Self Pity

I am terribly bored, frustrated and irritable. Were it not for Watson's presence (not that I wish for him to leave) I would have dosed myself with Morphine long before now and to blazes with the consequences. I want to sleep, to escape this wretched lethargy, exhaustion and pain. It is now dark out and still I am unable to rest at all.

"Are you feeling any different?" my friend asks gently.

How the deuce should I know? I am in too much discomfort to be able to tell!

"Are you feeling worse?"

I shrug and cover my face with a painful and uncooperative arm. "I could not tell you."

"Poor Holmes! Is there anything that I can do?"

I shake my head and attempt to wave him away. He is not having that.

"If you feel well enough, and if I can do nothing else, could I examine you?"

Here we go. I should have been expecting it and I suppose the fellow has been good to have not demanded to be permitted to do so at once. All the same, I am not in the mood for his infernal poking and prodding.

"I would rather not, if you do not mind Watson."

"I do mind!" he snaps back at me. "Holmes, you might have died of that uncharacteristically high dosage. You do not seem to be aware of the danger that you put yourself in!"

"I am drawn to danger," I respond calmly. "I accept it as a part of my work."

"As have I in the course of my career and yours," the fellow returns in that dangerously quiet manner of his. "But facing danger as a consequence of one's profession is hardly on a par with facing it as a consequence of one's stupidity."

What am I supposed to say to that? I know that he speaks the truth. Well... "That is my own affair."

He slams his fist down on something - the coffee table? - and I hear him gasp and mutter an oath.

"No Holmes. No. You are not going to do that."

Do what?

"You are not going to pick and choose what is - and what is not - my affair! You are my friend - my closest, dearest friend - and what you do matters to me. I will not... Cannot..."

I look up at him, curious and concerned, as he falters. "Watson?"

He has covered his eyes with his right hand, a bruise already beginning to form upon it from his slamming it down on the tabletop, and he is shaking with what would appear to be silent sobs.

"Please don't old fellow. I am hardly worth it."

He shakes his head and sniffs. "I cannot lose you again. Once was enough. If only you knew..."

I want to stand, to go to him, and I force my rebellious body to do so somewhat unsteadily. Carefully, awkwardly, I slip my arm about him and rest my head at his shoulder. It is not quite the embrace that I attempted to give to him yesterday, but it will have to suffice.

"Forgive me Watson."

He nods and pats my hand. "You should lie down," he informs me. "Your hands are like ice and your face is far too hot."

I shiver and somehow resist the temptation to press myself closer to my friend for warmth.

"Come on," he says gently as he guides me back to the settee and repositions me upon it. "I do not want you to fall ill, if you have not already."

I grab his hand quickly as he pulls the rugs over me.

"Will you please allow me to tend to you?"

I shake my head. "Not important."

He addresses me with such a glare that I release his hand at once with a mumbled apology. There is so much that my Boswell should know, but there is so very much at stake - our very friendship is hanging in the balance and I know not what to do.

"What is the matter Holmes? I have not seen you behaving like this before."

Should I blame the cocaine? No, I shall simply shrug and not attempt to explain myself at all. To be truthful, I am not entirely sure why I am behaving like this... Is it due to missing the fellow for three years, the guilt that I have felt and continue to feel, the gratitude that I now feel every time that I realise that he has not treated me as I deserve and forsaken me, the anxiety that I feel when I think that I could still lose him or is all of this simply due to the cocaine? Could it be a little of each? That would most assuredly explain my odd behaviour, would it not?

Watson shakes his head and begins his examination. I somehow behave myself and resist almost every urge to bat his hands away. It is not an easy thing for a man to endure.

"Your heartbeat is fast and irregular, no doubt due to the cocaine," my friend informs me at last. "You have a stubbornly high fever - which I should tend to, seeing as it does not seem to be inclined to come down of its own accord - and you really should try to eat something."

If he tells me that I am too thin once more... I dismiss the thought at once, for that reaction most certainly is due to the narcotic. I calm myself and tell my friend that I shall eat in my own good time. I am feeling nauseous again, which I do not tell him as I still have a bucket close to hand if I should need it. Besides, it is hardly cause for concern.

I watch my Boswell leave the room and coil myself upon the settee, pulling the rugs closer to me. I wish that I could sleep and escape for a while, but I am unable to ignore even a quarter of the many protestations of my miserable body! I screw my eyes tightly shut and allow myself to groan.

"Holmes?" Watson is back at my side before I am even aware of his return to the room. "Are you all right?"

I flinch as he cools my brow with a damp cloth and somehow stifle a growl. I am as 'all right' as can be expected, I am sure.

"Can I get you anything?"

I squint at him for a long moment. "A new body would be nice." Preferably one that can survive on air alone and not decide to vomit or otherwise inconvenience me.

"Sorry old fellow; you have to look after the one that you have."

"Pshaw!"

He stops in his work a moment to gaze at me with some annoyance. "Listen here Holmes, I myself would quite like to exchange a leg and shoulder for new ones. It is not possible. One has to make do with what one has."

Sorry Watson.

He resumes his task without another word and I am left feeling as sorry for him as I am for myself.