The rest of the day passed in a fog for Watson, and with a surprising lack of note. Watson banished the syringe and the Morocco case both to the bottom of his gladstone bag, and Holmes spent his time either lying in bed or on the settee. Watson would not allow him to lay on the floor for purely inexplicable reasons, though Holmes often eyed the tiger skin rug with a hint of longing. The only noteworthy aspect of the time was that after they emerged from the bedroom in the wake of Lestrade's and Clarkey's visit, Holmes did not speak. In fact, it was uncanny how undisturbed he seemed, aside from the utter silence. Watson broke it often, but Holmes never returned the favor. It actually took Watson until suppertime to realize just how quiet their rooms had become, but despite his proudest efforts, he could not coax anything more than a weary, baleful look from Holmes. By the time they retired to bed, Watson had already given up.
The morning brought the unwelcome revelation that Holmes' right kidney had been bruised far worse than Watson had initially thought. Watson woke before dawn to find Holmes only half conscious, febrile and breathing laboriously, the sheets around him soaked in sticky perspiration, his pulse a wildly fluttering thread in his neck much like the abused string of a violin. He began vomiting shortly thereafter, and every convulsion of his abdomen caused him pain enough to emit hoarse, shivering cries that bounced and echoed about the rim of the bowl that Watson held steady for him.
Watson found himself in the unenviable position of trying to treat two opposing conditions. The fever and vomiting necessitated a replenishment of fluids, and yet kidney problems suggested a removal of fluids from the diet. The dietary restrictions of dealing with a damaged kidney also conflicted somewhat with those of a patient who needed to maintain the softest possible stools. He called it miraculous that the stitched wound seemed to be healing without incident, and yet the bite mark on Holmes' shoulder became enflamed within another day, much like the bite of a feral dog whose mouth teemed with disease; Watson found that an apt comparison, actually. He had to lance the wound before it worsened, a task made difficult by the way Holmes seemed unable to cease shivering with a disconcerting degree of violence. It failed to stave off the imminent infection, however, and by nightfall, Holmes had slipped into delirium, his temperature soaring to over one hundred and four degrees from a combination of that and the kidney damage. Cool compresses did nothing to lessen the fever.
The time between bouts of nausea were marked by a frightening, bright-eyed lassitude that set Watson on edge for being so unlike Holmes' usual demeanor. Watson prescribed small doses of morphine for the pain, reluctant to inject too much for fear of rekindling the oldest of Holmes' drug addictions. Watson had only become aware years later, when the cocaine began to appear in Holmes' desk drawer, that at the time Watson had met him, Holmes had regularly self medicated himself with various opiates in an attempt to escape the black fits that often overtook him. Watson had suspected such at the time, even if he had not understood the reason, but Holmes had hid it admirably well. By his own admission, Holmes had only switched to the cocaine because the withdrawal from the morphine had left him prostrate and useless for days on end. Watson was well aware of that demon, having been a slave to it himself for a long while in hospital after receiving his war wounds. He would not willingly inflict it on another if he could help it, especially not on Holmes, who trod a fine line of chemical dependencies as it was.
Contrary to Watson's experience with patients reaching this stage of fever, Holmes did not rave or carry on or babble in tongues known only to his delusional mind. He slipped into such a state of lethargy that Watson feared more for his sanity than if he had been screaming and pointing at invisible horrors, or insisting that his skin teemed with insects. In fact, he wished for flashbacks the likes of which he himself had suffered after the war, because at least that implied an effort to process events. This silence, however… Watson dreaded the possibility that it would not break. Holmes was simply so still as his pores leaked what little moisture Watson could coax him to swallow, and Holmes was never still. Even in sleep, he normally tossed and rolled about and rendered the bedding a disaster area by morning, including the pieces that belonged to Watson. Only Holmes' needle had the power to render him limp and languid, and even then, it provided a respite of perhaps fifteen minutes before the twitching and the nervous pacing and the manic initiative set in. Watson could only equate this extreme exhaustion to a sick form of catatonia, and the thought of Holmes falling prey to the sort of nervous disorder that must run in his family terrified Watson.
Even during the night, Holmes said nothing; he slept more soundly than Watson had ever known him to do throughout their long acquaintance. Then again, in their long association, Watson had also never seen Holmes burn with such a dangerously high fever. It was difficult waking him in the morning, so much so that Watson reexamined him for evidence of a head injury, and then poked at the ugly mottled bruise over his kidney when that yielded only a small cut on the crown of his head. Then he drained the infected bite mark yet again, and seriously considered flaying that whole section of skin and muscle off. It would scar worse than any of the other marks littering Holmes' body on account of his risky lifestyle, but with luck and the proper attention, the infection would go with it. On the third day of the fever, disconcerted by the eerie silence that had fallen over their rooms, Watson did just that. The infection cleared, but the fever did not abate; the bruising to Holmes' kidney was indeed severe, then, and there was nothing that Watson could do about it save wait and hope that Holmes' body could mend itself.
