Author's Note: Hello again, I'm back. Sorry it took a few days ((ducks as rotten vegetables are thrown)) but here is the next chapter!
Part of the reason it took so long is work/school and part of it is that I meticulously attempted to get Holmes' voice just right.
I even read the chapter out loud in my best English accent and my 'what i think Holmes sounds like' voice. Which was hard, considering I'm American and female. My cat, at least, was amused. Although I still think his voice isn't perfect, it is about as good as I can get it, I think.
Please let me know what you think. I appreciate all of you who have been reading and reviewing, you guys, to put it mildly, rock. :)
There is mild language in this next chapter, nothing horrid. Oh, btw, in case you didn't know, an ewer is what they call the pitcher that goes with a washing basin. :)
Holmes
The clock in the sitting room chimes; it is well past midnight, making it two days now, two days that Watson has been in danger of losing his life. I am still confounded as to why my mind insists on replaying the events of these days—it is not at all a rational thing to do—yet whenever I close my eyes I still see Watson, battered and bleeding, the glint of a shard of mirror at his neck. And of course, when I open them, I see Watson here and now, lying in my bed restlessly, trembling and unconscious.
These images do nothing to allay the cold worm of nausea presently squirming up my throat. I have always felt that people who claim to feel physically ill upon seeing someone else's pain were deluding themselves and letting their emotions get the better of them. This is not a comfortable thought, because right now I do feel ill myself—I am quivering almost as much as Watson is. Either I have been too hard in the past and I am less in control than I think or I am coming down with something and feeling my own symptoms. Regardless, I must maintain my pretense of calm. Emotions lead only to mistakes. Mistakes and pain. They also lead to friendship, old fellow, Watson's voice replies in my head. And to love.
His voice sounds quite real and I look down, asking half ashamedly, "Watson?"
Naturally he does not respond—I must really get myself under control; I cannot afford to go off on flights of fancy. Frowning, I touch an un-bandaged part of his forehead with my tremulous fingers—he is boiling. Blast it! So far Dr. Michener's advice has been worth less than nothing—I mixed the powders and gave the first dose to Watson, but there has been no change, except, perhaps, an increase in his sweating.
Patience, Holmes, these things take time, Watson again speaks silently. In other circumstances I might have smiled—it seems my Boswell has gotten so far past my defenses he is even inside my head.
I look down—he is sweating heavily; the dressing gown Dr. Michener changed him into is quite damp and several rivulets run down his forehead from beneath the bandage. His face, which had been so pale, is now red—not slightly flushed—red. I have already pulled all but the thinnest bed linens off of him, but still he radiates heat.
I once thought inactivity was the worst thing that could happen to me, but I know now that it is inactivity and helplessness. Helplessness to aid Watson.
His lashes flutter and I grip his hand—will he wake up? Be lucid? He does not actually open his eyes, but his hand in my own suddenly returns my grip.
"Watson?" My voice sounds rather like I would imagine his would—feeble. I clear my throat with disgust; emotional displays will not help my friend. "Can you hear me, old chap?"
His brow furrows, he shifts, and turns his head on the pillow. "Wha…"
It is not a question, it is barely even a word, and yet I am sure of what he is asking.
"You've a fever, Watson, you were injured and you've gone into a fever." This time, at least, my voice is stronger, but the rolling queasiness, which I am beginning to realize is worry—more than worry, dread—is as strong as ever in my stomach.
"Cool…cloths," he moans, taking a deep, flinching breath. No doubt my friend has detected my uncertainty of how to help him, even though he is not quite conscious; he has always been far better at deducing emotions than I. "Wet."
Of course. His medical advice is indispensable even when he is the patient! I clear my throat hurriedly at my next thought—he is indispensable. And it is true. I have sat here with him and tried to imagine life without him and I cannot. Probably because there wouldn't be one.
Although I hate to release his hand and leave him even for a short time, I get up and pour water from the ewer into the basin on my wash stand. Not for the first time, I reflect on how I am not the best man to tend to a sick person. I am naturally impatient and utterly unaccustomed to offering sympathy. But this is Watson and so I will blunder through for his sake. Somehow all of my constraints and rules, all of my planning and my resolve to remain unattached, none of it, has ever applied to him; he has somehow wheedled his way past my defenses.
For instance, I think ruefully, now eviscerated is my rule of staying away from sick beds, not for fear of contagion, but of a dread of the emotions often evoked by such a setting. And what deuced emotions they are.
A shuddering sigh of pain and what sounds like a whisper of my name from Watson causes me to glance over at him and fumble with the towel in my hands. "Hold on, Watson," I murmur, hoping that he can hear me from somewhere in his delirium. "I'm coming."
After thoroughly wetting the towel, I wring it out slightly then place it on Watson's neck. I grab another wet cloth and open the top of his dressing gown, putting the cloth on his chest. Other than making sure I have the fever powder mixed and ready to give him two tablespoons three times a day, the only other way I know to combat a fever is, as Watson himself suggested, to keep the patient cool.
"H'mes." He seems to be struggling toward consciousness and he shudders and tries to lurch upright, gasping at the pain movement causes.
"Easy there, old fellow. Remain still." I take one of his hands in mine and then place my other on his shoulder lightly.
