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Chapter 7
"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it." ~Rabindranath Tagore
Darkness. Suffocating, blinding darkness. It weighed heavily upon him. He couldn't move. He could scarcely even breathe. Where was he? Holmes tried to make sense of things, anything at all. But darkness was all there was. He was trapped, and he could not find a way out. He shouted, but no sound passed his lips. He tried to kick and fight the darkness off, but his limbs were heavy and would not obey him. Was he dying? Possibly. Possibly not. He didn't know. His mind was foggy and he didn't like it one bit. Dying might even be preferable to this suffocating darkness.
Then, a light. Slightly blurred and dim, but a light nonetheless. And someone was calling his name. A familiar voice, though he could not place it. Whomever it was sounded incredibly far away. Somewhere on the outskirts of consciousness, Holmes knew he could trust the voice. It would help him. Together they could vanquish the enemy hiding in the oppressive shadows surrounding him. But the more Holmes struggled, grasping, groping for something, anything to cling to, to reach the light and the voice, the more he got the distinct feeling that he was falling. And falling quickly.
Holmes felt his muscles tense and his body jerk as he awoke with a gasping breath.
"It's alright," the voice said, and Holmes' frantic gaze settled on Watson's face hovering above him, his friend's strong and steadying hands placed firmly on his shoulders. "It was just a dream, Holmes."
"No," Holmes said with a slight shake of his head, sitting up right and still trying to calm his breathing, "no, Watson. A dream is a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions passing through one's subconscious during a period of rest. I would commit murder for a simple, pleasant dream! But that... that was no dream..."
Watson was confused. "Then what was it?"
"Darkness," Holmes whispered fiercely, trembling hands running over his face and back through his hair, as though trying to rid himself completely of the nightmare. "Insufferable darkness."
Watson frowned. He had seldom ever seen Holmes look so incredibly broken in all their years of friendship. It was more than a bit unnerving. "Darkness?"
"For months, darkness was my only companion," Holmes shuddered. "It haunts me still."
He truly was terrified, which explained why nearly all the lamps had been left on in the room. And why he had heard him screaming from across the apartment. A question that had been ignored by both of them for far too long was now brought forth by Watson. "What happened at Reichenbach Falls, Holmes?"
"That is a tale best saved for another time, dear Watson," Holmes sighed, rolling his sore shoulders. The action allowed Watson his first glimpse of the old wound on the detective's right shoulder. The one that had nearly killed him and would have if not for a certain wedding gift. Pushing the terrible memory out of his mind, Watson knelt before Holmes to examine the wound with a carefully trained eye. Holmes visibly stiffened and grew uncomfortable under Watson's apparent concern. As selfish and conceited as he could often be, Holmes had always hated being cared for. He was a grown man for God sake! He could look after himself. Just when he was about to tell Watson so, his friend anticipated his protests and gave him a pointed look.
"I don't want to hear it, Holmes. I am your friend and your doctor," he said, glaring him into indignant submission. Watson examined the now jagged scar that looked a bit irritated. He could tell it had only been completely healed relatively recently. "I should have been there."
"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes muttered. "What could you have possibly done?"
"I could have helped you, Holmes!" Watson cried, becoming increasingly frustrated once again that Holmes had waited so long to contact him after his apparent death. It was obvious now that Watson's fears for Holmes' well being had been justified after all. "That obviously hasn't been healed for very long! I can only assume it has been infected?"
"Twice."
Watson sighed heavily. "What happened at the falls, Holmes?"
"As I have previously stated, Watson," Holmes said softly, but decidedly, "that is a question for another day."
Watson sighed again, admitting defeat for the moment, and sat down on the edge of Holmes' bed next to his friend. Neither looked at each other as they sat in mutual silence, until Watson said, "Then answer me this, why in God's name were you in the closet?"
"It was not the first time, though I suppose it was the first time you have been enough of yourself to notice," Holmes smirked, both men still staring intently at the wall before them. "As I said, for months the darkness was my only companion, and it haunts me still. It's preposterous, isn't it? That I, Sherlock Holmes, should be afraid of the dark. Utter nonsense."
"No. The body reacts to trauma in ways we often don't understand, Holmes," Watson tried to explain. "But that doesn't answer my question."
"Yes, well, by forcing myself to confront my fears for increasing lengths of time, it should not be long before I am right as rain. After all, how am I ever going to guide Mary in the ways of moral virtue toward the light of truth in a world so full of deceit and treachery when I cannot even fight back the darkness of my own mind?"
"How indeed?" Watson chuckled. Then he grew more serious and finally turned to look at his friend, relieved to find Holmes already looking much more like himself. "Will you be alright?"
"But of course, my dear Watson," Holmes replied with a devilish grin. "Aren't I always?"