Carter. Where was Carter?
Holmes flipped rapidly through the index, enjoying the silence. Watson had left before sunup to go to that writing conference, Mrs. Hudson had promised to help at some charity function this morning, and he had gone far too long without updating his indices. With no ongoing case, the large stack of notes would make an ideal diversion while Watson was gone.
Capens, Captain, Carter. There. The gang leader had gotten himself in far too much trouble this month, and several minutes passed before Holmes started searching for the next name. O'Brian had kept his head down better than usual. That entry would update faster.
Provided the existing notes were undamaged. A scowl escaped at the long tear traveling through the middle of the heavy paper. He would have to rewrite the entire entry—already a rather long one—instead of merely adding the new information.
It filled the day, he reminded himself as he retrieved a new sheet from his desk, and in a way that Watson would appreciate for its lack of a syringe. His friend had changed in the years after Holmes' disappearance, retreating into himself to shut out the world around him, and something had already renewed the almost fearful hesitance in Watson's manner. While Holmes had not yet deciphered the cause, he knew enough to avoid making it worse. He would never convince his friend to trust him again if he fell into temptation.
Rustling carried through the ceiling, but he resumed his place against the settee without care. The neighborhood children liked to walk above the houses, and the creaking footsteps, while technically inappropriate, caused no harm. The small noises helped him to think. That had happened first, then that. If he intended to rewrite everything, he might as well make the information flow a bit better. Quick notes and arrows outlined a more logical manner before he started transferring each line. He would be able to find what he needed much more easily with the facts in order.
That had happened last. That belonged on another sheet. Those—
Another noise drifted through the ceiling, one most certainly not in the attic, and he looked up with a frown. Had those children entered the flat?
No. Not possible. They would never do that. He was probably just hearing the building settle.
Then the door behind him creaked, and the pen hit the floor as he spun to look. A small European rabbit hopped into the room and directly to Holmes, confusing him with its apparent urgency. He could almost presume it had entered in search of him.
Except it was a rabbit. Rabbits did not have the same reasoning skills of a human.
The creature rumbled a quiet growl, stopping in the exact middle of his notes before one back paw thumped the page.
Danger. Wild rabbits did that to indicate a possible danger, but what danger would a rabbit find in the flat?
A lack of food, his brain attic supplied. Any animal willing to approach a stranger was probably starving, and the creature could only be Mrs. Hudson's pet. He slowly reached forward, keeping his hands low enough to avoid becoming a threat. A few minutes would suffice to settle the animal where it belonged.
The animal vanished the moment he made contact.
"What the blazes—"
The euphemism slipped out without notice as he stared at his empty hands. Five seconds later, the creature popped into view barely a foot away, and another foot rapidly thumped the floor.
Dreaming. He had not taken cocaine, so he must be dreaming. Nothing could vanish like that.
Except a hard pinch on his upper arm did not wake him, and now the animal was shaking its head in a clear no.
Could anything besides cocaine cause a hallucination?
Nothing relevant. He had not touched his chemistry set since last night, he had skipped his morning coffee, and a nearby piece of metal felt appropriately cool instead of fever cold. He was not drugged or feverish.
So why was a small animal desperately trying to gain his attention?
The creature hopped halfway to the door, then stopped and looked back in obvious request. No. He would not follow an imaginary rabbit, and he refocused on his index. The hallucination would end eventually.
Small whimpers carried across the room, quickly changing to a high-pitched whine accompanied by urgent thumping. When he resumed copying the damaged page, the creature vanished.
Relief sparked a faint sigh. That had been strange, but at least it was over. A quick check of his chemistry set found no active burners and no spills, and he resumed his work. O'Brian's entry needed a more thorough rewrite, if the backwards wordings were any indication.
Then creaking footsteps sounded in the room above, followed by the bump of someone kneeling to look under the bed. The index bounced off the floor with the clatter of the falling pen, and the neighbors probably heard him bound up the stairs to throw open the door, iron poker in one hand.
Surprise halted him in the doorway. Watson's desk remained untouched, his window appeared locked, and only their own footprints covered the floor. What had he heard?
