"Slow your breathing, Watson. You are safe." The mattress dipped, then he gently adjusted me back onto the pillows. "I do not know where you think I will send you, but I have no intention of doing so. Calm yourself."
No. No, he had to be lying, trying to placate me until the officials arrived. Had he sent for them yet? Would I have time to convince him to let me go? If I could leave now, I could catch a train headed north. My writing friend would still be at the conference.
"Watson, listen to me. You have no reason to worry. I discovered this without your input, and I can hardly blame you for my inability to see it sooner."
Or maybe I could convince him to put it off for a few days, then escape before he called them? That might work better than him letting me go completely. I knew enough about malingering to pretend to be worse off than I was. I could make him believe I was still unable to get out of bed, then escape in the night. I had until the end of the week to get to the conference.
"Are you listening to me? You need to calm down."
Holding still slowly cleared the spots from my vision, revealing him sitting on the bed at my side. Both hands cupped mine, wonderfully cold in the almost uncomfortable heat of the room, and I soon realized one hand tabbed my pulse as he studied me.
"Better," he acknowledged, "but not perfect. Slow your breathing. Mrs. Hudson will have my head if you relapse."
Mrs. Hudson. She would be better than trying to reach the conference. She had known about the creatures since before I moved in. If she was home, Holmes might listen to her arguments, and that would give me time to get out of here. Relief flickered in his eyes when my hyperventilating gradually eased.
"My apologies." Regret leaked into the words as he resumed his chair, my hand still in his. "I thought you heard me reading to you, describing everything I had found in the last two days. I did not intend to frighten you."
"Frighten" me? What did a scare matter when he was about to shun me? The loss of his friendship would be just as horrible as his apparent death at the falls.
Worse, because he had disappeared after the falls, but I would have to live every day knowing that he was here, at home, and I could not return. I probably would not even be able to remain in London. I would have to start over, go where no one knew me just so I could keep my freedom.
"Watson, breathe before you pass out."
Breathe. Yes, I needed to breathe if I wanted to escape. Convalescence was no excuse for weakness, and I would never get out of here if I could not keep myself together. He continued when I had calmed slightly, though he refused to let me reclaim my hand.
"Your…animal tried to lead me upstairs. It thumped the floor several times, and when I ignored its summons, it disappeared. I found it under your bed later, but I ignored it as a hallucination until the animal fetched Mrs. Hudson when I could not draw you out of a fever dream."
How could he be so calm? Did our friendship mean so little to him that he would not even grieve its ending? Holmes was far too logical to accept the reality of such magical creatures, nor would he want to associate with someone who saw them, conversed with them, and even knew a few of them personally. I would be fortunate to be allowed to leave. Leaving was better than finding myself in a cell.
I could not free my fingers, however, nor move away from him, and my efforts only made me warmer. I finally stopped trying. If I could not escape, I could at least appreciate these last few minutes. Only my recent illness could be keeping him next to me.
"The animal provided the clue I needed," he said wryly, glancing at the creature fluffing its nest. "I would never have thought to look through your bookshelf until it delivered a collection of tales to my lap."
So that rabbit had betrayed me. I would be locked away because of the creatures I had tried to hide. I was going to catch that rabbit, I resolved, and without a pen nearby. Ropes and tiny handcuffs would ensure it did not escape this time, and such a goal would give me a lifeline in the asylum. Maybe one of the other authors would have time to rescue me.
The animal squeaked and dove out of sight.
"I have read all about Father Christmas and his elves, Jack Frost and his faeries, and Sandman's love of sleep," he continued with a worried frown, though whether his concern was due to my silence or the creature's actions I had no idea, "but I could find nothing about disappearing rabbits. What is it?"
I sighed. I may as well tell him. He had enough ammunition now, anyway.
"I'm not sure they have a name," I answered quietly, my eyes on the blankets. "My brother called them 'plot bunnies,' but that was more his own terminology than anything official. Mr. Morston preferred to call them 'mischievous creatures.' I've always just called them rabbits."
"Mr. Morston is?"
"The town librarian where I grew up."
He looked between me and the rabbit-sized mound of covers. "What do they do?"
Cause trouble. "Bring stories," I voiced. Understanding crept over his face, and I braced myself for the scathing rebuke. "They bring stories to authors like Father Christmas delivers gifts to children. One rabbit is one story."
"So the page of notes it brought me…" He trailed off, and I nodded.
