A/N:
1) Sincere thanks for reviews and encouragement goes to: mg333, What1987, amd BBCRules95. As usual, I'll respond via PM to anyone I can.
Also, thanks for all the faves, alerts, etc, it is most encouraging.
2) I know the waiting has been ridiculous. Now I'm up to my neck in college, work and a frikkin garage remodel for family. Whew. Still, my deepest apologies for keeping you all waiting so long.
3) I've been bashing heads with my uncooperative muse yet again. She's flighty, I'm always tired now, so I hope this doesn't dissapoint. Something about it sits funny with me but I can't seem to fix it.
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The sudden crash of breaking glass alerts her to Holmes's changed location, and she dashes to the lavatory, forgetting entirely her caution in a moment of irrational concern which she does not care to analyze, any more than she does the wave of relief when she notices the broken bottle that had fallen from the side of the sink to the floor – iodine tincture, easily replaceable – and finds the detective still standing, however unsteadily, before the mirror, scalpel clutched in the same hand desperately holding onto the porcelain of the sink.
Unthinking, she approaches to steady him, halting all movement when Holmes stiffens – a gesture that would have been a flinch perhaps coming from someone else – and his expression which she sees in the mirror becomes reserved and unreadable, hiding even the pain and weariness that had shown seconds earlier.
He does not speak, either to demand her leaving or to plead for it – the latter she doesn't expect anyway – but the gesture is clear enough. It's also impractical, as trembling the way he is, it is far more likely that he will cut himself with the scalpel than the bandages covering his wounds, and Alexandra intones quietly, voice flat and dead in the effort to not let it shake as both reflections within the space of that small mirror remind her sickeningly of Heilbronn:
"I am not here to injure you, Holmes."
There is a brief tightening of his eyes as her words sink in – whether it is a suppressed wince or a cynical smile, she cannot tell – and only the faintest tone of sarcasm in his otherwise dry tone:
"Why?"
For a second, she thinks of a cynical reply 'ever heard what they say about gift horses?', thinks of pretending they have covered this already, but it's neither the real answer or the question, and she retorts instead, bitterly:
"I imagine you have a theory."
This time, Holmes manages a tight smile – tense and forced like those at Reichenbach when their chess game had just begun – and replies, archly:
"I have several. However, humor me."
It is the answer she fears the most, if only because she doesn't know how to reply, and while trying to come up with something suitable, she moves closer by a step, more hyper-aware of the discomfort this demand for an explanation engenders in her than the logical part of her brain calculating the probability of lethal injury that Holmes could cause her with that scalpel now that she is this close – a small probability even if she's not sure she cares either way.
Forcing the thoughts aside, and growing increasingly uncomfortable with the fact that Holmes is still studying her in the mirror, seeming entirely calm and unafraid - though with his stoicism firmly in place, what he's actually thinking and feeling is beyond incomprehensible – Alexandra finally answers, voice distant, forcibly kept level:
"Were I to harm you further, you likely would not survive – you very nearly didn't – and…. this world is too…. boring without you in it."
This time the flicker of a still-tight smile looks like actual amusement, even as eyes that have seen too much and meet hers in the reflection seem to be seeing past her oversimplification to the ragged edges that grate inside her beneath it all, but he doesn't press the point – he thankfully doesn't try to provoke her to a physical fight – and instead, passes to her the scalpel.
Looking down – mainly to avoid his gaze in the mirror - Alexandra notes that Holmes has returned quickly to his previous position, left hand gripping tightly the edge of the sink for balance, probably the only thing that allows him to keep standing, and knowing that once she cuts the cloths that hold his right arm in place there will be nothing to support it, intones in a pitiful attempt at neutrality:
"This will be easier if you are sitting."
Without waiting for a response, she sets the blade down on the porcelain surface and brings over the only chair in the room, fighting back the irrational urge to offer a steadying hand as Holmes, tired and in obvious pain, all but collapses into it, while internally, she cannot help but be grateful for the man's incredible pragmatism, knowing that more than anyone else he'd have every reason to refuse this assistance from her of all people, but instead thankfully is practical enough not to.