To make things worse, Holmes' body did not cease its natural functions, which was to say that keeping the stitched wound clean became difficult in light of the perfectly normal need to make toilet. That was the only time that Holmes broke his eerie silence, for tending to that certain function with an open sore in that particular area was sheer agony. Watson had to kneel in front of him and hold him upright in the water closet, and Holmes gouged his fingernails into Watson's arms, face buried in Watson's shoulder to the point of suffocation just to muffle the breathless sobs that threatened to bubble and spill from his throat. In those moments, it was Watson who fell silent, for what could he really say to make the experience any less humiliating, or any more bearable? Milk of magnesia could only soften the bowels to a point, and then there was the need for extra caution in cleaning up afterwards, which merely exacerbated the situation. Watson found that it was easiest to simply put him in the bathtub and pour lukewarm water over the affected area until he had removed all traces. And afterwards, the cramps that the magnesia caused via fluid depletion seized at Holmes' abdominal muscles in such a way as to aggravate the pain from the kidney injury and wring thin, breathless grunts from him each time his stomach knotted. Watson tried to keep him hydrated, but anything he poured down Holmes' throat reappeared in the retching basin within fifteen minutes.
Holmes broke his silence six days in, and the moment he did so, Watson found himself wishing for the near-catatonia to return. He started screaming for Watson in the middle of the afternoon, startling Mrs Hudson from her post next to his bed where she had offered to fill in while Watson tried to nap on the settee, but when Watson came, Holmes didn't recognize him. He cupped Holmes' face, the skin greasy and pale and hot with sickness, and told him he was right there. A second later, Holmes erupted like a badger, scratching and biting, kicking, snarling obscenities and calling Watson by the foulest names Watson had ever heard him utter. Watson ended up yelling too, shouting at Mrs Hudson in a very uncivilized manner to bring him the chloroform while he tried to hold Holmes down and avoid getting injured in the process. After they sedated him, Watson tortured himself over the decision to tie Holmes to the bed frame, but he had to do it or else risk Holmes not only harming them, but himself as well. He was a strong man and a skilled fighter, after all, and it was only luck that Holmes had not brought that to bear when he had attacked Watson. A few hours later, Holmes muddled his way back to consciousness, and Watson ended up sitting on the floor with his fingers laced behind his head while Holmes tugged uselessly at the restraints and cried, and called for him. It didn't matter how many times Watson answered; Holmes just shied from his touch and kept begging him to come.
The fever finally broke midway through the eighth afternoon, to Watson's most profound if guarded relief. By then, both of them were beyond exhausted and Holmes could hardly move under his own power. His rebellious stomach had made it next to impossible for Watson to keep him hydrated, much less nourished. Once the thermometer brought back a normal temperature, Watson coaxed a cup of water and a few spoonfuls of broth into him, and then collapsed in a fitful sleep on the bed next to him. He woke up several hours later to find Holmes wrapped around him, his ear to Watson's sternum, holding Watson's already irrevocably wrinkled shirt in a feeble vice grip as he slept. Watson sniffed quietly to contain himself and blinked rapidly at the ceiling. He and Holmes may have shared a bed for several years now, but they did not touch each other in the process. The last person who had held him like this had been Mary, and she had stopped shortly after their honeymoon. It was pathetic how strongly being clung to affected him, but he thought nothing of draping his arm over Holmes' back to return the gesture. Holmes smelled of illness and fever-induced sweat, and his hair hung in limp, greasy tufts over his forehead, and still, Watson slept the better for having him close.
"You don't have any leads?"
Lestrade shook his head in silent apology. "We found the scene, but aside from footprints trampling all over the alley, there was no evidence we could use." An uncomfortable pause ensued, and then Lestrade puffed his cheeks as he blew out a world weary breath. "We found his scarf and his frock coat, and a few fivers that the wind hadn't taken yet. That's all."
Watson cast a dejected glance across the room to where Holmes sat sprawled in an awkward lump in his armchair by the fire; it still pained him to sit properly, and he looked just as ill as he had so recently been, sallow and wan, his breathing still rather short and labored. Turning back to Lestrade, Watson whispered, "But it's been two weeks."
"And there are no witnesses," Lestrade returned. He peered briefly past Watson's shoulder and the hiss of Holmes' pipe permeated the silence for a moment.
For all Watson knew, Holmes' affected disinterest was not the front that it usually was. Holmes may have actually been ignoring them, to the point of not listening at all; he had been like that of late. Watson resisted the urge to glance across the room again and said, "There must have been someone. Can't you interview the building tenants?"
Lestrade pursed his lips and studied the cup of tea that Watson had poured him when he had arrived. "Of the two buildings flanking the alley, one has no windows facing it, and the other is vacant and shuttered to keep out vagrants."
Watson was shaking his head before the movement registered. "There is no way that no one noticed, that no one passed by and heard – "
"It is not the kind of area where people take notice of a scuffle, Doctor. Folks around there learn to mind their own business."
Watson's teeth clicked as he shut his mouth to fume for a second, and then he exclaimed, "I cannot accept that."
"I know." Lestrade's mouth twisted in a grimace as he looked aside. "We're still checking pawn shops for his watch and cigarette case, but I am starting to doubt that we will find them there. These men must know that they would be wiser selling the items on the street than legitimately pawning them."