"That was the general outline of its story. That confounded creature is The Case of the Dubious Debtor."
Purring started at its name, but the animal wisely remained in its hiding place.
He thought back, trying to place the name to the case. "The blackmailer a couple of months ago?"
"Yes. It is remarkably mature, for one so small, but I have been chasing it for over a month. It nearly got us caught more than once, though the closest call was when you returned from the docks earlier than I expected."
My finger found a loose string, and I started worrying at it. Would he give me time to recover before he sent me to Bedlam? He was right that I was in no shape to get out of bed. I could not even sit up without growing dizzy.
"How is it mature if you have been chasing it for so long?"
"The rabbits do not age like mortals, Holmes. One might take years to go from birth to adult, while another takes hours. Maturity when the author starts writing is measured by the story's detail. If you skim the first page of that case, you'll see that this one's first draft is not far from a completed story. I could release it in hours if it would only let me catch it."
"'Release' is a finished story?"
"Yes. An idea reveals the newborn rabbit. The juveniles find a place to nest and eat, and when they are ready, they come find me. Writing their story ages them to adults, at which point I release them."
"What about publishing?"
"A bonus," I replied. "They all want it, but only because they like to share the completed tale."
He studied me, probably seeing my resignation. I had not expected him to have so many questions first, but he would reach the point eventually.
"What do they eat?"
"Grass and a variety of plants from their nest. Carrots from me. I keep a supply of them in my desk, among other places."
The blankets twitched, disappointed that I had not answered in more depth. This one had yet to find the rarer carrots I used as bait.
Surprise appeared. "You tempt them with normal carrots?"
"Some," I confirmed, still avoiding his gaze, "but not all. The warren automatically supplies itself with basic food, but the human carrots are a coveted treat. There is also another place I go to get the rarer ones."
He paused, considering my words before choosing a new line of questions. "You were faking the somniloquy?"
I nodded. "The creature had hidden itself under my bed again, and I was trying to coax it out when I heard you on the stairs. Sleep talking was the only thing I could set up on a moment's notice."
"Have all of them been faked?"
What did that matter? "Not all of them," I replied with something close to a half-shrug, "but a few. What better cover than something I do occasionally, anyway?"
His next question announced where this was going. "Why did you hide it?"
I flinched and looked away. There was no reason to answer that. We both knew he was simply gathering information. How long would I have at home?
"Watson, what did I do to make you so afraid of me?"
"Not—" The word broke, and I forced myself to try again. "Not you. Just…give me three days? I should be able to get out of bed by then, and I can spend the time searching the paper for lodgings. I'll have my stuff packed—"
"No." The firm word cut off my nearly rambling offer, and his hand tightened around mine. "No, you do not have three days to move out. You have exactly one sentence to explain why you think I want you to."
One sentence. He might have already notified them of their new patient. I had to convince him to let me go.
"Less hassle," I insisted. "You do not have to do the paperwork, and I get to keep my freedom."
"Your freedom?" he repeated, faking surprise entirely too well. He never asked a question by repeating a phrase. "You think I will send you to the asylum?"
"Why wouldn't you?" I resumed trying to free my hand, fighting to move away from him in a ridiculous attempt to escape the inevitable. "They are illogical, unreal. They should not exist, and they do not exist to everyone. They're harmless, though. I swear. I swear I'm not a danger to anyone. I just want to write. Let me go. Please."
"Watson—"
"I'll get out of here. Today, if I can manage it. You'll never have to see me again. I have enough rabbits now I might even be able to write for a while, after I get settled."
"Watson, listen—"
I pulled harder, frantically working to free my hand from his. "The animals follow me. You'll never be able to tell they were here, after I move. They'll leave you alone. All the others have avoided you, anyway. They might even help me pack my stuff, get out of here faster. I'll leave. I swear I'll leave. Better to move than go there."
"Watson, listen to me!"
He refused to release my hand, and when I kept trying, his other hand abruptly forced me into the pillow. I could not stifle the cry.
"Let me go, Holmes! I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a sterile cage!"
"You will not have to." He sat next to me on the bed again, readjusting to pin me more securely as he added, "but you might spend the rest of your life ill if you do not stop struggling. Calm yourself. I have no intention of sending you to Bedlam."
Shock abruptly halted my movements. Had I heard him correctly?
No. No, I could not have. Not after what he had said so many years ago, when the topic first arose. He would sooner send me to the asylum than accept the magical. He had all but said as much that second Christmas.
