STRIVING TO SILENCING DEMONS
Disclaimer: Chances are anything you recognise doesn't belong to me and likely is the legacy of ACD.
Summary: While striving unsuccessfully to silence demons in one fashion it is often that the true solution becomes apparent.
A/N: First off I just want to say thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter 1. I really do appreciate it. There were a couple of points I wanted to clear up though -
Hermione Holmes made a comment about Mrs H. reaction to the cocaine vile and the drugs uses in that age. I am aware that many of the drugs that we deem to be addictive/illegal were not thought so in the Victorian era (i.e. heroin tea parties were quite the thing amongst fashionable ladies…) none-the-less I think the fact that Mrs H. didn't blindly assume that if SH was using something that it was medicinal, shows a depth of understanding to her character.
In this chapter the drug plays a more major role and though I do study addiction and am relatively well versed in the most common drugs of abuse I do not pretend to be an expert. With the added difficulty that SH injects rather than smokes or snorts his cocaine I can only claim that I have done my best to keep his reactions authentic and realistic.
That said, hope you enjoy;
xLx
As it happened the elderly patient I had gone to visit was clearly not going survive the night and in the end I stayed with him until he passed on a few hours later. Having made sure all the arrangements were in place for the lonely bachelor, it was far later than I would deign to call without there being a definite emergency, so I returned home. Understandably though, I slept badly and rose early the next morning so that it was barely a half past seven when I found myself back in Baker Street. Before I crossed the street to knock on the door, I took the time to look up at the windows of the rooms I knew so well. The gas was lit, but down low despite the fact the sun had yet to come up and I was not reassured to see that the window was flung wide on so cold a morning. On reaching the young boy beneath the lamppost, a passed him a coin and thanked him for his time and he returned his thanks before heading on his way. I called him back on a stroke of inspiration however,
"Did you see Mr Holmes return?" I asked and the boy turned around just on the edge of the pool of light.
"Jus' after midnight sir. Heard the bells right clear I did."
"And did he seem…"
"Seem'd in a bit of a rush Sir he did, didn't say 'ello or nothin', and Mr Holmes is usual righ' good 'bout that."
"I'm sure he was in a hurry." I reassured the lad absently. "Thank you again Jones." I added before I turned and climbed the steps to the front door. It opened before I had raised a hand to knock and once again I was ushered inside by Mrs Hudson.
"Didn't hear a sound out of him till about ten minutes ago." She said in a hushed voice as she took my coat, hat and bag. "I don't know what he's been doing since then though." I had visions of Holmes shooting at the wall again or having taken to one of his experiments in chemistry as I climbed the 17 steps up to the apartment. Standing outside the door I could hear nothing though, not the sound of clinking test-tubes or even the familiar pacing that the rooms inhabitant regularly practiced. I had unconsciously leaned in towards the door to try and garner any clue as to what might be going on and jumped when there was a sudden burst of frenetic movement and noise from inside. I automatically turned the handle and pushed at the heavy wooden door to try and gain entrance but it was locked. I stood back and used my shoulder to try and force it spurred on by the growing sounds of distress from within. After several attempts I was successful in gaining entry to the room, only to tumble through the doorway and barely managed to stop myself from falling to the floor. When I did regain my balance it took me a further moment to take in what it was that I was seeing.
The room looked as though I violent storm had ripped through it, and in it's turn ripped everything from it's given place. There was paper everywhere, the wicker-chair by the fire was upturned and there were books scattered all over the floor. I had to purposefully search the room to find Holmes, and in fact, I managed to locate him only when I did because of the shriek he let out. I have seen Sherlock Holmes in many guises and many states of mind and yet, even to this day, I have never seen him in anything like such a bad condition as I found him then. He was huddled like I frightened animal, in the corner next to the window, hair in disarray wearing only his shirt and trousers. He called out and threw his arms up, as though he was trying to fight something off. Out of his incoherent babbling I could make out but a few words.
"No… no… stop!" Whatever it was he saw in his minds-eye, it was something terrible for even when he looked up, his terror was plain to see in his feverish eyes. When I snapped out of my startled inaction I crossed the room in only a few strides and knelt down next to him, and did my best to attract his attention.