Watson shut his eyes and groaned out a long sigh. He had known that finding them would be nigh on impossible; he had known that from the start. It did not lessen the pain of hearing it actualized, nor did it diminish the slightest edge of his carefully banked temper. With his eyes still closed, Watson intoned, "There must be something."
"Doctor." A rustle of movement drew Watson's gaze back to Lestrade, who had leaned toward him across the table. "I am not giving up." He broke eye contact suddenly and drew back.
The thump of a single slippered footstep was all the warning Watson had before Holmes appeared at his side. "If you have had no luck finding the men, then perhaps you should look for the other victims."
Watson blinked up at him, peripherally aware of Lestrade doing the same. They both regarded Holmes as if he had just gone mad in their presence, though it was only his participation in the conversation that shocked them. Lestrade cleared his throat and put on a valiant show of normalcy. "You believe that there were others?"
Holmes nodded gravely, but a flicker of absent eye contact betrayed his unease. "They spoke of taking turns, and mentioned 'the last one.'" His eyelids drooped after that statement, and then he fidgeted a hand out to steal Watson's tea before retreating back to his chair with the same stealth with which he had arrived. The furtiveness was only a side effect, Watson knew, of the care that Holmes took to step firmly; the dizziness brought on by the fever and the lack of proper nourishment had not yet abated.
A dull sensation of nausea interrupted Watson's tracking of Holmes' progress, and he turned back to stare at his now empty saucer. Lestrade seemed just as discomfited, and he shifted in his chair before taking a compulsive gulp of tea. Once he had replaced the cup on its saucer, Lestrade mumbled, "If they are accustomed to working as a team, then there should be other reports. I will have Clarkey search for similar cases."
Watson offered a mute nod in response.
"How, um… How have things been?"
Watson sighed and passed a hand over his brow. Too low for Holmes to hear, he murmured, "I don't even know. He gets…lost, I suppose, and he keeps talking about buttons. I don't know what to do."
"You could consult with another physician."
Watson scowled at his own closed fist. "They would suggest a mental hospital."
Lestrade nodded; he could guess at Watson's opinion of that. "I'm sure he'll come 'round soon enough."
A mirthless puff of air escaped Watson's lungs. "It is kind of you to lie, Inspector, but we both know Holmes' tendencies. He was prone to nervous attacks long before this."
A moment passed in awkwardness, and then Lestrade softly rebuked, "You do him a discourtesy, Doctor. I know that you are worried, but Mister Holmes' mind is not so weak."
"Genius and madness are irrevocably entwined, Inspector. It is not a matter of weakness, but of rigidity. I fear that his own logic will be the death of him."
"And I fear that you underestimate his resilience. I'll be off now, Doctor. Business to attend to."
Watson frowned at the tabletop and left Lestrade to see himself out.
It had been three weeks. Holmes laid in bed in the middle of the day, listening to Nanny putter about in the sitting room, disturbing his things – moving them to where they did not belong. Twenty three days. He counted them now, much as he did not want to. But he couldn't help noticing each one individually as it dragged past. Holmes traced a finger over the ring on his right wrist. The marks still stood out in stark relief against the pale skin of his arms from where his scarf had bitten and chafed his skin bloody. He strongly suspected that they would scar, as the scabs broke open every time he bent his wrist, or rubbed on the cuffs of his shirts to seep pale drops of fresh blood and crust over anew. Watson had tried wrapping them with fresh, painfully white gauze, but Holmes kept ripping the bandages off; they were too binding. He should not have struggled so much; it had been pointless and destructive, and he should have just saved his strength.
Nothing felt right anymore. Holmes went through the motions and said whatever he was supposed to say – whatever was expected of Sherlock Holmes, the Great Consulting Detective, or Sherlock Holmes the World's Worst Tennant, or…whichever part he was playing that day. Watson had once asked him, years ago, which one of his guises was the real him. The detective? The actor? The violinist? The depressive maniac who shot holes in walls and made poetry out of the downfall of the criminal mastermind? Were any of them real at all? Holmes had not known how to answer that. He had invented so many guises and lived under them for so long that Watson's question had actually caused him a small degree of apprehension. He could not have actually said that, however, so he had shrugged and replied, trying to be flippant, "Sherlock Holmes, the friend and flat mate of Doctor John Watson." And it had backfired on him because Watson had taken it as some sort of vaunted privilege, and coveted it. Holmes could tell; it was plain and disconcertingly bare in the earliest drafts of each of his blasted stories. Scribbles and chicken scratch about him and his powers of deduction, and Watson himself a mere adornment in a pretty tale, running about with his chest puffed out like a peacock at being called the most intimate acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes. One of these days, Holmes thought he might like to meet that strange, cold detective from Watson's stories; he seemed a very unlikely character, and rather unpleasant on top of it. Sometimes, he wondered if that was really how Watson saw him, and if so, what was it about that cold caricature that could so draw a man like him?
With the windows open to let in the early spring air, Holmes could detect the reek of the Thames, and it reminded him of sewers and putrid fingers and filth. The space behind the house where Mrs Hudson deposited the rubbish had become overrun by stray cats during the winter, and it smelled the same as the cobblestones of the alley: ammonia and feline waste and dead rodents molding in puddles of rainwater. He could not go out there, not even to refill the coal scuttle. It was pathetic and he hated himself for it, and yet he could not bring himself to go. Luckily, Mrs Hudson did not seem to mind; she gave the chore to the maid and left him be.