Picking up the blade again, she steps behind him – this is easier if she doesn't have to meet his gaze – and nearly flinches as Holmes suddenly tenses ever so slightly, because his visceral reaction, however well he suppressed it, illustrates only too clearly the parallel created here, of her man coming up from behind the seated detective and driving the hook into his shoulder, and then of her now, standing behind him with another implement with which she could so easily cause him pain – and once would have – and for all that in this moment she has no such intentions, it isn't enough to quell the sharp ache that laces through her chest and twists in her gut, as again she wants to flee, for is this what her life has become now?
Is every second going to bring back those moments?
And what of Holmes?
He seems perfectly calm again despite what that initial involuntary reaction betrayed, but cannot truly be so, having been the one who actually hurt and bled – and almost died - that day.
Shifting so that she is to his side, and kneeling rather than towering above him, Alexandra forces the memories and the inevitable parallels away, reminding herself that the detective doesn't need her making her very presence the cause of any more duress, and takes a calming breath as his posture relaxes ever so slightly, though it's a difference that she only notices because she was looking for it.
Only these involuntary physical gestures will ever give her any perception of his internal state.
It isn't until she reaches up to slice through the bandages and sees her hands in close proximity to his body with so sharp a blade that she realizes she is trembling again, and forcing her hands to be steady as she slides her fingers under the bandages covering his back so that the scalpel doesn't touch him as she cuts through the gauze, says mechanically, unable to look up:
"If you want me to stop, just tell me."
The detective doesn't reply with either word or gesture, to her great relief, because sickeningly she knows that those words were more for her sake than his, and she doesn't know how she could handle a reply whatever its tenor.
It is only now that she is cutting to remove them that Alexandra realizes just how much bandages it had taken the surgeon to safely immobilize the detective's wounded arm, and she distracts herself from the tension building within her by trying to predict how much of this constraining material Holmes will allow her to replace.
It's easier to envision how that conversation will go – because Holmes doesn't strike her as a man who will appreciate being unable to use a particular limb even if he should be leaving it well enough alone – than to allow herself to think of all the reasons why the person doing this should be almost anyone but her, for the sake of his sanity if not her own, even though to the detective's credit, he still seems calm enough.
The next time his stoicism splinters - again for just fractions of a second – is when she carefully peels away the last of the gauze covering the surgical incisions that at least are no longer bleeding but still are angry red lines centered around the cruel wound that necessitated their existence in the first place, and she cringes internally once again as he reacts to the sight.
As always with him, the reaction is subtle. No words, no sound, no overall change in position. Just a clenching of his jaw, and the feeling beneath her fingertips of the musculature in his back become as rigid as the bones which show all too clearly. Just the slightest spike in his heart rate which she has been counting to replace the information his expression will not provide and a flash of … something … which flickers in his eyes before being obscured once again.
She doesn't know if that expression is fear, or remembered agony, or even something more tangible, a wave, perhaps, of sudden pain as the cool air washes over those raw wounds.
She doesn't know if he is remembering what she did then or wondering what had been done to him in the time he has no encompassing awareness of, but in an effort to address the latter at least, Alexandra says quietly:
"Do you know of Dr. Kocher?"
"Yes"
The detective's reply gives nothing away, but being who he is, she supposes it is safe to assume that he knows all there is to know about the man – probably more than the medicos at large do – and she continues, tone still carefully flat:
"He is the one who operated on you."
This time his eyebrows twitch upwards fractionally – it looks like surprise not disbelief – and Alexandra cannot help but imagine that it should come as a surprise that he had the luck of at least the best doctor to work on him, especially as he cannot be a particularly lucky man considering that he crossed paths with her. The thoughts turn bitter as the illusion of luck shatters, because it was never fate that was responsible for their conflict, just them being themselves, and the doctor's later involvement doesn't make up for anything.
Holmes seems to be having an internal conflict of his own, debating with himself asking a question that perhaps he'd rather not have answered – or more likely has no reason to trust an answer from her – and finally asks, wearily:
"And his prognosis was?"
