Beta'd by BrokenKestral
He had deceived me—again.
I knew enough to know that Culverton Smith had been a dangerous adversary, and I would not interfere with his right to celebrate, but I was sure my irritation, hurt, anger showed on my face despite my attempts to hide it, plain for him to see if only he looked. He was too caught up in the exultation of Smith's capture to see anything but what he chose to see, however, and I said nothing. Holmes was right to celebrate the man's capture, no matter my thoughts on the trap itself, and I simply studied my friend closely, watching for complications of his fast as I kept pushing him to drink more water. He could feel the effects of dehydration, and he did as I bid, slowly drinking each full glass I placed in his hand as he removed his disguise.
I silently watched as he cleaned off the makeup, and from his chair he proudly told me what he had done. He proudly told me about how he had gone nearly three days without food and water, how he had pretended to be delirious to make me think he was dying, how he had used the makeup to make himself look feverish, how he had wanted me to believe he had only hours or perhaps a day left on this earth.
How he decided to use me to catch Smith instead of trusting me to help catch Smith.
He had deceived me.
And he was proud of it.
That was the worst part: it was bad enough that he had deceived me, but that he was proud of it, that is what hurt the most. He was proud of the way he had fooled everyone into thinking he was dying. He was proud of his acting skills. He was proud that I had fallen for his act such that Smith had believed me and come to gloat.
I had thought he was dying, and he was proud of it.
I never liked it, but I was well used to him deceiving me. He manipulated others as a matter of course, and I rarely cared when it was within the bounds of a case. He was my intellectual superior, and I knew I would never be able to see through his manipulations. He was going to do whatever he felt was necessary to catch the criminal just as I would do whatever I felt was necessary whenever someone was injured or sick. He was a detective; it was his duty. If he needed to hide his intentions or manipulate me to do so, then that was his call.
No, I did not care so much that he had manipulated me, that he had deceived me. I cared that he apparently saw nothing wrong with making me think he was dying.
I continued pushing water on him as he gave his statement at the station, and when he suggested Simpson's on the way back to Baker Street, I allowed it. He needed to eat, and he had put Mrs. Hudson out enough, with the fright he had given her. She would not have the supplies necessary to provide the kind of food he needed immediately, nor did I think it was even safe for her to be in the kitchen at the moment—rather like how I doubted it was safe for me to open my mouth.
I was furious with him, angrier than I had probably ever been. I was one wrong move, one ill-timed word away from losing my temper completely, and I fought to suppress my irritation. It would do us no good to argue—here or back at Baker Street. I would make sure he ate a full meal, see him back to his flat, and check on Mrs. Hudson. Then, I would go home until my red-hot anger cooled. Time, and sometimes a walk, had always helped when Holmes did something so infuriating, and whenever we had argued before my marriage, I had frequently ended up walking the streets until my irritation faded and remorse set in. I would prefer to avoid the entire succession.
I could not avoid the anger; it was much too late for that, but if I kept my mouth shut, I could at least avoid the argument and the following remorse. There was no need to criticize the foolish plan he had enacted; he would realize my opinion on his three-day fast sometime tomorrow or the next day—when the excitement of Smith's capture had worn off and he looked at the case from a bit further away. Until then, anything I could say would only result in an argument, and that would do neither of us any good.
I listened to him talk as we ate, providing the expected responses, and I watched to make sure that he would suffer no lingering effects from this…case. He listened to me when I pushed soup or other light dishes instead of the heavy meats he normally gravitated towards, and he ordered water instead of a glass of wine after I tried to check his hydration level at the table. Eating slowly and talking between bites, he bounced between topics from his most recent monograph to his recent cases and a monograph on malingering he was considering.
I let him talk, though I heard little of what he said. I was too busy watching him to make sure there would be no further physical effects, too busy assuring myself that the funeral for which I had prepared myself on the way to fetch Smith would not come to pass. He did not seem to notice my silence, which was just as well. The things he had said on what I had thought was his deathbed still rang in my mind, no matter that I knew that the ones before Smith's arrest were probably no more than the results of his malingering.
If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have some confidence.
You are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications.
Good heavens! I had totally forgotten him.
I had thought he was dying, and he had forgotten me.
And he was proud of it.
He carried a one-sided conversation the entire time we were at the restaurant, too caught up in his monologue to notice that it was a monologue, and I saw him safely back to Baker Street after the meal was done. Mrs. Hudson met us at the door, and I could see she was still quite irritated with him as well, but I made no comment on that, only giving her some pointers on what he would need to fully recover before turning to leave. I refused to argue with him, and I would be of more use at home with Mary…who had not been faking an illness.
He stopped me. "You have barely spoken all evening, Watson. How is your practice? How is Mary?"
I remained quiet, unable to answer without losing my temper, and a hand appeared on my shoulder.
"Watson?"
"I thought I was watching you die, Holmes," I finally said quietly, almost gruffly as I forbid my temper from erupting. I did not need to lose my temper for him to hear the anger roiling inside of me. I sharply pulled my shoulder from beneath his hand. "Next time you need someone to deceive, choose someone in whom you have some confidence." Holmes said nothing, and I left, nearly slamming the door behind me.
I did not look back, heavily considering losing myself in the foggy rain blanketing London.
A hansom sped past me as I walked slowly down the street, but I paid it no mind, keeping my head bowed to the rain as I stared through the cobblestones. I had no money left after taking a cab to beat Smith back to Baker Street, and the walk would do me good anyway. My thoughts spun, chasing each other in circles of anger, hurt, and a few others. How could he think highly enough of our friendship to want me when Mrs. Hudson insisted on a doctor, but so lowly of me that he could callously deceive me in such a way? How could he think I could watch him die and do nothing? He knew how highly I valued our friendship. How could he think I could see him on his deathbed and be unaffected? He would never be able to do so if our positions had been reversed…
Would he? Did he think I could remain unaffected while watching him die because he did not care if I lived or died?
Was he projecting his perceptions onto me, or was he just being the self-centered detective I knew he could be at times?
I did not know, and I was not sure I wanted to know. My thoughts turned in circles, and I would have liked to walk aimlessly for a while to get them in order, but I turned my steps towards home, hoping nothing had changed since I left. Maybe the rain would wash away my irritation by the time I reached Kensington.
Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)