Holmes sighed and rolled over to curl about a spare pillow. Watson had gone out on rounds for the first time since that night; he had neglected his practice for three weeks already, but not having him there was already eroding the tenuous calm in which Holmes had existed for the past twenty three days. Watson had a life outside of him; Holmes needed to respect that. And besides, this deplorable, pathetic reliance on Watson's mere presence had to stop. Holmes considered going down to Scotland Yard to inquire about his…about the investigation simply because it sounded like the proactive thing to do. A healthy response to recent events. He very quickly decided against it, however; he didn't care what Lestrade was doing. As far as Holmes could tell, Watson had abandoned his insane and misguided quest for vengeance, and that was all he wanted - for Watson to stop treating him like…like a god damn maiden on the verge of breaking apart. Being molly-coddled just made him feel…
…like a woman. Soft and pale like a woman…
Holmes scrambled out of bed and yanked at his hair. Stop thinking about it – just stop. It's been twenty three days. It's done with, it's over, the infection has cleared, the marks are almost gone, there is no reason to keep thinking about it! It's not even a real case. It's burglary and assault – it's petty! And as such, wholly unworthy of his notice or consideration.
"Nanny!" Holmes stalked out into the sitting room and stabbed a finger at the pile of newspapers in Mrs Hudson's hands. "Everything is exactly where it is meant to be – I insist that you put those back where you found them."
Mrs Hudson gave him an unimpressed look – arrogance suited the woman, damn her and her infernal…tidying. "Will you be having luncheon, Mister Holmes?"
Holmes dropped his arm and prowled over to the sideboard. He needed a cigarette. Now where had he left the damn case – no. No, he didn't have that anymore. He knew that. Why did he keep forgetting? He wasn't that absent minded, no matter what Watson liked to tell people in ironic jest. Pipes – he would have a pipe instead.
"Mister Holmes?"
The sound of newspapers settling on the floor brought Holmes back to himself and he blinked at the bullet holes in the wallpaper in front of him. "I require a cigarette." Announcing such was stupid and he knew it, but he found himself doing it over and over again. Irrationality irked him, especially in himself, and he spared a moment to snuff at the sideboard and grit his teeth. His erratic behavior had long since become tiresome even to himself. He could only imagine how Watson must feel.
Mrs Hudson came to a stop beside him and craned her neck to catch his gaze. "The Doctor left instructions that you are to eat something for luncheon. Do you have a preference?"
Holmes refused to meet her eyes and let his own flicker off in the opposite direction, lids sinking to half mast. I would prefer you to go to hell.
The hand on his arm nearly startled him out of his own skin and he scuttled sideways, rounding to put the sideboard at his back.
Mrs Hudson took her hand back and clasped it into its match. "Not the buttons again, sir. Lunch. What would you like to eat?"
Holmes huffed and clenched his jaw for a moment, trying to recollect having said something. He must have slipped. Can't have that. Can't be coddled either – he's not a child. And now she was giving him that sympathetic look – damn her thrice over, and her looks. His gaze had been roving without purpose across half the room and he forced it to still. Overcoat. Blue. Watson's. Spilled gravy on the lapel last night at dinner. The stain has set by now; he'll be irritated by it. "Gravy."
"Gravy and biscuits? I think we can manage that." Mrs Hudson patted his arm as she swooped past him and he only just managed not to cringe. Can't have that. Not a poor, simpering little…
…poor little poppet. Are you gonna be good for us, poppet?
Enough. Need to do something now. The scrapbooks need updating. That will do.
Holmes spent the rest of the afternoon making something of a mess on the floor with his newspaper clippings and the glue bottle. No patterns caught his eye so he considered it a wasted effort, but there was no telling what might be important later. He also organized the unopened mail, but couldn't manage the energy required to read any of it. No matter. Watson would be home soon, and the Doctor would no doubt insist on going out somewhere to save Holmes from stagnation…or himself…whichever. He was tired, though – half asleep where he sat beside the uneaten biscuits. The tiger skin rug beckoned from three feet away, so he crawled over to it and slithered himself into a comfortable position. Just a brief nap. Watson would wake him when he came home…
The air reeked of sewage and ammonia and he couldn't breathe. He could see the shoes again, though, look at the shoes. And the cuff links. The cuff links were right in front of him. Right there – so close with Right Arm Man holding his head…or was it the other one? Or…military issue boots and forty two buttons…did he count Fourth Man's buttons? No…no, dammit, he didn't. No, that's bad – he has to know how many –
"Gonna come for me, precious?"
Holmes flinched and tried to cry out, only to have Right Arm shove deeper, and he choked instead. Choked on it. On him. Top Man had his hand down there again, between his legs, no – it doesn't feel good. It hurts. It's not good, it hurts.
"Ow! Stupid cunt!"