"Hide!"
The urgent warning sparked instinct that immediately sent him behind the door. Watson only used that tone when discovery could be fatal.
Wait a minute. Watson?
A second look spotted a packed suitcase in the opposite corner, and the shadowed bed revealed his friend curled into a tight ball. The poker landed on the floor with a clang.
"Watson!"
His friend made no response. Watson's otherwise pale face had reddened with the flush of fever, and sweat soaked his pillow. His shoulder trembled slightly beneath Holmes' hand.
"Watson, wake up."
Nothing. He shook again, harder. A reply would mean his friend had not sunk too deeply into illness, but Watson never moved, remaining tangled in the bedcovers despite the heat radiating from his skin. Watson had planned to leave well before dawn. This must have come on shortly after he had given up on writing to go to bed, which meant he had been fighting illness for hours without aid. Holmes should have checked when he did not wake at Watson's departure.
He darted back down the stairs, returning with Watson's medical bag, a bowl of water, and some towels. Watson's shivering had diminished to leave him limp by the time Holmes shook him again.
"Watson, can you hear me?"
Even a twitch would be better than this alarming stillness, but this time Watson cringed, shying from the contact to send worry and sadness chasing away Holmes' initial relief. Watson had never been afraid of him before, even when ill.
"I will not hurt you. You know that."
A hazy affirmative appeared on Watson's face, but that did nothing for the obvious fear that bloomed when Holmes pulled a chair closer.
"'Ide!" Watson's order lost none of its command despite its slurring, and he curled tighter, firmly clutching the blankets Holmes tried to remove. "Under th' bed. Now! Or so 'elp me, 'll tie you 'p wit'out a pen."
Without a pen? he wondered. What did a pen have to do with anything?
He put it aside. Watson's midnight conversations never made sense anyway, and a fever would only exacerbate the illogical thought processes. The illness could also explain the terror on Watson's face. Perhaps his dreams portrayed Holmes in danger instead of a danger.
"We are safe, Watson. I promise. No one is going to hurt either of us."
Or perhaps Holmes had done something wrong, he admitted when his friend withdrew despite another vague acknowledgement. He tried to ignore the thought. Whatever he had done, guilt would do nothing to help Watson recover.
"You have no reason to fear. You are safe."
"No." Watson rolled, abruptly changing his grip on the blankets and sending Holmes' wet cloth to the pillow. "H'de. Don'…wanna le've."
"You will not have to leave."
"Y's." Replacing the towel brought a startled flinch. Watson shifted further away from the edge—and from Holmes. "H've t'…No' 'gain. Pl'se no' 'gain. R'n. Hide."
"You do not need to hide, Watson."
"H'de. Hidd'n. Stay hidd'n." Fear and fever renewed Watson's shivering, and he curled beneath the piled covers as if hiding from Holmes. Small twitches announced a dreaming altercation.
"R'n. R'n! H'de. Don' g't caught. C'n't…g't c'ght. H'de. Pl'se h'de."
"It is alright, Watson. You have no reason to hide."
Watson's brow furrowed as he tried to fold still smaller. "Y's. Hunted. W'll be…h'nted. H'de 's better th'n h'nted. C'n't…c'n't be c'ght. D'nger. R'n. H'de."
Lucid sincerity filled the slurred reply, increasing Holmes' worry to nudge the guilt and sorrow aside. This did not sound like the fevered rambling he had first assumed. This was a true fear exposed by high temperature.
"Who is hunting you?"
"No! Pl'se no." Watson thrashed, now helping to shove away the blankets. "Need t' h'de. Can'…lose 'm."
"Who would you lose?"
Watson merely pushed him away again. One cloth landed on the floor with a splat, and Holmes looked down when something moved beneath the bed. Did they have an intruder after all?
Lifting the bed skirt revealed only that strange rabbit. He focused on his friend. The hallucination could be addressed later, and the lack of blankets allowed him to drape wet towels on and along Watson's shivering frame.
"Why do you need to hide?"
