Mending Watson

"It was nice to see Lestrade," Watson remarks when I have finally dragged myself back to my chair beside the fire. "He might not be very quick to admit it, but he is really very fond of you Holmes - he did let it slip that he missed you on occasion."

I grind my teeth, unable to appreciate the inspector's sentiment in light of how thoughtless it was of him. Has my Boswell not suffered enough, without being told by men who would not consider me to be more than a mere acquaintance that they also miss me? I should like to give the imbecile a piece of my mind!

"Are you all right Holmes?" my dear friend asks of me. "You are very quiet."

"Yes. Yes, I am quite all right," I assure him with a wave of my hand. "Forgive me Watson."

He frowns at me and studies my face for a long moment. "Would you promise to inform me the moment that you begin to feel unwell?"

I hardly wish to worry the fellow! He has enough to concern himself with of late, without having me added to them.

"Promise me," he repeats firmly. "You cannot know just how far it would go towards putting my mind at rest."

"Watson..." I run a hand over my face wearily. "I assure you that I am not ailing - I am merely a little fagged and nothing more."

His glassy eyes study me again. "I am not just talking about right now Holmes. I mean for you to be perfectly honest with me from now on - it is deucedly unfair that I can hide nothing what so ever from you, while you..." he is forced to pause his speech by a fit of coughing and I hurry to pour him some more water.

Tentatively, I sit beside my friend of old and hand him the glass, still daring not to touch him or even look at him too keenly.

"Thank you Holmes," he sips at the water gratefully. "Where was I?"

I begin to study my fingers so as to avoid meeting his gaze. "You were bemoaning how unfair it is that I keep things from you when I know how you are by simply hearing your tread on the stairs or seeing the way in which you stand or move."

"Ah. Yes," he chuckles quietly and then sets aside his glass to cough into his handkerchief. "I am a doctor, but I find it deucedly difficult to know when you are suffering - much less what you might be suffering of - and that has to change old fellow; if you cannot even trust me to know when you are unwell..."

"I do trust you!" I all but shout at him. "Watson, it is not a question of trust."

His eyes meet mine in a questioning and irritated glare as he slowly raises an eyebrow at me. "Then what is it?"

I slam my eyes shut, run my hand through my hair and force myself to my feet to begin to pace furiously. "Pride," I grate at him at last. "Mostly, it is my damned pride. I am accustomed to managing on my own and so I intend to continue to do so."

Watson laughs behind me and I whirl to face him, causing my head to swim slightly even as I stare at him in irked confusion.

"Thank you for your honesty Holmes," he acknowledges with a small smile. "It would seem that we are both guilty of allowing our pride to get the better of us."

I lower my gaze and give a slight nod. "It would appear that we do indeed both share that weakness, yes."

He nods in turn and beckons for me to come and resume my seat beside him on the settee once more. "And when it is not simply a matter of pride?" he prompts as I sit with a weary sigh.

I give a slight start and stare at him.

"You said that it was 'mostly' due to your pride Holmes."

"Did I?" I blink back at him and lick my dry lips. I know not quite what to tell him now.

"Yes, you did old man. Come on now - what are you not telling me?"

I squirm in my seat and again make a study of my hands.

"Holmes?" He is losing patience now - even with his irritated throat, his tone is perfectly discernible.

"It would no doubt hurt your pride old fellow. I know not quite..."

He huffs and glares at me anew.

"I do not like to worry or inconvenience you - and you do fret," I find myself saying without weighing my words at all. "One sneeze is enough to cause you to panic - God only knows how you might react if I were to confess to feeling even slightly unwell!"

"I do not 'panic'," my friend retorts. "I admit that I fret Holmes, but your lack of care would cause anyone that knows you to worry - for goodness sake, even Lestrade and the other fellows at Scotland Yard worry and they are not as fond of you as I am!"

He again begins to cough and I hand him back his glass of water.

"Thank you."

I pat his arm somewhat uncertainly. "Forgive me Watson. I mean no offence in what I say; I simply do not like to cause you unnecessary concern."

I hear the fellow give a sigh beside me. There is the sound of the glass being returned to the coffee table and then Watson's head comes to rest at my shoulder.

"You are not angry with me?" I hear my voice ask nervously.

He shakes his head very slightly but is otherwise still. "I am frustrated and I dearly wish that I could understand your thought process at times, but no I am most certainly not angry with you."

I feel the tension that I had not even been aware of until this moment slowly leave me and I give a relieved sigh.

"Nor would I ever become angry with you for falling ill and requiring assistance - you are my friend Holmes! I would be as glad to tend to you in sickness or injury as I would be to accompany you on one of your cases."

He truly means that - what have I done to deserve such a friend? I can think of nothing!

"Promise me that you shall at least attempt to be honest with me. Please."

I nod and clear my throat. "If it will put your mind at rest then I promise, though Heaven only knows why you should trouble yourself so on my account."

He again gives his head a barely-perceptible shake and then sniffs. "Do I have to explain it to you?"

I shrug and excuse myself to stand. I suppose that we should give Lestrade's suggestion a try, though I am not quite sure how I shall broach the subject with Watson - the very idea seems ludicrous to me now. Well, it will at least distract him from his current subject, which can only be a point in the notion's favour.

"What are you doing Holmes?" my friend asks of me as I begin to rummage around at my desk, tossing papers left and right in my quest for clean paper and pencils (I very much doubt that three-year-old ink would work terribly well and Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly have a fit should she catch us using writing pens on our settee).

"Holmes?" he asks again, turning to watch me over his shoulder. "What the deuce are you doing?"

"I wish to try something that was suggested to me by Lestrade," I respond with a dismissive wave of my free hand. "It seems quite ridiculous if you ask me - perhaps I should have made a small wager with him that it would never work."