Right Arm man recoiled and his prick slipped from Holmes' mouth, thank god. He gagged and spit on the pavement to try to rid himself of the taste. Don't be sick. Don't throw up. Don't be sick. Don't let them see it. Don't. Top Man thrust hard and then bore down and held himself there, and Holmes went rigid in an effort not to react to the way that felt – heat and billows and sparks like shards of melting glass, and why the hell did it feel like that? His body twitched at random when Top Man did not pull back, and he couldn't stop himself from squirming at the sensation, pressure and tingling at the base of his spine, legs shaking where he had ineffectually braced them, as if Top Man weren't pinning him flat on his stomach. He gnawed on his lip to keep from crying out, and the fact that he needed the distraction at all brought a fresh flush to his face. None of this should affect him so.
"What's the matter, eh?" Top Man demanded.
"Little slut has teeth, is what's the matter!"
Holmes swallowed rapidly and tried to twist away, hands tugging uselessly at the restraints, but Top Man's weight held him against the pavement, and he could hear…what was that? Someone crying – it sounded like a child…oh god, don't let there be a child here. One of his – one of his little Irregulars. They shouldn't see this - no one should see this. He could feel the slickness of blood on his palms – he had chafed his wrists bloody. Stop struggling, you'll make it worse.
"Teeth, you say?" Top Man lowered himself down along Holmes' back, crushing him – the man was heavy; he'd be suffocated –
Can't suffocate. Can't die here. Just breathe. Watson's at home. Just get through it and go home, and…and buttons. Forty two of them. Except for Fourth Man. He has more buttons. Don't leave a body. Count the buttons.
"Now, little poppet. What did I tell you about using teeth, huh?" Top Man wrapped a stinking, meaty palm around Holmes' head and turned him so he had to breathe in the fetid breath that Top Man exhaled. Rotting gums. Smelled like something first run over by a hansom and then doused in cheap ale. Repugnant. "Come now, precious. What did I tell you?"
Holmes squirmed, or tried to, but it hurt – the ground was gritty beneath him, and with Top Man's weight pressing him down, he could feel the gravel digging into his…no, into his own…no. Top Man settled more of his weight down and Holmes whimpered as he felt the man's prick press deeper. At least the fitful sparks and washes of heat subsided. Holmes groaned in relief.
"Answer me, poppet." Top Man nibbled around the shell of Holmes' ear as he spoke and Holmes struggled to try and turn his head away. "What did I say about the teeth?" He punctuated his question by ducking down and sinking his teeth into Holmes shoulder.
Holmes gasped, and then mewled when one of Top Man's fingers found its way to his lips. Even though speaking invited insertion of the fingers, Holmes replied, "Don't bite him." He cringed from the fingers – would rather taste the thing than have Top Man's fingers in his mouth again. "Please…"
Top Man chuckled darkly around the flesh in his mouth and Holmes felt the skin break like a sheer cloth stretched on a loom, punctured and then torn by the tension. "Mmm…" Top Man let up enough to speak with his lips brushing the damaged skin. "Please what, Mister Holmes?"
Please… What did he want to hear? What did – Top Man was suckling at the jagged mark he had made on Holmes' shoulder, Christ - what answer was he looking for? "Please, I'll…try again. Please."
Now the others laughed too; one of them even whistled. A cat call. That made sense. There were cats here – he could smell them; they had marked their territory. Oh god…what if they were rabid? He'd been bitten – people turned feral vicious and bit people – Top Man could be rabid –
Don't be ridiculous. By Lord Harry, keep a grip on yourself.
"Try what again, poppet?" He licked along Holmes jaw and Holmes cringed again, to no effect. "Come now. You can tell us." He lifted his hips and then jabbed himself down again.
Holmes heard himself bleat like a dying sheep, and if it were possible for him to blush further, he would have turned scarlet.
"What do you want to try again?"
"I…want…please…"
Top Man inhaled a shuddering breath and thrust again, and it was one of those thrusts, the ones that made Holmes shake and gasp and see white for a second. "Say it, poppet. Say what you want."
This was not happening. This was not happening. He was at home with Watson, smoking his pipe, he was at home, everything was fine. "I whu – want to suck – "
"Want to suck his cock?"
Holmes whined against the fingers that were still dancing and prodding at his lips, a fractured and desolate sound like wind in an empty house, and then squeezed his eyes shut and choked, "Yes."
Top Man groaned and sucked at the hinge of his jaw, and Holmes strangled a sob before it could come out. Don't let them see you cry. Don't. "Hear that, boys? Good little whore, isn't he? Asks so prettily. What do you say? Should we give him what he wants?"
Holmes shook his head as much as he was able with Top Man's hand digging into his jaw. "Please." Please, just stop.
Someone laughed; Holmes didn't know who. But there was no time to figure it out because Top Man was pushing back up onto his hands and knees, and that thing was pressing at his lips again – don't gag, don't bite, count the buttons, go home –
"Holmes."
Hands on him, in the small of his back, and on his shoulder, rolling him over, brush of fingers on his hipbone, and –
"NO!" Holmes lashed out and hit someone, but then the hands were back, and he was being pushed down, restrained, unrelenting grip on his wrists, and –
"Holmes! For god's sake, it's me. It's just me!"
Someone in the room stopped yelling then, thank goodness, because just the sound of it was shredding his own throat. He tried to wrench his hands free but he couldn't, and god, he was going to cry – he could hear it, he was already halfway there, blubbering incoherently like a half-butchered puppy, and he couldn't breathe through the convulsions of his diaphragm.