The grin he twitched at my surprise suggested otherwise. "Do you truly think I can deny the proof of my own eyes? I have seen that animal vanish more in the last day than I have seen you write in the last ten years."
I said nothing, watching for evidence of falsehood. Holmes only lied if he saw no other option. Could the promise be merely a balm until the officials arrived?
"Watson?"
Perhaps, I acknowledged silently, but unlikely. Holmes had two subtle tells when he was lying, and I saw neither of them. Increasing worry in his gaze prompted a hesitant question.
"You…don't want me to leave?" A hope I dared not feel crept into the words.
"No." He slowly eased the pressure on my shoulders, sitting back when I remained still. "No, I do not want you to leave. I want you to tell me why you thought I would. Has someone threatened you before?"
I nodded, still watching. Hoping. "I know many authors that have been put away, among other things, after family walked in at the wrong time, and one of my medical school professors saw them on a day I was trying to coax two out of a bush on campus." He had not been as rigidly practical as Holmes, but I had barely convinced him that he had frightened away feline kittens instead of lagomorphic.
He said nothing for a long moment, that keen gaze seeing just what I had feared. "Not all of them survived long enough to try to escape."
No, but I did not say that. He read the answer well enough in my face, and I fought the urge to flinch when his other hand slowly resumed its place cupping mine. Knowing he would never hurt me could not stop the fear of what he could—and, I thought, would—do. He would have no say in what happened to me once he released me to the hospital staff, and fearful tension barely kept me awake. I would never be able to fight back if he decided to restrain me.
"Why are some people unable to see them?"
"I don't know," I answered, warily grateful for the change of subject. "One hopped directly to a schoolmate one day, but she never saw it even when it planted itself on her book. My brother could see the slower ones if they let him, and my uncle chased a few but never caught one, as far as I know."
"Why must you 'chase' them?"
"Mischievous," I repeated with a shrug, still eyeing him. "Sometimes I can lure them with a carrot, but the plentiful treat hardly makes good enough bait to tempt the more troublesome ones. Some I catch easily. Some take a few days. That one," a pointed gesture indicated the lump on the end of the mattress, "has been frustrating me for over a month. Sometimes they mature while I chase them, but I think most simply find it fun."
The lump quivered, then let out a chortle, confirming my words, and Holmes glanced at it in sudden realization.
"How much do they understand?"
"Everything." His ears reddened. "They are as cognizant as we are. Sometimes more so. I suppose you said something you should not have?"
He tried to wave away my question. "It was nothing major."
A clip bounced off his shoulder, and I felt a small smile break free of my wariness.
"It does not agree. What did you say?"
He directed a half-hearted scowl at the pink nose peeking through a gap in the blanket. "The animal should know better than to get under my feet. It tripped me while you were having a nightmare, and I almost literally kicked it out of the room. It has enjoyed throwing small, random objects at me ever since."
Only when it disagreed, I noted when he did not immediately duck. I decided not to comment.
"Did it truly fetch Mrs. Hudson?"
More hesitance than I had intended leaked into the words. His attention abruptly refocused on me.
"It did. You were panicking, and you either could not or would not hear me. I paid its disappearance no mind until I realized it had reappeared in the kitchen."
I had been panicking with Holmes barely two feet away. That had probably hurt him more than the last ten years of hiding, and firm pressure on my hand announced he saw the remorse I tried to hide.
"Why did you think I would lock you away?" he asked quietly.
That shrug was more discomfort than hesitance. "I had to bribe you with shortbread to make you stop ridiculing Father Christmas in front of the Irregulars. What else would you do when you realized that your flatmate, a full adult, kept a warren of magical rabbits that gave him stories in exchange for carrots?"
I firmly avoided referencing the rest of that argument, but shame still appeared in the eyes that now struggled to hold mine. "I did not inspire much confidence, did I?" he murmured. "I am sorry."
Sorry? "You—" I cut off the question, almost afraid to finish.
"Watson?"
Could he truly be alright with this?
His other hand on my shoulder brought me out of my silent debate. "You are safe," he promised, obviously following my thoughts. Faint amusement sparked in his gaze. "If I intended to do something like that," he added wryly, "it would have been much more logical to do it before you woke."