Watson tried to avoid the towels. "Prot'ct. 'Ave t' prot'ct. D'nger."
"What danger?"
"H'ms." Realization merged with the continued fear. "'E's com'ng! H'de. Pl'se h'de. I'll…'ll d'stract. Run!"
His friend lunged across the bed, nearly falling off the other side before Holmes could grab his nightshirt. Several minutes passed as Holmes tried to lift his struggling friend back onto the pillow.
"Calm down, Watson. You are safe."
Watson deliriously tried to push him away. "S'fe. She's s'fe. S'fe wit' 'er, but 'e's hunt'ng. Hunt'ng f'r me. Go'a…gonna f'nd me. L'ck…No. Pl'se no."
Who was "she"? More importantly, who was hunting his friend?
"I will protect you," he promised as Watson finally landed back on the mattress. Quick movements replaced the cloths Watson had thrown off. "You have nothing to fear."
"'Cept fear its—" Watson flinched, avoiding Holmes' hand again. "N't true. N't s'fe. N't f'lly. Don' leave. Pl'se don' leave. H'ms."
"I am not leaving, Watson, and when you recover, we are going to discuss this tendency of yours to hide a problem. If I had known you were being hunted, I would have done something about it by now. You have said many times that I can find anyone in London."
The relief he expected never materialized, but Watson stopped fighting for the moment. He resumed twitching instead, turning his head from side to side as he reacted to whatever his dreams displayed. Holmes took the opportunity to retrieve the pitcher and two glasses from the sitting room, and a fever reducer soon dissolved into the swirling water.
"Are you awake enough to drink, Watson?"
His friend made no reaction, still obviously dreaming. Quiet was better than panicking, and he set the medicated water aside for later. The cloths needed changing.
"C'ld," Watson protested immediately.
"I know it is cold, but we need to lower your fever."
"C'ld," he muttered again. "Shunn'ng. C'ld shun. Shun c'ld. No. H'de." Jerking movements rolled him off the pillow, and he started pulling himself towards the other side of the bed.
"Stay here, Watson." A gentle hand caught the back of Watson's shirt, then wrapping his other arm around Watson's chest provided the leverage to stop Watson's crawling. Before Watson knew what had happened, Holmes had placed him back in the wet towels.
"No." The distress returned, quickly growing into another panic as Watson struggled to avoid Holmes' reach. "No. H'lp. 'Scape."
"You do not need to escape. You are safe here."
His words had no effect. Watson continued fighting deliriously, and a terrified cry broke free when Holmes laid a careful hand on his arm.
Holmes swallowed, unable to speak past the lump suddenly in his throat. While some of this came from believing himself hunted, even that would not make Watson shy from him. Only something much larger could have caused such a reaction, and the observation painfully prodded the guilt that had bloomed when he returned.
If fever loosened Watson's tongue the same way sleep talking usually did, allowing him to voice that which he would never admit while awake, then this panic more accurately relayed Watson's thoughts than Holmes could ever have imagined. His mere presence so terrified his friend that Holmes finally understood why Watson had refused to move back for nearly a month. It was a miracle he had come back at all.
How could he fix this?
"Watson," he finally managed, though the word came out rather choked. "Watson, listen. You have no reason to fear me."
"H'de. D'nger. H'nt'ng. He's h'nt'ng for me." Watson tried to roll but put too much weight on his bad shoulder. His gasp of pain paused his struggling, but Holmes barely ducked a right hook when he tried to make use of the hesitation.
"You are safe, Watson. I swear. Calm yourself."
"No." Watson shoved him away then tried to roll once more. "Won' tell. C'n't tell. Lose 'm. W'ld lose 'm." Watson's terror became painfully more apparent as he again dodged Holmes' hand. "A'one. N' 'gain. Pl'se no' 'gain." The last phrase more closely resembled a sob, and grief join the fear. "H'de. Bett'r t' h'de. S'fer. St'y hidd'n. N' a'one. Hidd'n."