Forcing that scalpel between her ribs might have hurt less than the sudden wringing in her chest, both from the memory of the answer and the fact that she can sense in his tired tone that barely conceals a hint of bitterness the truth that he had long since resigned himself to the reality of what she has taken from him – and the doctor's own words echo in her mind with the weight of a sentence:
"Those diabolical fiends who did this…"
"… what he suffered is beyond comprehension…"
Forcing aside the memories, including that of the doctor telling her that his patient was lucky to be alive – before the fever had set in – she forces herself to answer, failing to keep this unnamed emotion from cracking her tone though she hopes it's not particularly obvious:
"He couldn't be certain. He has never before attempted to treat a patient …"
Choking back the words 'so grievously wounded' which demand to be voiced, she finishes hastily:
"… with such extensive damage, so he could not say. He did however advise that you not use that arm in the least for the next six weeks though – to minimize internal scarring."
Holmes only nods in response, expression again carefully blank, and the conversation dies as abruptly as it had began.
She thinks of the surgeon telling her that there was a possibility of significant recovery – that he could in fact recover a complete range of movement in the joint even if the healing would likely never be complete – but she also cannot help but remember his evaluation of such a fortunate outcome being unlikely in the extreme, and cannot bring herself to comment further, only wondering if the futile emotion mixing with the bleakness of despair is hope – and if so, why is hope so painful.
It is Alexandra who breaks the suffocating silence this time, recollecting the surgeon's insistence that proper nutrition and hygiene were both central to his patient's recovery – and unsettling as this is there is no avoiding it:
"Do you think you can eat?"
This time Holmes's near-convulsive swallow has likely more to do with forcing back nausea and less to do with duress – if only because he'd been thin before and now he's likely anorexic – and he replies with a barely noticeable shake of his head.
For her own part, Alexandra doesn't argue; after fighting this hard, Holmes isn't likely to give up now, and even if he doesn't want to eat he's intelligent enough to recognize that he needs to.
Besides, her next question is about to make everything infinitely more awkward, but there is no avoiding it either; the stitched gashes on his head are more inflamed than they should be at this stage, and the last thing he needs is a new infection:
"Understandable. How do you feel about bathing?"
This time the expression he replies with is more than a little cynical, and before he can deflect with a witty retort, Alexandra amends hastily:
"Dr. Kocher's recommendation, not mine."
Holmes still says nothing, studying her with an intensity that leaves Alexandra feeling uneasy enough that a crack in the tiles suddenly becomes incredibly fascinating, and increasingly tense –what was she thinking when she asked this – she continues tiredly:
"right, uh, well, you don't possess anything I haven't seen already."
The detective's eyebrows hike up even higher than before, disappearing under his unruly locks, and though she thought she had long outgrown the capacity for embarrassment, there is no denying that statement hadn't quite been phrased right, so in an effort to set the record straight, even if Holmes seems more amused by her discomfiture than scandalized, she continues, reluctantly:
"When I pulled you out of the water, you were so cold that the only way I could think of to keep you alive was direct contact without the majority of those soaked garments in the way – a little bit of experience passed down by my maternal grandfather. They have good reason to know how to address these eventualities in Norway."
It's all true, and irrelevant when one considers the fact that she has never had much of a use for social norms, and as for Holmes, impropriety will never be her worst crime against his person, but realizing that she has been progressively speaking faster as her nerves became more of an issue, Alexandra closes her mouth firmly, determined not to say another word since everything she has managed in the past moments has done nothing but increase her mortification – and of course she fails miserably when Holmes says calmly – too calmly:
"Very well."
"What?" she chokes out, before wordlessly moving to draw the bath, realizing only in retrospect after she has turned around to allow him to shed his knickers and step in, covering the lower half of the tub with a towel to give some measure of privacy, that this isn't trust – which he'd have to be lacking faculties to give anyway – but rather an experiment, because he tenses with her every move – as well he should - and yet he still allows this proximity, she imagines, to facilitate his study of her.
Holmes surely has nerves of steel, she thinks once again with more than a little admiration as she exits the room to add wood to the fire and place clean sheets upon his bed – what's the point of finally removing all that dried blood and sweat if he doesn't have a fresh place to sleep – and yet there is no denying that her presence here is wrong for more reasons than she can begin to enumerate.
When she finishes, she returns, finding Holmes struggling to wash his back since his wounds are still too raw to permit him to sit lower in the water, and without thinking, trying not to visibly react to the enormous amount of dried blood on his back that is all too noticeable against his unhealthy pallor and the dark blue bruises – blood she spilled – she says quietly:
"May I?"