I could not restrain a relieved laugh. He was right about that, but more importantly, the tone announced the truth behind the statement. I finally relaxed, hiding the fatigue of fading adrenaline as I fought with the second pillow. He released my hand, and a moment's tugging nudged the cushion away so I could lie on my side.
"You mentioned a 'warren,'" he said when I had settled. "How many rabbits do you have?"
The warm room had only grown warmer while we talked, and one hand shoved the blankets down as I considered what to tell him. Occasionally, writers heard of some scientist trying to catch the creatures for a different sort of study than was proper, and while I did not think Holmes would do such a thing…
"Why?"
"Could they have been the 'intruder'?" he asked. "If enough moved at the same time, they could have created the sound I heard."
"They could have," I acknowledged, "and might have, though I have not heard of them doing that before. The warren is primarily infant and juvenile. They do little besides eat, sleep, and play." I cut a glance at the quivering nose still visible. "That one is stubborn enough to rally the young ones, however."
The creature snorted, pretending to ignore me as it nosed the underside of the cover. Holmes twitched a grin.
"Do they stay here somewhere?" He surveyed the room, noting bed, wardrobe, and desk before looking back at me.
"They will not let you catch them," I warned.
He paused, then confusion flipped to apologetic understanding. "I would not try to. I cannot meet Father Christmas or Jack Frost, but your rabbits obviously live near here. If they will let me, I would like to watch them. If not, I would at least know where I need to avoid."
He could meet Father Christmas, if he chose, but I did not say as much. When a moment's study found only earnest pleading, I relented with a sigh. He was making no effort to hide his interest, and he would be more likely to accept their presence if he understood their habits. I could stay awake for a while if it kept me out of Bedlam.
"Look in my desk for the packet labeled 'prompts.'"
He stood with a pleased smile, quickly retrieving the stack of papers.
"Is every one of those a rabbit?"
"No." Each page named multiple rabbits, but I merely shuffled the sheets, seeking an older one that was not far from searching for me.
"The Case of the Married Banker."
Rustling sounded from the wardrobe, and a small nose pushed the door open a crack. Two beady eyes looked at me before returning to its meal.
I flipped a page. "European Treasures."
The creature popped into view on top of the wardrobe but disappeared a moment later.
Maybe a younger one would be braver. "The case where the American tried to rob the Diogenes."
One of the smallest juveniles hauled itself through the wardrobe door, barely landing on its feet on the floor. Holmes made a noise of amusement as the near infant stumbled two exploratory circles before disappearing back to its nest.
"They all respond like that?"
"Essentially." I put the papers aside. "They answer to a general sentence until I learn their name. If I want to write when one is not waving at me, sometimes running down the list will result in a chase." I readjusted, still trying to hide my fatigue and discomfort. Either he had built the fire to a roaring blaze before I woke, or I still had a low-grade fever. A rising temperature made more sense, and his apparent lack of notice showed just how much this interested him.
"So when you say you are up here writing…"
He trailed off, and I nodded. "Sometimes I'm simply trying to make one run."
"Does that mean—" He cut himself off when I struggled to focus after a slow blink. "I have kept you awake for too long," he noted apologetically.
"No, you're—f'ne." A yawn broke my sentence, but I ignored both it and the slurred word to wave his comment aside. "What w's your quest'n?"
"It can wait."
My fingers brushed his instead of shooing him away. He quickly grabbed my hand, then rested his other hand on my forehead. "Your fever is returning."
"Hmm," I agreed, eyes drifting closed. I had thought so. "Not bad, though. Just—" The hand moved to my cheek, and I flinched at the cold. "Jus' a low one. I'll be f'ne."
"It should not have returned at all." A wet cloth landed on my forehead, prompting a tired scowl.
"Cold." A vertigo-inducing movement sent the cloth to the pillow, where I rested my cheek on it. I would rather avoid it completely, but I could compromise. "Better."
He made a quiet sound of amusement, but the probably witty retort faded when a twinge in my shoulder made me flinch again. He renewed his grip on my hand.
"You are safe, Watson."
I nodded. I knew that.
"Th'nk…'ou."
The pressure increased, strangely clutching my fingers in his, but movement on the bed cut off his reply.
"No, Little One. You may not sleep on his pillow."
The creature snorted surprisingly close to my ear, then warmth bloomed on my sternum. Tiny snores announced the animal had fallen asleep against me, and I released a tired grin.
I would be able to write when I woke.
And so ends Hidden Fears. Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to review! I love and very much appreciate reading your thoughts :D