"H'mes?" This is a question—a plea, I would say, if it wasn't coming from my strong Watson—and I blink rapidly, trying to erase the burning sensation in my chest, the dampness of my eyes.
"I'm here, Watson, I shan't leave you, I'm right here." My voice cracks slightly and I frown with annoyance, although all is forgotten the second he opens his eyes and meets mine.
"There's somethin'…" Watson's voice is thick and his hazel eyes are fever bright and full of pain, and I catch my breath when I see them. "Somethin'…I…" He cuts himself off and groans, putting his free hand to his head. "Needta…'member…"
I knit my brows together, is he merely confused or is he trying to tell me something? "You're alright, Watson, you're home now and Miss Samira is safe," I say, just in case.
Again he shudders, his breath sounding strained, and I grip his hand as he lets out a short cough. "'S not…tha'…I-I know…there's somethin'…I needta tell…you…somethin' I…forgot…but…I can't—can't 'member," his voice breaks off and turns into a groan, his forehead creased with pain and his mouth in a tight line.
"It's alright, you can tell me later, Watson," I murmur, not wanting him to be so upset. "You need to rest, regain your strength."
He opens his eyes again, but he is not looking at me. In fact, he no longer seems at all lucid as he begins to shiver once more, a little at first, and then convulsively. I quickly pull the cloth off his chest and dunk it in the bowl, and before I touch his skin I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. His fever is getting worse. I really need to get his medical bag and attempt to take his temperature, but I hate to leave him, so I gingerly dab his face with the washcloth and then put it back on his chest. He takes no notice of me, just stares at the door fixedly. I do not like his expression; it is almost as if he is working himself into a state of extreme anxiety—
"Not the falls!" Watson's cry interrupts my thoughts and he jerks upright at the same moment I myself start at his outburst. He wrenches upright as if to get out of the bed and for a second I am frozen, unable to move at the unmistakable anguish in his voice. He is talking about Reichenbach Falls, I realize, but even though I feel an almost physical pain in my chest, I hurriedly move, catching Watson in my arms as he slumps forward.
"I—I'm here, Watson," I whisper, gently laying him back down on to the pillow. What else can I say? And then I think of one thing, something I would be too proud, too embarrassed to say if the situation was different, if I was certain that he could hear me. "I'm sorry."
He takes in a shuddering breath. "…falls…"
If I thought I was in an uncomfortable situation before it was double so now—I doubt I shall ever feel this particular blend of sorrow, worry, anger, and guilt again. And why does everything always go back to those blasted falls?
"Watson?" No response. "Watson, you listen to me." My voice is harsher than I mean for it to be, so I clear my throat and put my hand over his. "I am here, right here, with you now. I am not—" I pause and consider my words, for once wishing I had a little of Watson's natural skill with words of sensitivity. "I am not going to leave you again." I swallow. "Ever. So…" My voice is quiet, as though I am afraid someone will hear, but I finish it. I say, "So don't you dare think of leaving me."
I flush a little at my own demonstration, but it has the desired effect—Watson opens his eyes again and then focuses on my face. I can tell he recognizes me, and all at once I feel like letting out a shuddering breath of my own.
"Holmes." His voice is suddenly clear and he grasps my wrist. "The message."
He squeezes my wrist and then he is unconscious again, utterly still. So still that I place my hand on his chest, relieved when I feel its uneven rising.
'The message,' he had said. What message? I shake my head—probably he was lost in a past case, not thinking clearly, and even if his words are relevant I cannot think about it now, I can only think of him and make sure he survives the night.
I re-dampen the towels repeatedly—his fever is raging now so that his skin seems to drain the cloths dry in minutes—and I wait. I am notoriously not one for waiting. If it wasn't for the sound of the clock in the sitting room chiming occasionally, I would think I was trapped in some sort of nightmarish limbo where time has stopped. Another fanciful thought—really, I hardly recognize myself.
Am I still Sherlock Holmes, cold-hearted, unfeeling, ruthless in my pursuit of justice? And if so, how is it that I would forfeit everything I hold dear—my own life, truth, even justice itself, if only Watson would be well…
I do not take my eyes off of Watson even as I go to the washstand to dip the cloth in the basin. His breathing remains labored, his fever high, and occasionally he mutters or thrashes in his fever-dreams. I reapply the cool rags, praying for it all to pass. He should drink something, I know, but I do not have a glass in the room and I hate to leave him. Soon, though, I will have to go and get a glass as well as his medical bag—he will have need of them before the night is through.
As Watson lets out a particularly heart-wrenching groan and strikes out at an invisible foe, I hold his shoulders and give up on entirely hiding my emotions; I would settle for controlling them at all. "It's only me," I whisper urgently to him. "You're alright."
He finally quiets under my firm restraint and eventually settles into a stillness that is just as unnerving as his feverish struggles.
After a few minutes of watching his steady, if ragged, breathing, I think that perhaps now is the time to fetch the necessary supplies. I will be quick, I am an adept sprinter, but the thought still twists my stomach.
I need to monitor his fever. He needs to stay hydrated. Although true, neither thought comforts me. It is as though I am afraid he will vanish if I leave for an instant.
"Watson, I'm not leaving, I am fetching supplies. I will return momentarily."
He makes no response and the now familiar, if still annoying, bulge in my throat doubles in size as I move quickly out the door before I change my mind.