make sure. A huge grin appeared on his face when he received a tentative nod as confirmation. 'Good. Now you need to drink.' This time Holmes shook his head, trying to keep his lips tightly sealed when Watson put a glass of water right next to them.

'I c-can't. 't hurts…' The words were followed by a cough that the detective was evidently trying to supress. Watson shot Mycroft a worried glance and motioned for the elder Holmes to come and join him at Holmes's bedside. The doctor fished a stethoscope out of his Gladstone bag and upon seeing the confusion on his brother's face, Mycroft smoothed back his dark locks.

Watson suspected what he would hear, but he needed to check anyway. The coughing, the conditions Holmes had been kept in, and the constant rattling in the detective's chest told Watson all he needed to know.

'Good God, Holmes,' Watson whispered with a slight tremor in his voice. 'Can't you ever do anything the easy way?'

Holmes coughed once more and grimaced in pain.

Life sucks. So does this chapter, which btw is way too long. Feel free to say it to my face(well, my digital face I guess); alternatively let me know if you want to see some more after this all-time low, and I shall continue littering the Internet. Or tell me if you want a happier re-write and a quick conclusion to the story. I aim to please.