"Wake up. Holmes, open your eyes – you're safe. You're at home, you're safe!"
Holmes howled a wordless denial and kicked at whoever was holding him. He felt his head strike back against the floor as he thrashed, impacting hard enough to jar his teeth and cut off the sound of his own voice. And there was a weight on top of him, and hands, and he could smell putrefaction and ammonia thick enough to choke on. The weight moved to better pin him and he yelped as he kicked again.
"Ow!"
Stupid cunt.
Holmes found one of his hands free and he started pummeling someone's ribs, grunting with the effort, and then both of his hands were loose, and the other man was holding his face, and –
"Oh sweet Mary. Mister Holmes!"
"Holmes, it's okay. You're okay. Open your eyes, you're okay."
Holmes found fabric under his hands and fisted it in an effort to get the man off. He could hear himself but he couldn't stop, snarling and sobbing at the same time, trying to be vicious and failing, like a wounded animal in a cage. The man moved over him, and Holmes shrieked as he punched at the shadowy shape looming in front of his face. Watson would be horrified if he could see this. Hysterical. Panicked. Mustn't let him know. Ever. Never ever – it's shameful, and weak, and Sherlock Holmes isn't weak. Just like that man in the stories that Watson writes - he never loses control.
"Shh-shh…Holmes, you're okay. You can stop now. It's okay."
Holmes hiccupped and then choked over the mucous collecting in the back of his throat. Fingers in his hair. He wailed, "Noooo…no…" His knee struck soft tissue and he jabbed it into the man's ribs again, but he had no leverage there wasn't force enough behind it to knock the man off. He pushed at the face hovering over him instead, but it shook his hands away.
"I know. It's okay, old boy. Calm down now." Soothing words. Soft and gentle.
Holmes stopped hitting, but he continued to push feebly at the man's chest and his knee was lodged against someone's side, and…Watson. It was only Watson. It was… He blinked at the familiar waistcoat twisted between white knuckles and tried to reign in his breathing but it sounded wrong. Noisy and…he was still panting no every time he exhaled. That was it. Be quiet now and stop shaking. Stupid…it's nothing. Get hold of yourself.
"There. Can you breathe with me? Slow and deep." Watson's fingers combed softly through his hair. "Just like that. That's good, Holmes. Everything's alright."
Holmes swallowed but it turned into some sort of hiccup, and then he had to suck in a wet and ragged breath that fluttered and caught in his chest, teeth hovering over his bottom lip. He shoved again and growled in a rather pitiful manner like a garbled wind sheer or a songbird drowning in a bucket, but Watson didn't budge. Holmes thought he might have been glad of it. Watson was solid. He was there, always there except when he wasn't. Good, solid, dependable old Watson.
"Okay," Watson murmured. He shifted his other hand to cup the back of Holmes' head. "You're okay." Holmes felt him probing at the crown of his head to see if he had damaged it against the floor. "Mrs Hudson, I don't suppose we could trouble you for a pot of tea?"
"Of course," Mrs Hudson replied. Her voice trembled. "There's already a kettle on; I'll just steep it for you."
"Thank you," Watson answered in that same gentle tone, a rumble like a giant purr.
Holmes turned his head to watch her leave, but he could only make out a streaked impression of the colors in her dress moving toward to the door.
"Alright, old boy. Why don't we get you cleaned up?"
Holmes concentrated on breathing for a moment, head spinning from ebbing panic and having hit it on the floor, and then he rasped, "Watson."
"Yes, Holmes. Can you get up now?"
"Watson, I miscounted."
Watson didn't reply right away, but he kept circling his thumb in Holmes' hair. "Don't worry about it. We need to clean you up, okay?"
"But the buttons." Was that actually his voice? It wavered and creaked all over the place – old rusted iron gate caught in the wind. "I didn't get them all. Fourth Man – "
"That's alright," Watson assured him. "Let's just get you off the floor, okay?"
Holmes tried to swallow but found that he couldn't, and that bothered him. He whined low in his throat and squirmed to get away from something that wasn't there – felt the tiger skin rug slide away under the heel of one foot – and then his eyes somehow found Watson's.
Watson smiled; it was like sunlight. "Hello."
Holmes blinked, and then he fell to examining Watson's clothes. He snuffle-coughed and the wetness in his eyes gave the illusion that Watson had crystallized, as if he were made of sparkling slivers of liquid glass caught in a shivering flare of mercury. "You stopped at the bookseller's on the way home. There is dust on your cuff from the shelves in the back. It is of a distinctive color, due to the disintegrating mortar of the bricks. You were looking at the medical texts."
"Yes, I was." Watson's smiled again, and Holmes had to look away. He heard Watson sigh, and then Watson patted his chest. "Come on. This old leg of mine won't thank me for crawling about on the floor much longer."
Holmes' breath hitched again as Watson disentangled himself, and then he let Watson pull him to his feet.
"Steady on, now." Watson's hands came up to grasp his elbows. "Can't have you falling over. Knowing you, you'll brain yourself on the hearth stones."
