Note: contains spoilers for a canon story and discussions of suicide. As always, please feel free to send me a message for full-spoiler details of what to expect. Thank you.
He had to get to Sherlock Holmes. John Watson stumbled along the path that was suddenly too rocky and blinking in the light that was suddenly too bright. Holmes. He needed to find Holmes, but his throat was dry, his feet were heavy, and there was something wrong with his vision because he was seeing the world at an odd angle. Or maybe he was sitting. Was he sitting? When had he collapsed?
He rose to his feet, but that didn't help the world tilt right-side up again. He stumbled against a stone, bent over, retched. Where was he? What was he doing? Couldn't he just lay down here and forget? Maybe lay down and die? To sleep, perchance to dream… no. Holmes. He didn't remember what had happened or why he needed to find him, but he pushed himself away from the stone and stumbled forward anyway.
He could hear water, and in front of him he could see that the world ended. Or maybe it was just the path that ended. In the distance he could see more water. Was he hearing waves or a waterfall? A waterfall. It must be, since he was somehow high up and the water was below him. Waterfall. Holmes.
Holmes. Holmes was dead. Wasn't he? Watson stumbled towards the drop in front of him. Drop. Holmes had dropped. Watson hadn't been there, but he'd imagined it enough it felt like his own memory. He could see the scene clearly, could see Holmes clearly. He was there, right there on the edge.
Watson should have been with him back then. He was going to fix that now. He moved towards his friend, taking his place at Holmes' side where he belonged. To die with him this time like he should have last time. Last time… how had there been a last time? There was something he wasn't remembering, but he couldn't stop to try to think. Holmes was there, Holmes needed him.
Holmes had blood on his face, rips in his clothes, a vacant look in his eyes. When he opened his mouth, black smoke poured out, and his teeth dropped onto the stones below. Holmes reached out his hand, and even though it was made of thorns Watson took it.
"Join me," Holmes groaned, and his voice was like the cry of a wild dog.
"Yes," Watson murmured. "Yes. That will be better. Then it will all be over."
Holmes' hand was solid in his even though it was nothing but blood and smoke. Holmes' voice was in his ear, and Watson heard his friend asking him to jump even though somewhere a snake was hissing so loudly it drowned out all other noise.
Watson obeyed, moving to the edge. He was ready to go, ready to hit the water below him even though he could no longer see anything other than darkness. He knew he was going to feel free even though right now his bones were being crushed, his soul was being torn, and every inch of him was screaming in pain. Falling, dropping, he was going to feel so free, he was finally going to be at peace…
He was vaguely aware that someone was screaming. Someone was grabbing him. He was hitting the ground instead of the water and stars exploded behind his eyes but at least it was color.
Someone was still screaming, and Watson had a feeling it was Holmes. Holmes, solid and real and alive. Or was he? It was hard to tell. He was being lifted, and somewhere someone was crying. Watson felt pain spasm through his whole body, and then he felt nothing.
Holmes was doing a laboratory experiment like he always did, except this time was different. He was upside down, standing on the ceiling, and it took Watson a moment of confusion to realize he was the one upside down, not Holmes. He didn't have the strength to move, and so instead tried to straighten everything in his mind. What was happening? What was wrong? Because something was wrong. He knew it even though he couldn't pinpoint what it was.
He first realized he wasn't in Baker Street. Of course he wasn't in Baker Street. Everything in the room was familiar and yet not familiar, as if he'd lived here in a dream or on a holiday many years ago. Holmes was here, but this place certainly wasn't home. He still didn't know where he was or why he was upside down, but Holmes was here and so he supposed he could close his eyes and rest…
Except he couldn't, because something was wrong with Holmes, and that was what Watson had sensed when he'd woken up. Holmes wasn't himself. Holmes needed him. Holmes was simply staring at his experiment, not working on it. Watson watched as he took a glass from the kitchen he was using as a beaker and dropped it on the table where it shattered. He picked up a large piece of glass, staring.
Watson knew he had to get up. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew it was something bad. He hadn't yet figured out what he was lying on, but he knew he was above the ground and so he rolled and dropped onto the floor. The impact jarred his whole body, and the pain he felt was intense. He'd been laid flat on the sofa, he realized, and his head had lulled to the side and slipped off the cushion so that when he woke he'd been upside down and confused.
He ignored the pain as it flared throughout his body. He raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled across the floor to his friend. He looked up, watched Holmes moving the glass close to his eyes. Watson made a herculean effort to get to his feet and wrapped his arms around his friend from the side, grabbing onto him and hanging onto him tightly. Holmes toppled over, unbalanced, and the two of them collapsed onto the floor.
