Chapter Thirteen

A little more than two weeks of healing and Watson could not help the frustration that crept up on him at the thought of his current circumstances. It was difficult enough learning he'd lost two whole weeks. But now there was no doubt he would lose several more as his body healed itself. Despite the numerous lumps to his skull, his memories seemed otherwise intact. He could easily recall everything up to the melee that had left him unconscious. He even remembered a great deal of Holmes' music and what had happened after. The question remained: What was he to do about all of it?

He had set out to start over, to try to find a way to make things right. He wondered if he even could make things right, but even that doubt had not been enough to stop him from trying. Now he sat alone in the hospital staring out the window wrapped in his thoughts and they always came back to the same questions over and over. Holmes had been there. He had seemed to listen. So where was he now? Why had he left? Had he ever really been there or had that part just been another fever dream his mind had conjured knowing he was going to die? Maybe it had just been a way for him to find closure when he realized he wasn't going to survive another night.

After two days of these thoughts chasing themselves around his head over and over in a frustrating circle, Watson had begun to question many things. Mrs. Hudson had been by, and Lestrade. Neither would say anything about Holmes, and Watson didn't feel he had a right to ask. He didn't blame Holmes, really. This whole mess had been his own fault. If he'd only realized sooner that he was placing so much unnecessary pressure on his dear friend...

But how to make Holmes understand now seemed almost impossible. He'd confronted the truth of his own failings and mistakes. Even at the best of times Holmes had never been receptive to emotional confrontations. It was the whole reason Watson had kept so much to himself these last several months. How could he make Holmes understand what he was trying to do to make it right without first having to explain why he'd ended up as he was in the first place?

Facing Holmes, especially now, was something he was not mentally or emotionally prepared for yet. He knew he would need time to re-order his thoughts into something approaching a rational and detached manner his friend would appreciate. And his current state of physical weakness was most assuredly not helping. He knew it would put him in an even more dependent frame of mind. Disgusted with himself and his situation, he could not even begin to fathom what his next move to be. The farthest he could plan at this point was trying to find a way to get out of this hospital. More than anything at that moment, he just wanted a quiet place he could be more comfortable and deal with all these things alone.

~o~o~o~

The forlorn figure wrapped in blankets staring unseeing out of a nearby window didn't even realize he was being observed.

"They tell me you're not eating."

The scowl Watson had not realized he was directing out the window transformed into mute shock as he turned to see Holmes standing respectfully a few feet away, a brown bag in one hand and walking stick in the other.

A moment later Watson carefully dropped his expressionless mask into place as he recovered enough to answer. "I was not aware my eating habits were being monitored so closely."

To anyone else, Holmes' expression didn't change. Only to one who knew him so well as Watson was there any visible difference. It was not anything he could name specifically, but the fact that he had received a verbal response at all—even in such a hollow voice made carefully devoid of emotion—turned his somewhat fearful expression into one softened by something akin to hope. Finally meeting Watson's gaze, Holmes' asked silent question to approach. Though Watson nodded almost instantly, Holmes could not have missed the slightest hesitation in the gesture and the carefully wary expression that took over Watson's features.

Fetching a nearby chair, Holmes sat the brown bag beside him on the floor as he settled himself. His mind spinning more rapidly than he could ever remember, he attempted yet again to organize his thoughts. He knew the slightest mistake on his part would be the end. All his attempts to repair the situation and make things right with his dear friend would be lost in this one encounter if he slipped even the slightest. Never before could he remember being so afraid at something so simple as speaking to another person.

Of course, he'd never before been in a position to have to beg forgiveness for anything, either.

"You're looking better," Watson finally stated, eying his friend carefully; the wary expression never leaving his eyes.

"As are you, I'm glad to see," Holmes said sincerely, if softly.

With a snort of amusement, Watson again turned his gaze back out the window. "I imagine anything was better than the last time you saw me."

Holmes, not really feeling the humor at this point, was put even further off by this darker humor his friend now displayed. Though, in truth, he could not blame him.

"Starvation or eviction?"

Holmes had yet to even formulate a response to the last statement when this question threw him completely off. "Beg pardon?"

Never turning his eyes from the window in the opposite direction Holmes was now sitting, he clarified, "I take it Mrs. Hudson sent you, as a result of not coming voluntarily. Given your state of health, you're not suffering any injuries or illnesses that would have kept you away."