Holmes realized he was swaying a bit, but he couldn't manage to stop the room from tilting.
"Okay – hold up there." Watson's grip tightened and he managed to collapse Holmes into a chair, rather than back onto the floor. "Look at me."
Holmes blinked; he swore his eyes were wobbling in their sockets, but he tracked a wayward finger back down to Watson's face. Watson had knelt in front of him.
"There's a good fellow. Now just look here." Watson peered critically at him, too much eye contact, and then he patted Holmes' knee. "I need the truth now, Holmes. Have you been at the needle today?"
Holmes stared blankly at the open concern on Watson's face, and then peered past the top of Watson's head to think. "No. Not since Thursday."
Watson nodded, then asked, "You realize that today is Thursday, right?"
Holmes wrinkled his brow, and then amended, "Last Thursday."
"Good. That's good. Thank you for being honest with me, Holmes."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Um…" Watson appeared to stop himself from shaking his head, and then he smiled again, but it wasn't the same smile he'd offered a minute ago. This one was just a part of his mustache; it didn't reach his eyes. Rather than sit there dumbly, Watson extracted a handkerchief and used it to wipe all of the cloying wetness from Holmes' face.
Holmes allowed the treatment, but only because he was occupied in staring at the bunched up tiger skin rug over Watson's shoulder.
Some little time later, Watson folded the handkerchief back up and stuffed it into his shirt cuff. A soldier's habit. "Are you better enough to walk now?"
Holmes sucked some moisture into his mouth and then realized that he had to answer. "Where are we going?"
"Downstairs to the wash room. Is that alright?"
"Why do you keep asking?"
Watson frowned. "Because… Holmes, do you know what just happened?"
Holmes let his eyelids drooped and studied the way that Watson dimmed before him. "I feel odd. Did Nanny put something in the tea? I told you, she's been trying to poison me for years."
A tiny sound of mirth escaped Watson's lips. "Hardly. Odd, how? Were you asleep just now?"
Holmes nodded. "I took a nap."
That seemed to relieve Watson. "Good. It was just a nightmare, then."
Holmes gave him a hard look. "What else would it have been?"
Watson's eyes flickered away and then back. "You remember when we first met, how, um…innocent things would startle me?"
Of course Holmes remembered. The war had done terrible things to Watson's mind. "Surely you're not suggesting that I have a nervous disorder?"
"I considered it a possibility."
"I am nothing like you."
Watson bit his lower lip, his face darkening as he averted his gaze. "Yes, well. Be that as it may, I thought when I first came in here that you might…" His lip curled and he flared his nostrils. "Never mind. Clearly, you are stronger than that."
Holmes balked. "You have misunderstood me. I only meant that you were in a war. I have never been subjected to such a thing. It is not reasonable to compare us in that regard."
Watson's head tipped to one side and he shot Holmes a wary, sidelong look.
As if it should have been obvious – which it was – Holmes told him, "You are not weak. I would never imply that you were."
Watson sucked in a pensive breath and then let it out slowly. His face softened in the process, though some sort of edge lingered. "Holmes, there are times when I am convinced that you must be an utter fool." He paused, then solemnly added, "And neither are you."
Holmes gave him a bewildered look. Why would he say that? God, Holmes thought; he'd said something in his sleep. What was it? What had Watson heard?
"I ask again. Can you walk now?"
Holmes nodded. In one sense, he felt much more sure of his balance now; in another sense, far less so.
"Good." Watson grasped the arm of Holmes' chair and used it to help lever himself to his feet.
He kept his body canted to the left, Holmes noticed. His leg…tussling on the floor had no doubt aggravated it. He would make Watson sit in his chair after dinner and accept a hot towel from Mrs Hudson to ease the cramping that would come later.
"I do believe I've split your lip." Watson held out a hand. "Come on."
Holmes waved him off and stumbled upright. Then he frowned. "Did I hit you?"
With a wry grimace, Watson replied, "Several times. But I forgive you." He jerked his head toward the door and then started off in that direction.
Holmes regarded him dubiously, but trailed after him anyway. "I apologize. Have I injured you badly?"
"Not at all." Watson pushed the sitting room door open – Mrs Hudson must not have closed it all the way – and motioned him through. "Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming about?"
"No."
"That's fine. I was only offering."
"I do not require your 'friendly ear'."
From Watson's tone, he had just rolled his eyes. "Holmes, I am hardly offering in my capacity as a doctor."
"Oh." Holmes paused to be sure of his grip on the banister, and then started down. "I still do not wish to tell you."
"Alright." Watson ambled down the stairs in his wake, the cadence of his footsteps uneven in the most familiar manner. When they reached the ground floor, Watson hesitantly inquired, "Is that the first such dream you've had?"
Holmes cast a severe glare over his shoulder. "I just said, I do not wish to speak of it."
With a mollifying gesture, Watson said, "I did not ask for content."
Holmes chuffed in annoyance. "No."
"No, you have not, or – "
"No, I am not having this conversation." It was indeed the first time he had experienced anything so vivid while sleeping. But he saw no need to inform Watson of it. If it persisted, then perhaps disclosure might become necessary, but not now.
Watson nodded and followed him into the wash room. "Understood."