The full import of her presumption only strikes her with the detective's sharp turn to look her way, but he's too practical – or unhealthily inquisitive perhaps - to refuse, and instead passes the sponge to her.
It is a lengthy process, because the doctors had cleaned what they needed when operating, but there was so much that by default most of it had remained, and with his ribs broken and so many bruises from the falls – also from when she had dropped him at Heilbronn – any more pressure would be painful, and though it cannot begin to compare to the agony she has already caused him, he doesn't need to hurt more.
What she has done to him – and her very presence – is hell enough and, she admits to herself, not a suffering he ever had deserved.
Holmes still tenses subtly with her every move, but he seems outwardly calm, still studying her for all that she cannot meet his gaze, and finally, unable to breathe in the tense silence, unwilling to dwell upon the dusty copper saturating the water or the angry red incisions just visible on his shoulder in her peripheral vision and the lines of pain around his eyes, Alexandra asks:
"Sicily. How did you know?"
There is a subtle shift in his expression, then what looks like indecision, and reminding herself that he has no reason to want to explain his methods to a criminal - much less when the last time she'd asked a question he hadn't been inclined to answer, her retaliation almost killed him - she hastily adds:
"Never mind. I don't require you to answer."
For a time that seems enough, because Holmes returns to his previous state of superficial calm, and as a result, when he does speak, composed but all in the same breath, it takes her by surprise:
"The climate is indicative of a location in the Mediterranean but the language on the medical supplies on the dresser is Italian.
We could have been in Italy, but you have been on a boat, standing near the prow on the port side. Salt spray leaves a very characteristic pattern that is directly correlated with an individual's position on a nautical vessel. The density of the spray suggests a small boat, not a cruise ship, which is consistent with the port closest to the township where the particular dialect of Italian that the apothecary's note is written in predominates. Obviously you were not dressed like this in the open, but you have done nothing to change your hair since arrival. Now it is possible that you had been on a boat to Sicily or some other island, and returned, or that we traveled further, though the amount of salt spray in your hair counters both theories, but it is in this matter that the apothecary's note is most instructive. The ink he used, on that kind of paper, shows a drying pattern that would put the writing of the note at under a day ago - under twelve hours to be precise. Taking into consideration that limited hours of service of such establishments, you had to have been at that specific apothecary in Italy this morning at the earliest. Finally judging from the color of the sky and my physical state which indicates that I have missed at most two weeks, thereby allowing me to have a fair idea of what time the sun sets, and the fact that in this time you have also managed to arrange transport for us over a considerable distance from the port - drawing on the lack of audible signaling horns and the pervasive smell of burnt coal – and present travel speeds on the smaller boats, any travel beyond a one-way journey from Italy to Sicily would have been infeasible."
"You" … 'are perfect', she cannot help but think in reply, instead finishing with:
"… observed all that in under twenty seconds?"
Holmes shrugs carefully – with only his left arm – and replies, suddenly sounding utterly exhausted, as if his lengthy rapid-fire explanation had taken all the energy left in him:
"There were other clues, but those were the principal ones."
Seeing yet another facet of how his mind works, there is little wonder that he had won over her and her father, and despite that defeat which should grate, she cannot help a fractional smile which she hopes Holmes hasn't noticed – not because this is a predatory expression, but because this once it is pure admiration, adulterated only by the threat that it might crack under the weight of her mistreatment of him, of the price he paid for being brilliant enough that they'd never have let him survive – and she sighs:
"Correct as always, Mr. Holmes."
This time there is no mistaking the bitterness in his tone, as he quietly replies:
"Not always."
For just seconds, she thinks his expression cycles from fond remembrance to devastating loss and finally bitterness again – or maybe it's only what he wants her to see – maybe it doesn't matter because whatever he remembers is in the past and immutable, or perhaps whoever he remembers is beyond her reach.
Then the guarded stoicism is back, pain bubbling beneath the surface, and regretting having brought about this latest turn of events, Alexandra says nothing more as she pours water so that he can wash and rinse his hair, nor does she speak when she blindly helps wrap a dressing gown around him and steadies him as not to slip on the wet tiles as they return back to the chair before the mirror so that she can re-bandage his wounds.
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