Holmes' guilt strengthened. The last time Watson had been "alone" had been the months just after Mary died. Could Holmes be the "him" in Watson's ramblings? Was his friend so afraid because he thought Holmes would disappear again? Holmes did not recall anything that could have sparked that fear, but such an occurrence would also explain Watson's recently increased reticence. His friend had already shown a distressing and uncharacteristic tendency to withdraw rather than risk rejection.
"You are not alone," he promised. "You have nothing to fear, Watson. I swear. Stop fighting me." Watson only wrestled harder, now aiming for Holmes in some dreaming variation of self-defense. Watson would soon injure himself if he did not calm, and Holmes saw no option but to pin Watson's shoulders. Footsteps climbed the stairs when another terrified cry filled the room.
"Are you alright, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she reached the landing. "I thought—oh, dear."
Holmes barely looked up, too busy evading the fist aiming for his eye.
"Watson!" Grief and remorse flipped to irritation, and the name came out dangerously close to a snap as Watson tried to hit him yet again. "Watson, listen to me. You are safe. Nobody will find you, and I am not leaving. Calm down before you do yourself injury."
The frustration finally broke through Watson's panic. His friend slowly stopped fighting, but the terror never faded as he shifted restlessly against the pillow.
"Shun me. Gon'a sh'n me. N't…n't crazy. Pl'se don' leave. A'one. No' 'gain. Pl'se no' 'gain."
"Oh, Doctor." Her quiet words hit the air with a tinge of regret, and Mrs. Hudson joined Holmes by the bed to rest gentle fingers on Watson's wrist.
"It's alright, Doctor. You're not alone, and you will not be alone. Stop worrying so much."
The agitated movements gradually stilled, his brow furrowing as he processed that.
"C'n't be sure."
"Yes, I can." A quick gesture prevented Holmes' question before she cradled Watson's hand in her own. "You have nothing to worry about."
"But—"
"But nothing," she interjected. "Sleep. You are in no danger. I promise."
Watson finally relaxed, sinking into the mattress as he always did when deeply asleep. That his friend would calm for Mrs. Hudson instead of him sparked another wave of grief, and Holmes fixed his attention on refreshing the cloths. He could only blame himself.
"What happened?"
"I found him about an hour ago," he answered, though he refused to look at her. "The fever hit sometime in the night."
"Has he been panicking since you entered?"
Essentially, but he made no reply, busying himself checking on his friend. The thermometer read a temperature dangerously high, and the exertion had sent Watson's pulse racing. This would be a long day.
"It is not your fault."
He turned away, hiding his expression in trying to convince Watson to sip some water. How could it not be? Watson had slept quietly until Holmes entered the room. He had known Watson did not fully trust him anymore, but he had not expected his friend to be so afraid of him as to panic at his presence. Holmes' actions had carried far worse consequences than even Mycroft had foreseen.
"He has a secret."
He looked up to find Mrs. Hudson staring at him with something like sympathy.
"He has a secret," she repeated. "He was not afraid of you. Everything I just saw revolved around his fear of someone discovering that secret."
"Even me?" he asked quietly, and she nodded.
"Especially you. He would have kept it from me, too, if my childhood friend had not carried the same burden. His fear faded to surprise only when I announced his secret to him, then asked for details."
"Can you tell me?"
"No, and do not try to question him about it." She cast a worried glance at where Watson murmured something about avoiding capture. "Something obviously happened recently for this worry to be so pronounced today. Pushing him will only cause more distress. He has convinced himself that discovery would alienate you, and he will not listen when I disagree. Be patient with him. Listen when he rambles, and perhaps you will gather enough clues to prove me right. Figuring it out yourself is the only way you will ever learn more."
She went downstairs for supplies without giving him a chance to respond, and he settled into the chair beside his friend. He had noticed many strange things over the years but had done very little to determine their cause, hoping Watson would volunteer it eventually. Each one probably related to this in some manner. He should have plenty of time to connect the pieces before Watson woke.
Watson would never have to worry about this again.
Do you think Holmes will figure it out? How will he react when he does? How will Watson react? Don't forget to review!
And thank you very much to those who dropped a comment on the last chapter :)