"Holmes! Good heavens man!" I said trying to hold down his arms so that he didn't to himself or I any further damage for it was plain to see that he didn't recognise me for who I was. "Holmes!" I tried again to distract him from the fictional monsters he was fighting. I suspected that the crash I had heard just before I entered had been the table that had once held his experimental equipment being toppled over. It had been overturned and several of the stopper-ed flasks had broken and I could do nothing but watch as their contents pooled on the floor, growing closer to Holmes bare feet as his legs stretched and contracted in his fight. He was radiating heat and I could feel his heart racing in his emaciated chest, so much so that if I had not seen the half empty vile on the fireplace next to the discarded needle, I would have thought that he was in the grip of a terrible fever. He arched within my grasp trying to free himself from my hold, his entire body wracked with tremors and if I had not been so certain that the damage he would have done to himself would have been no trifling matter, then I would have let him free for fear of being hurt myself. Eventually, I managed to manoeuvre so that I was behind him, and could hold his arms to his sides with far greater ease. He sat between my legs and with one of my arms wrapped around his chest and arms holding them tight, I used the other to cradle his head against the crook of my neck. Realising that my first priority had to be to try and ground him, I began speaking to him as I would a distressed child, encouraging and calming him the best I could. While continuing in my content-less stream of reassurances I managing to find a pulse in his neck and I began counting it while I talked.
If there is one advantage to cocaine when compared to the alternative drugs of abuse I have some knowledge of, then it is that it's effects are not long lasting. It was however quite plain that Holmes had taken far more than his usual dose and for some time I genuinely feared for his life as his heart and respiration rate soared while I knew there was nothing, medically speaking, I could do to prevent it. Due to the drug's transitory nature however, he began to calm after not an overly long period, the shudders lessened and the convulsions loosened their grip upon him.
"Holmes?" I tried again, hoping for some sign of comprehension. I received nothing but a faint flutter of his eyes. Now that the worst of the fit had past, I thought it best to move us from the dangers of the still spreading chemical spillage, and moving him to the bed had the added advantage of allowing me a far better position from which to judge my companions state. Holmes is certainly a good half-foot taller than me but even in the best of health, or at least in the best condition I have ever seen him, he likely weighs no more than I. When I lifted him that day however, I required little effort and no strain and I shook my head to myself once more, at yet another example of Holmes' stunning disregard for his own well-being. I carried him through to his bedroom and laid him down on the fresh clean sheets. I reached for his wrist to check his pulse and was alarmed when I could only locate a faint thrum beneath my fingers. Automatically I pushed his open sleeve up high so that I could see what I was doing and in doing so I revealed the tourniquet that was still fastened just above his elbow. I released it quickly but couldn't take my eyes from the mess of injection sights that marred the soft flesh. There were one or two scars that were obviously very old, but most of the marks were recent, within the last week, and at least three more that were no more than twelve hours old. I ran I thumb over the bruised flesh, gently feeling the wounds as though I could trace the cause of my friend's behaviour from the injection sites. Subconsciously I noted that though some of them were red they didn't burn as though with infection. Shaking my head I moved my hand down to rub the rest of his arm so as to stimulate the return of the blood to the previously deprived flesh.
Reaching over I used his other arm to gauge his pulse rate and was relieved a little to find it significantly lower than it had been in the height of his convulsing. He was still radiating residual heat and his hair stuck to his forehead as I brushed it out of his still closed eyes. I was torn between calling for Mrs Hudson, who undoubtedly deserved to know at least a little of what was going on and my hesitance at leaving my patient's side. Tentatively though, I made my way to door into the sitting room and leaving the door to his inner sanctum open, crossed it swiftly and, leaning out of the door into the hall that I had previously broken, called out to her. I turned back into the room, and my sight was once again drawn to the Moroccan case and the associated paraphernalia on the mantelpiece. A light knock on the door let me know that my former landlady had arrived. To her credit her face didn't flinch when she stepped over the threshold and into what could, quite easily have been a war zone.
"Dr Watson?" She asked hesitantly.
"Mrs Hudson." I tried to reassure her with a smile and I suddenly found that I didn't know where to draw the line between trusting someone who obviously had Holmes' best interests at heart, and propriety and privacy. "Let's just say, my arrival was timely." I told her non-explicitly but I saw her eyes quickly take in the needle and half empty cocaine vile next to me.
"Mr Holmes…." She asked.
"Is not out of the woods yet but I have every faith that he hasn't managed to kill himself through his own neglect yet." I tried to keep the mood light but I was certain that she understood what I had meant.
"I've told Susanne and the boy that they are to stay downstairs unless they're expressly told otherwise." I nodded my appreciation. "Now, I've got some old towels that will do to mop up all that." She indicated towards the still spreading puddle of chemicals on the floor. "And I am quite sure that the rest isn't quite so urgent." She added and I couldn't help but smile as she glanced around the room. "Is there anything I can get for you Doctor?"
"Plenty of fresh water and a flannel should be all for now. Thank you." I said and she quickly bustled off to meet my requests.
A/N – Thanks for reading and do let me know what you think.
xLx