Holmes glowered at the water pump and griped, "That is quite enough clucking, Mother Hen."
"Indeed," Watson replied dryly. "I grow weary of it anyway."
Holmes felt his limbs go faintly numb at the rush of panic his words engendered. Then he forced himself to complete his reach for the wash rag and dip it deliberately into the water bowl.
Hands on his arms, just below his shoulders, left Holmes rigidly still, and Watson stepped close enough that he could feel heat along his back. "Steady," Watson murmured. After Holmes had uncoiled enough to rest his hands on the rim of the water bowl, Watson said, "I did not mean to imply that I was weary of looking after you. You know I could never tire of you."
"I do not require 'looking after' any more than you do." It was a weak protest at best.
Watson directed a smile at the tip of Holmes' ear; Holmes only caught it because he was looking at their reflections in the mirror, and Watson didn't think Holmes could see the expression. A hazy sense of confusion billowed through Holmes like fog to see such a smile on Watson's face. There was very little to betray it in the curve of his mouth, but his eyes… Holmes could not recall having seen the like before. "My dear Holmes, I could not agree more."
Holmes frowned, an expression that seemed to pull at unrelated parts of his body. There was a double meaning in that statement; he was certain of it. Rather than respond, Holmes reserved judgment on the sentiment and grunted his dismissal of pretty much everything as he wrung out the rag and concentrated on wiping away the blood that had already crusted in the corner of his lip. His eyes dropped abruptly as he turned to consideration of the other sentiment that Watson had voiced, that Watson would never tire of him. In point of fact, he had tired of Holmes once before. "While I believe you to always have the kindest of intentions, I am well aware of the inconvenience I have caused you of late. You have been remarkably accommodating."
"Holmes…" Watson released one of his arms, but not the other, and slipped around to look at Holmes without the buffer of a reflective surface to shield them. "You are not a burden."
"I am also of no practical use at the moment. But I will be taking cases again, I assure you."
Watson's face turned severe. "Holmes, I don't give a cat's fancy if you never take a case again. That is not the only reason I am your friend."
"But it was the first." And the surest to hold Watson's interest to the exclusion of all of the little annoyances that Holmes was capable of perpetrating on any given day. The span of time between cases drove Watson away out of unbridled irritation just as surely as it drove Holmes into the black fits that so wore at Watson's patience. That was what had driven him to seek out Mary all those years ago. If Holmes became too cumbersome again – too reliant on Watson's presence, too demanding of his time, too needy, too ungrateful – then Watson would leave again. A man could put up with only so much before he cut his losses. Holmes supposed that he was fortunate to have made a compulsive gambler his only friend; it took Watson longer than it took other men to break away from a losing streak.
Holmes could feel Watson frowning, indicated by the shift of the hand still gripping his arm, so he did not bother looking when Watson asked, "Why do you do this to yourself?"
Holmes licked away a droplet of blood that had seeped onto his lip, then shrugged. An incisor had pierced the inner lining of his lip and he swallowed the taste of copper. Holmes risked glancing up into the mirror to see Watson's reaction and found such a profound sadness in Watson's face that he tilted his head to regard it better. "Contrary to your beliefs, I do read your stories, Watson. I am well aware of which traits you admire in me."
Watson's brow wrinkled. "No, actually, I don't think you are."
"Then pray, enlighten me," Holmes demanded. And for once, he thought that he actually wanted to know. It was unsettling to realize that in the past, he had been ignorant of the exact opposite want.
Watson stared at him, eyes meeting in glass, and then he let his gaze fall to the arm he still grasped. "Holmes, you could spend your days knitting tea cozies for all I care. I only want to see you in some semblance of happiness."
Holmes stared into the mirror, at the side of Watson's averted face. He noted his own features softening as he looked, but if he hadn't been able to see it, he would not have known. Uncomfortable now, Holmes merely mumbled, "I am not proficient at knitting; perhaps you should add that to your list."
"Are you ever going to let me live that down?" Watson waited long enough to know, from long association, that Holmes did not intend to reply, so he offered, "If it is so important to you, then perhaps we could sort through the mail. There are bound to be a fair few missives of interest, seeing as how they've been collecting for a month."
Only twenty three days, actually. Holmes found something else to look at, far to one side where the bathtub sat. He could taste the disgust on his tongue when he admitted, "I flinch even from you most of the time. How am I to work a case?"
"Something easy, then," Watson replied. "Nothing you have to leave Baker Street for."
Something boring, Holmes' mind translated.
He was not aware of having sighed until Watson rested his forehead against his temple and echoed the sound. "This will pass." He tilted his head just far enough to press dry lips against the hinge of Holmes' jaw. "I promise."
Holmes cringed and twisted from Watson's grasp before he knew what he was doing. To cover his momentary lapse – Top Man's groan, a wet suckling of putrid lips – Say it, poppet. Say what you want – Holmes flung the wash rag at the dry sink and snarled, "You don't know that."
Watson didn't call after him as he stormed out, and Holmes wasn't sure what that meant. The evening editions of the papers were laying on the table in the foyer, however, so Holmes snatched them up before flinging himself at the staircase and out of sight of Watson, who stood framed forlornly in the washroom doorway, not watching him.