Holmes had initially thought the flat empty, but he knocked again when a shadow moved on the stairs. Watson had not yet seen this disguise. Whether he saw through it immediately or in a few minutes, his reaction would be entertaining. Holmes always enjoyed tricking his friend.
The footsteps faded away, however, and Holmes frowned. Mrs. Hudson sometimes ignored the door, but she was still on holiday. Watson had the flat to himself, and he usually answered. The footsteps had come too close for him to have not heard the knock. Was something wrong?
Unlikely. The footsteps had been unhurried. His friend had probably had his hands full, and Holmes changed plans, turning his steps down the street. If Watson refused to answer the door, Holmes would let himself in, fool Watson for as long as possible, then remove his disguise. That was better than loitering outside waiting for his friend to grow irritated with the knocking.
The bolthole where he had left his valise was not far, and it took less than an hour to retrieve his things and return to Baker Street. A strange shape caught his attention as soon as he came within sight of the door. That had not been there earlier, he noted with a confused frown. Had someone broken the door?
No. Watson had hung a sign on the nail, and worry shot through Holmes. The sign directing patients to Agar and Thompson contradicted Holmes' earlier supposition, but, worse, Watson had omitted the expected reopening date from his sign. Watson never omitted the expected reopening date. Holmes should have picked the lock instead of retrieving his key.
Something was wrong.
Urgency made the key miss the hole twice, but the lock finally clicked. Watson's cane was not in its place near the door.
"Watson?"
His only answer was a long sigh from the sitting room, and the door closed hard as he lunged for the stairs. The banister had two new scratches since he had left.
"Watson!"
There was no reply, and the sitting room door slammed against the wall in his haste to reach his friend. Had something happened? Was Watson injured?
He spotted his friend immediately, stretched out on the settee as he was. Three long strides carried Holmes across the room.
"Watson!"
Watson made no answer, never moved from his place under one of the blankets off the back of the settee. Deep shadows under his eyes revealed a lack of recent sleep—at least three days, probably more—the cane next to the settee provided a reason for the sign, and the full pot of tea steaming next to an empty cup distinctly lacked a plate nearby. Watson had not been eating or sleeping, but why was he not answering now? Even at his most exhausted, he should have woken at least partially at the noise of Holmes' entrance. Was he—
Yes. His deep breaths rhythmically lifted the blanket, and his pulse was slow and even, normal for heavy sleep. The sigh Holmes had heard had been just that—a sigh.
So what had happened?
The medical bag on Watson's desk caught Holmes' eye, and his frown deepened as he moved closer. The morphine rested on the tabletop, a syringe barely an inch away, and everything else had been haphazardly moved around in frantic search. Had Watson used—
No. Not possible. Watson despised using opioids even when he was in pain. By the time he agreed to a small dose, he could no longer hold the syringe himself, and while that might have changed while alone in the flat, Watson displayed no sign of injury. Besides, the settee was too far away. He had not dosed himself, set the syringe on the desk, and had time to make it to the settee and cover himself with a blanket before the drug took effect. Something else was going on here.
But what?
He returned to Watson's side, checking him thoroughly. He had no fever, perfectly normal color—excepting the shadows under his eyes—and showed no needle marks on his arms. Holmes found no sign of injury—whether fresh or old—and Watson even wore a faint smile. There was no reason he should not have woken at Holmes' entrance.
The pot of tea captured his attention, and he quickly removed the lid. Had someone slipped something into the tea? That had happened once before.
The tea smelled fine, looked fine, and tasted fine, and Watson showed no signs of the allergic reaction that had resulted last time. The tea was not the cause, and Holmes studied his friend. Watson had not been sleeping or eating, and his leg was bothering him, but those would not have kept him asleep through the noise of Holmes' panicked entrance. He had no fever, a normal pulse rate, and no injuries. His breathing was even, and he apparently slept peacefully, if his contented expression was any indication. Why would he not wake up?
He looked again at the medical bag. Watson had searched desperately for something, but he usually kept his vials near the top to prevent them from breaking. He would not have needed to search for the morphine or the syringe, and there was nothing else on the desktop. What had he sought?
He moved to peer inside the open bag, noting what had been moved the most, and a long moment passed before something caught his eye. The packet of lavender was slightly out of place, and the fresh leaf stuck to the outside announced Watson had used it recently. He nudged a vial out of the way. Was the chamomile affected?
More than affected, the chamomile was nearly empty. Watson had made chamomile and lavender tea recently, and it was far more likely that he had made one strong cup instead of four weak ones. The still-warm dregs in his teacup confirmed it. Watson had not woken at Holmes' arrival because he had dosed himself.
He had probably needed it, if the dark shadows and haggard appearance were any indication, and Watson had proven the tea was a safe sleep-aid after that failed experiment, but that did not rule out some other problem in addition. Holmes tossed his valise on his bed and settled in the sitting room. He would keep watch to make sure Watson was truly alright.
Couldn't fool Holmes for long, but the story's not over yet. Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to review! Reviews are awesome :D
Thanks to Guest, MHC1987, and Corynutz for your reviews on the last chapter