He frowns at me, his curiosity clearly roused. "Oh? What was his suggestion?"

The Yarder did suggest that I try the technique as well, if only to persuade Watson to do the same. I wonder if allowing him to think that it was meant as a benefit to me would sway him at all. I shrug again, maintaining my nonchalant façade.

"Oh, it is supposed to help with nightmares, I believe. I have not been able to sleep peacefully since the incident with the cocaine."

"That is quite normal, I understand."

Which is precisely why I told the fellow that I have been suffering with nightmares, as opposed to some emotional upset - he would never believe that whether it was true or not.

I eventually find an old sketchbook that I had quite forgotten about - as the single, half-finished sketch within illustrates. I tear the page from the book and toss it upon the fire (I did not complete it as it was not turning out as I wanted it), so that I need not find it again. This done, I remove the page to which that one was attached and hand the sketchbook to my Boswell.

"I need a pencil," I tell the fellow by way of explanation before returning to going through the drawers of my desk. "I am sure that I had at least one - more than one. Where the deuce are they? Mrs. Hudson! Why does the damned woman have to move all that is not strapped down? Mrs. Hudson! Where the Hell are the pencils that I had in my desk?"

"Holmes!" Watson scolds. "That is quite enough of that. You should not talk to a lady in such a manner."

I whirl to retort that I am not talking to a lady; I am talking to my wretched housekeeper, who has moved something that she had no business to touch, when the woman in question storms into the room and sets two pencils of her own down on the coffee table. With a "Humph!" she then sweeps from the room again, slamming the door behind her.

"There you are Holmes," my friend of old groans. "Two pencils. I suggest that you thank Mrs. Hudson and apologise for your behaviour."

I shall concern myself with such trivialities later. I sit beside my Boswell and tap at my lip with the pencil that I have picked up, narrowing my eyes in thought. What can I possibly write?

"What exactly is this exercise in aid of?"

I give an exasperated sigh. "The idea is that I make a list of the things that trouble me and then toss them into the fire. The very idea is preposterous!"

"I must disagree with you," my dear friend corrects me. "Writing can be very therapeutic - I myself first started to keep a journal as a means to ease some of my frustration, when I was invalided home."

"Then perhaps we should both try Lestrade's little exercise," I respond with a shrug as I stare down at the page that I am balancing on my knee, hoping that the fellow will take any outward sign of excitement on my part as a desire to put this experiment behind me.

"That might be a good idea," he admits as he takes up the pencil and folds his sheet of paper in half.

I still know not what to write. I am not grieving and I feel perfectly well - what can I possibly find to bemoan to a piece of drawing paper?

Watson shifts at my side and gives two rather unpleasant-sounding sneezes. Poor fellow! How I wish that I could do something of any use for him, rather than sitting at his side and watching him suffer.

Ah! Now I know what to write and jot down a single sentence. It is, at the very least, a start. I then stare down at the paper in the vain hope of finding further inspiration until my weary eyes become dim and misty. For just how long have I forgone sleep? It feels like an age! Even I must rest at some point, however much I may wish to avoid it, and I would rather not partake of my cocaine again to help me to remain wakeful - the memory of my over-indulgence is much too fresh in my mind (and, I dare say, that of my staunch biographer as well) and my dear friend is much too weak for me to want to try his nerves in so callous a manner anyhow. Perhaps I should throw my words upon the fire now, seeing as my weary body and mind would appear to no longer be able to ignore the summons of Morpheus.

With a weary groan I open misty eyes. The fire is still burning, the room is quite dim and Watson is gazing at me with some concern.

"Lestrade's suggestion would seem to have worked," he notes with just the hint of a smile. "You have been asleep for almost three and a half hours - do you feel better for it?"

I rub at my forehead and attempt to conceal a yawn as I slowly sit up. "I am quite well Watson - merely a trifle weary. How are you?"

His face lights up and he pats at my shoulder. "I do feel a little better. I actually feel that I could eat a hearty meal."

Excellent! At the words I find the energy to leap from my chair and bound to the door of the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson! When will supper be ready? Doctor Watson is starving!"

"Holmes!" the fellow chastises me. "I cannot possibly manage a hearty meal - it would more than likely upset my digestion after my prolonged fast. Broth is what I need for now."

I apologise quietly and turn my attention to the door as I hear the footsteps of our housekeeper approach it. From her tread alone I know that she is somewhat irked.

"I shall feed the good doctor only if you agree to take some supper as well Mr. Holmes," she informs me as she quietly enters. "You have eaten no more than he has and you really must keep up your strength - you are both much too thin at present."

Humph! "I can assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that my weight has not changed at all since I first took up lodgings here."

"Then I must disagree - as I am sure that Doctor Watson will - for you lost rather a lot of weight before your disappearance and you look worse now than you did then, if that is at all possible. You need food and rest Mr. Holmes, or you are going to become even more unwell than the poor doctor has been and you'll hamper his own recovery by worrying him."

I suppress a growl of frustration at finding myself to be out-numbered and out-manoeuvred. "Very well. I shall also take some broth, if I may. Watson informs me that it is the best thing to have after a fast, lest one cause one's digestion to become upset."

She beams a smile at me, addresses Watson with a very fond, motherly expression and then leaves the room even more quietly than she entered it.

"How I have missed that dear lady," I hear Watson murmur softly.

I would never admit as much out loud, but it would appear that he has successfully voiced my own thoughts. How good it is to be home, to be among friends... How different things could have been, had those friends not been so very loyal. Even Lestrade would seem to be at least trying to forgive my three years of deception, though it would appear that he is rather more hurt and angry for my dear biographer's sake than his own - which makes it rather the more easy to forgive him.