Holmes was gratified to hear at least some concern tinge his friends words, despite their emotionless delivery.

"Therefore, something must have inspired your presence here. Knowing Mrs. Hudson, either she burned your breakfast beyond edibility, or she threatened to evict you—again."

Now it was Holmes' turn to snort in amusement. "Well, if you must know, it was neither. I was taking the advice of a doctor I had the pleasure of living with, who seemed to think that sleep and food were essential to my health."

Though this was delivered with all of Holmes' usual dry humor, Watson's expression of wary uncertainty quickly became a frown. Something behind that curiously thoughtful expression made put him on the alert. Something had just occurred to Watson, and it was something very important to him. Much to Holmes' disappointment, he still did not turn away from the window. Normally when uncertain of his friend's humor, Watson would carefully gauge his reaction by searching Holmes' expression. Today he only wiped the expression from his face and sighed heavily.

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Watson finally asked, just as Holmes was about to apologize for his inappropriate sense of humor.

Taken aback by the direct question laced with weariness and the use of his title, Holmes couldn't help but sigh in defeat himself. He had wondered how this would play out, and such a coolly direct question was not one he had hoped. In response, though, he knew he had to be as direct, or Watson would not accept him any other way.

With some trepidation he started, "I was wondering—if you were up to it, of course—whether you're ready to come home."

By the time he finished there was a tremor in his voice even he could not deny. There was a carefully concealed sense of almost unspeakable fear that he would again be met with a harsh rejection. Though he knew it was no less than he deserved, he could not stop his mind internally cringing away in fear of Watson's response. To his surprise, however, Watson did finally turn to face him. The combination of guarded hope tainted with wariness was one that made his heart twist all the more painfully. Rejection could not have hurt as much as the hope he saw in those bright green eyes. It was a measure of how badly Holmes had hurt him that the man was even wary of such an offer; as if he no longer belonged there in those rooms on Baker Street. Not for the first time that day, Holmes wondered if there was anything could do to rectify the situation.

Home.

Holmes could almost hear the word ringing through his friend's thoughts, as if he doubted to ever think of Baker Street as home again. Silently, he forced himself to meet Watson's questioning gaze steadily and nod just slightly. After a moment Watson's gaze transformed from one of hope and wariness to consideration. From consideration it darkened considerably, and Holmes knew he had made his decision.

"Very well, then," Watson replied levelly. "So long as it gets me out of here."

This less than encouraging answer was still more than he had any right to expect. Hiding his own rising hope, he lifted the bag he had set beside the chair. "Good. I took the liberty of bringing you some clothes. I'll go fetch a cab."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Watson said, rather stiffly.

Not stopping to puzzle out Watson's reply, Holmes hurried out of the room. He knew it would take a while since his friend was not likely to be able to dress himself, so he notified a passing nurse on his way out. His thoughts continued to tumble around mercilessly as he waited in the cold, crisp air outside the hospital. His attempts to analyze every nuance of his recent conversation seemed to keep tripping over his attempts to plan out his next actions. For now, the most important hurdle had already been cleared. He has greatly feared Watson would not agree to come back. Had such been the case, a housekeeper and new set of rooms somewhere would have been swiftly setup. Holmes had no intention of leaving Watson here alone in this place to recover. Now that that part was over with, he would need to carefully find out if Watson would accept his help, or if he would need to contact Dr. Cummings down the street to assist. Holmes was under no illusion that Watson's numerous injuries were going to heal swiftly, and his friend would not be in any condition to tend to them himself.

Holmes, himself, did not for one moment doubt it had been a miracle that saved his friend's life—more than once—since this miserable business began. But he was at a loss for what do next. For now, he focused on getting Watson back where he belonged. Once safely ensconced back in his room at Baker Street, at least there would be opportunities. Maybe Mrs. Hudson...

Holmes took hold of himself. Speculation on his part at this point would only further frustrate him. For once in his life he had to relinquish control and accept the fact that this was Watson's game now. He would have to decide the next move when and if he felt up to it. The one thing he did know for a certainty was that he would accept Watson's decision whatever it may be. So long as he was alive, there was always a chance for something more.