Prompt #124. So tired it hurts. It's been an exhausting year+ for many. Let physical and/or mental exhaustion play a role in your work today.

Not long after Silent Nights


Empty. Still. I made no effort to stifle a resigned sigh. Holmes' trip had lasted far longer than he initially expected, and with Mrs. Hudson helping her sister, I had quickly grown tired of a quiet flat.

Too tired to even appreciate the unintentional pun. I had not slept in days, but unlike the last time this had happened, I could not dose myself into a night's rest. Both my bag and every shop I tried had run out of chamomile. I would do anything just to sleep for an hour.

Except use the morphine. I had firmly avoided that temptation by hiding the vial the day Mrs. Hudson left, and after a sleepless week of pointedly not thinking about it, I could not easily remember the location I had chosen. It would come back to me after some sleep.

Provided I could find sleep. I usually enjoyed a few days of quiet. Whether because Holmes took a case without me or Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday, an empty flat meant an uninterrupted stretch of time where I could work in soundless comfort. Holmes' violin, his spontaneous comments, even Mrs. Hudson's smaller noises downstairs all served to pull me out of whatever I wanted to do. Normally, a day's silence meant a day's productivity.

A night's silence, however, did not always have the same result. I had slept perfectly well the first couple of nights, but no more. Years of sharing lodgings had inured me to the constant noise, to the sound of Holmes' pacing and Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs, and, increasingly, I could not sleep without it.

A fact that quickly became an irritating problem when I could no more dictate their schedules than I could prevent the sun from setting. I wanted to sleep.

The second flight of stairs invited me to go straight to my room, but I would only stare at the ceiling. Sluggish steps instead took me to where I stored my sign, then back toward the landing. I had already canceled my other appointments for the next two days, and I no longer trusted myself to give the correct medication. The faded wood would direct people away without making me get up.

It would also trip me on the stairs, considering how difficult the obstacle became when fatigue affected my already unsteady balance. I could not manage both my cane and the large piece of wood without sitting on each step like a young child, so I let gravity do the work for me. My sign slid down the runner to impact the door. I would follow in a minute.

Or Holmes could hang it for me. Familiar footsteps reached the flat with a volume that suggested running, then the lock clicked to let my friend dart inside as if fleeing a tail.

Or chasing someone. He immediately looked behind the door, perhaps expecting to find me instead of a large piece of wood, and muted remorse fought with heavy fatigue. He must have heard the crash from the street.

"Good tim'ng." Keen eyes darted to focus on me. "Hang that up, wouldju?"

He frowned as several words blended despite my efforts, but I turned away before he could respond. A moment's rustling announced the wire catching the nail before long strides skipped every other stair to meet me in the sitting room.

"How long has it been since you slept?"


At least three days, based on the dark shadows beneath Watson's eyes, maybe more. His friend leaned heavily on the cane he usually left in the entry, but that faltering gait obviously stemmed from weariness rather than injury.

The weariness that came from several days without rest. While certainly better than the tumble Holmes had initially feared, he and Mycroft would still have a discussion later. This was why Holmes had wanted to give Watson time to come along.

"'Lo t' you, too," Watson grumbled, eyes on his feet. "S'ccessf'l case?"

"Errand," he corrected, "but yes. Mycroft asked me to deliver a package that could not be trusted to the typical venues. Why have you stopped sleeping?"

A half-hearted harrumph answered him. "You learned years 'go how diff'cult 'tis t' sleep wi' cher eyes op'n."

The words blended almost past Holmes' ability to follow, but he knew to expect that when his friend grew overtired. Wry humor meant Watson had passed frustration to reach resignation, and the trembling grip on his cane suggested the insomnia had stolen his appetite. Holmes made a mental note to raid the kitchen later.

"Then close them." A steadying hand halted the beginnings of a stumble. "Why have you not made the tea you used last time?"

Watson slipped his arm free to sink into the cushions, utter weariness tracing the eyes that tried to look through Holmes. "I don' h've any. Short'ge." Memory flicked his gaze toward the valise in the corner, then to the landing before he added, "S'alright, Holmes. Don' worry 'bout it. You're…probably t'red, too."

He was, but his was the fatigue of travel rather than the exhaustion of a week's wakefulness.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

Is this because the flat is empty? that asked with different words, though Watson thankfully did not hear the true question. He would not have answered if he had.

"At 'er s'ster's. Little one f'll sick, 'n they needed th' help." He paused, then glanced up again. "Tol' me t' make you stay out o' her kitchen. Don' argue."

Amusement escaped in a twitched grin. The last time Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday had also been the last time Watson had battled sleepless nights. After a dose of chamomile caused twenty hours of sleepwalking, Holmes had decided to occupy himself in the kitchen instead of risking noise in the sitting room. He had not enjoyed the lecture—or the consequences—when Mrs. Hudson returned just after the flour hit a spark.

The resulting conversation had eventually revealed what kept Watson awake, however. Between that and the visible relief as Watson sagged into the pillow, Holmes would help better by staying upstairs.

Provided Watson did as well. Something like realization made Watson sit back up, now struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Where are you going?"

"Forgot t' set out…your tun'r," he muttered, fighting to reach his feet. "M'nt t' put it on your d'sk."

His tuner? One hand halted Watson's efforts. Was Watson not as awake as he looked?

"What tuner?"

Watson shoved Holmes' hand away as lethargy turned quiet laughter into barely a huff. "D'ju forget you asked me t' buy one?"

Oh. Right. He had asked for part of Watson's errands that day to include purchasing a new tuner. He had intended to "store" it in his friend's desk until Watson forgot Holmes had paid for it.

Which meant Watson had no reason to leave the settee. "Give it to me later. I will not need it tonight."

"I'll forget lat'r."

"I will not." Holmes easily guided his friend back onto the cushion. "It can wait, Watson, and you are about to fall asleep on your feet. Sit."

"Don'…need t' s't. N'd…"

Or mid-sentence. Watson still apparently stared through the floor, but now his chin firmly touched his chest. A glance found his eyes closed.

"Are you awake?"

No, based on the unintelligible muttering. Holmes shifted his friend to lie flat before dropping his bag in his room. If Watson followed the same pattern he had last time, Holmes needed to eat something and change clothes before the sleepwalking started. Perhaps the lack of chamomile this time would let Holmes sleep in his own bed.

Or not. Either way, Mycroft would have to learn some patience with these errands. His brother's convenience was not worth Watson's health.

That message would deliver best via a morning telegram, timed to arrive well before Mycroft usually woke.


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