CONTENT NOTICE: the following story contains some dark imagery and themes. It is not explicit or graphic, but some imagery (paragraph 6), may be upsetting to certain audiences. Please feel free to send me a message for a full spoiler warning of what to expect.

I was quite certain by the time I threw open the curtains that Sherlock Holmes had no idea I was even home. He sat on the floor half-leaning against the couch as I opened the window. His head was buried in the cushions, his arms were covering it, his upper torso was on the couch, his bum was on the floor, and his legs were jutting out in odd angles. Overall, he gave the vague impression of the carnival contortionist.

Chilly air seeped into the room and I welcomed it despite my own discomfort. Like a hard frost, perhaps it would cover this room and kill off whatever in the atmosphere was poisoning my friend as easily as it could kill the mosquitoes that poisoned my patients with the ague. As I took in the sight of Baker Street in the light, however, I knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

Holmes looked horrid. He was unwashed, unshaven, pale, and hadn't eaten in several days if my medical instincts were correct, which they usually were when it came to him though he didn't always let me act on them. I could only hope he would this time. He was dressed in a dirty, wrinkled, sweat stained nightshirt and his ratty, old dressing-gown. Nothing else, I noticed with a grimace, not even stockings. The fire was stone cold and likely had been that way for some time, and so I was sure he must be as well.

Baker Street itself was a mess. Of course, the usual mess that accumulates whenever I leave him for more than a few nights at a time was in evidence: chemistry equipment on the kitchen table, dust and smoke hanging in the air, papers strewn about haphazardly, the contents of my desk drawers dumped on the floor, and several new stains on Mrs. Hudson's rug that he would, inevitably, claim were there before I left. Really, sometimes I dreaded leaving Baker Street like a parent dreads turning their back on a rambunctious toddler for a minute.

This time, however, what was most concerning was the mess close to his person. He had torn nearly every page out of my brand new sketchbook and the pages were around him. Those he hadn't drawn on he had pushed away carelessly and the others were all circling him, resting on his lap, dangling from slack fingers, and shoved in the pockets of his dressing-gown.

I picked one up, and shivered. He had drawn a woman. She had long, flowing hair and was wearing a simple dress. And she was hanging. She was limp, lifeless, and haunting in appearance. Holmes had drawn her, the rope, the tree, and a single figure in the foreground silhouetted and watching her. It was a gruesome drawing, and whatever it signified was not good. I shuddered once more, thinking of what had happened to prompt Holmes to sketch such grotesque scenes. What had happened while I was away? What new horrors had these rooms seen?

I shook my head to banish away some dark thoughts of my own and set myself to doing what I could. After all, whatever had happened was past and I couldn't change it. Wishing that I'd never left or that things could be different wouldn't do either of us any good, I knew that as well as any man. Holmes and both were men haunted by plenty of regrets already.

First, I built a new fire in the room, starting it with the torn but unused pages of my now useless sketchbook. I gathered the other pages, noticing they were all variations on the same theme. Some were just of the woman's face, twisted in anger and death. Some showed more detail, some less. Some had the woman's spirit attacking the observer in the foreground. I placed them neatly on his desk. I didn't want to destroy them in case they ended up being important, but I was hoping he'd have the sense to get rid of them himself. I didn't want to look at them.

"Holmes?" I called softly, kneeling a bit stiffly on the floor beside him. He didn't respond, so I called his name again and touched his shoulder gently.

He stirred slightly and groaned. "Go 'way, woman," He mumbled, face still hid in the couch cushions. "I told you to go 'way."

"Your faculties of observation must be severely damaged, "I chided him gently, "if you think I am a woman."

Finally, he peeked out at me. "Watson!" He exclaimed, his voice ragged as if he'd been sobbing. He grabbed my shirt front in a tight fist and his eyes were wide and frightened. I pulled a couple nearby blankets out of the mess on the floor and covered him as he stared at me and grasped my shirtfront.

"It can't be," he breathed, "it hasn't been that long. You're supposed to be gone until next week. What day is it?" he demanded. "Have I gone mad? Have I..."

"Shh, Holmes," I soothed him, landing my hand on his shoulder once more and using the other to extricate my shirt from his fingers and taking that hand in my own. "You are right. I'm home early." What I didn't voice was that our dear Mrs. Hudson had wired and begged me to return as soon as possible.

Naturally, I'd feared the worst and had immediately made plans to come home. I'd been in Scotland for a medical conference and was supposed to have given a small lecture, the first in a long time, but it was not to be. I'd let the organizers know, had provided them with my script, and had left for home on the soonest available train. My in the medical community was already damaged due to my 'deplorable works of fiction unfit of a doctor of England,' and had certainly suffered even more as a result, but I was glad I hadn't waited, now, seeing Holmes like this. I didn't have many patients, but the ones I did have trusted me and recommended me to others and so did the few colleagues I knew personally. Abandoning the conference could only hurt me so much.

Holmes blinked at me, as if regaining his sight after a period of blindness. "I was going to…" he said, gesturing vaguely around him with his free hand at the mess he'd made.

"It doesn't matter," I replied with a shrug, though in truth seriously doubting he would have come out of his black mood and cleaned a single thing. Really, it was unlikely that he'd have cleaned even if he was in a wonderful mood the day I had been supposed to return.

"You can tell me everything later," I assured him. "For now, you know full well I will not allow you to continue like this. What do you want first? A bath or a nap?"

"No!" He exclaimed, his eyes wide and his hands beginning to shake. I squeezed the one I held in a way I hoped was reassuring.

"No naps," he continued. "No sleep. I've been having… visions, Watson." His eyes were glazed over as if he was having one now. "Horrible dreams," he whispered.
"She is haunting me. I relive it over and over, each time more horrible, until I don't quite know what I saw. I don't know what's real. My own memory is untrustworthy. I hate this, Watson. I am going mad. How do you do it? How do you live with such dreams? Such demons? Forgive me, my friend, if I've ever been unsympathetic to you."

"A bath, then," I sighed. I stood and grabbed him by his underarms to pulled him onto the couch, which was a bit of a chore as he remained limp and unwilling to help me. He did not fight me or scream at me as he had in the past, however, and so I allowed myself to be a bit hopeful. Also providing hope was the lack of any cocaine usage as far as I could judge. At least I wouldn't have to be dealing with that, too.

I filled a cup with water and held it to his lips, stubbornly keeping it there until he took it from me and began to drink. I left him with more water and some scones with honey on to tempt him to eat while I hesitantly left to draw him a bath. I made sure it was only hot enough to warm him and not to shock him, for his body was cold and he'd been so for some time. He couldn't plunge into a bath too hot or it would hurt him. I added plenty of soap into the water so perhaps he'd be somewhat clean when he came out even if he didn't bother to do anything but sit in it. When it was ready, I found that he had dutifully eaten the scones and drank the water, but he wasn't at all interested in so much as answering me when I informed him his bath was ready and he didn't have a choice whether he was going in or not.

Eventually, I half-dragged him to the tub, yanked the horrid old dressing-gown off of his arms with a bit more violence than strictly necessary, and deposited him in the tub nightshirt and all. He gasped when he hit the water and glared at me as if I'd betrayed him, but he said nothing. I only responded by placing a new nightshirt and the very fine, warm dressing-gown I had bought him for his birthday near the tub and leaving him to either clean himself or drown. Or, more likely, sit in the water and sulk.

Holmes stayed in the washroom for an hour and a half, time I used well. I hid the ratty, old robe in the back of his closet, reorganized my desk, put his files back in their proper places, cleaned and put away his chemistry equipment, and dusted the whole place. Finally, I shut the windows now that the air was clear. The room, now livable again, slowly began to warm, and I was content with my work if a bit tired and sore.

It would take more than this to break Holmes out of his black mood, but my presence and the clean room was a good start. As soon as it was possible I'd pick some of the spring flowers that were blooming despite it still being cold outside. Whatever Holmes liked to say about romanticism being rubbish, he liked flowers. Having them around sometimes cheered him, and I was willing to try anything. I'd even bought flower seeds and pots for him once as if we had a garden to tend in our sitting room. The flowers hadn't done well, unfortunately, and we'd donated the pots to Mrs. Hudson who used them for her plants which thrived.

I was thinking about flowers when, vaguely, I heard a tapping from beyond me. It was Morse code, a common way Holmes and I communicated between rooms. We did it both to keep ourselves in practice and because we could both be, at times, incredibly lazy, and Mrs. Hudson didn't like us shouting through the walls when we were in separate rooms. Tapping Morse Code for short messages was Holmes' idea, and quite effective at that. The tapping came again, and now that I was listening I picked out what he was trying to say.

'W-A-T-S-O-N,' Holmes tapped.

'Y-E-S,' I tapped back.

'C-O-M-E,' he tapped, and so I did.

I found him sitting on the edge of the wash tub. His head was down and his shoulders were slumped, but he was washed and groomed and wrapped in his warm dressing gown. He flicked his eyes up towards me sadly and I understood what he needed. I gave him my good arm to lean on and brought him back to the living room, laying him down on the couch and covering him with several blankets to help keep him warm, as he'd begun shivering after his body had warmed up and then cooled again.

I made a sandwich for him from the cold ingredients Mrs. Hudson had left for us, and he ate it slowly as he and fought to stay awake. He was, however, exhausted and weak from the days without food or rest. He wouldn't ask me for anything to help him, wasn't speaking or looking at me at all, really, and so I took matters into my own hands. I dosed his tea with a sleeping agent and hid the traces of it with honey and milk. He was too tired to expect the ruse and didn't even seem to notice. Soon, he was fast asleep. It was almost frightening: he was still as a corpse and as pale, but I knew he would both feel and look better when he woke. I just hoped I would be able to keep him on the road to recovery.

He would be sleeping deeply and having no dreams for some time, and I planned to take advantage of that to do some sleuthing of my own. I went downstairs and assured Mrs. Hudson that he was resting. He had been worrying her immensely, but she had been wise enough to leave him be and let me handle him when I returned. She did not deserve to have to deal with him at his worst. I had the distinct impression he'd deeply offended her, but I also knew once he was back to himself he would sincerely apologize to her; he had never failed to before, and she usually forgave him without too much fuss. So, Mrs. Hudson reassured, I grabbed my coat to leave. It was time I understood what was going on here.

Author's note:

To my dear faithful reader, thank you so much for the kind birthday wishes :) I did, indeed, have cake, but your positive comment was much more satisfying.

To the user MHC1987, if you happen to read this, I would be interested to know if you're able to pick out the homages to Inspector Lewis I make (mostly in the following chapters).

This story was partly inspired by the Inspector Lewis episode "Expiation," which is my personal favorite.

This story was also partially inspired by the scene in Granada's "The Eligible Bachelor" where Holmes declares that dreams may be supernatural warnings and makes horrible drawings of the future because reasons... yeah, that one was weird.