Holmes had dropped the shard of glass in his fall, and it skittered harmlessly away across the floor. Holmes turned to Watson, staring at him with glazed eyes. "John," he said softly. "I've killed you. I'm so sorry." He wrapped his arms around Watson and gripped him so tightly pain shot through Watson's whole body. He had a feeling, though, that wasn't necessarily Holmes' fault. Why was he in pain? What had happened to him? He tried to open his mouth to ask Holmes for answers or comfort or both, but his whole body began to spasm and the only thing he could utter was a strangled cry.
Holmes was saying something to him, perhaps even giving him some simple explanation for what was happening to him or issuing some important order he must follow, but once again Watson couldn't focus and the world went black around him.
"Please, Watson, just hang on a little longer."
Watson wanted to obey, wanted to open his eyes and smile and assure Holmes that he was fine, but he didn't have control over any part of his body. Not even his eyelids would obey his commands, and he was trapped in darkness, his mind working and his body useless. He was frightened, and he wanted to open his mouth to scream, but his jaw and vocal cords refused to obey. He panicked, then, and even though he knew he was dying and it should be a relief, he couldn't help but silently scream in horror. He'd always imagined he'd face death nobly, and the only remaining rational part of his brain was all too aware that his last moments on Earth would be spent in pain and terror instead.
Watson still couldn't control any part of his body. He was awake and aware, but unable to do so much as open his eyes. He would have been frightened, but someone was speaking to him so gently and soothing him so softly that he couldn't be afraid. He hoped it was Holmes, because that would mean Holmes was alright, but the voice speaking to him was so hoarse it could have been anyone.
"It's alright, Watson," they were saying. "You'll wake up soon. He… he will wake up soon, won't he?"
"I can't say," said someone else. "I've never seen someone get to stage three and survive, but then I must admit I can't recall ever giving someone the antidote during stage two."
"You mean everyone else who has reached stage three has died?"
"No, not necessarily. Some live, but they are generally young men at the height of their strength. The Devil's Foot Root is, as you've seen, very sensitive to age and physical strength. You are very lucky, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that you are younger and stronger and received a stronger dose of the drug."
"That was why the effects of withdrawal from the root started later for me?"
"Yes. Not only did the drug stay in your system longer, your body was also able to fight off negative effects for longer. And like I said, it was a good thing for you, too. If you had reached stage one first, the doctor would inevitably have attempted to treat you using the methods he is familiar with and failed to realize you were feeling the effects of withdrawal from the root."
"Does stage one always include suicidal urges? Or just hallucinations?" Holmes' voice was quaking, almost nervous.
"From what I've heard," said the other person, who Watson knew must be Dr. Leon Sterndale, "yes. There are always suicidal urges… how did you find him?"
"Standing on the edge of the cliffs near the sea. He… was going to throw himself off. I caught him just in time."
"And yourself?"
"I don't remember very clearly. From what I do recall, however, and from the clues I see around the room, I suspect I tried to use broken glass to gouge out my own eyes. I had… a horrible vision of his death. Watson's, I mean. I vaguely remember thinking that it would be better if I could never see again. If I was blind before I died."
"How did you overcome it?"
"I didn't. I would have perished if Watson hadn't reached stage two. He fought through the muscle spasms to come to me. I don't think he was quite aware of what was happening or why, but he came to save me nevertheless. His presence drew me out of my hallucinations, and it was as my own muscle cramps started in stage two that I was able to find the antidote."
"Yes, speaking of that, how did you find the correct herb among all the hundreds of samples in my cabin?"
"Again, I didn't. I realized that since you yourself were planning on utilizing the drug to kill, you would have wanted to have an antidote nearby just in case you were inadvertently exposed to any of the fumes. I found three vials in your rooms which you had specifically set aside, and so I took them. I drew some of Watson's blood to see how the contents of each vial would react, and when I did receive a reaction I guessed that my logical leaps had led me down the correct path. I didn't know, of course. I wouldn't know until I'd tried it. I sincerely hoped I was giving Watson the antidote and not another poison… or that if it was poison that it would end his suffering quickly and without pain. I made him swallow half the vial, and I swallowed the other half, and so whatever I had just done we were in it together, to face life or death together."
"What stage were you in by then?"
"Stage two, and by then the muscle cramps were severe. Watson's own muscle cramps had seemed to stop, but I was able to make him swallow so stage three must either not have started or else the paralysis wasn't severe."
"Did you ever start stage three?"
"I don't think so. I did lie down near to him to await our fate, but I don't recall ever losing control of my limbs. Does stage three only include paralysis?"
"Well, paralysis and then death, but other than that no, I don't think so. Speaking of the doctor, is he still alive? How's his heartbeat?"
Watson felt a hand on his wrist, and there was a long pause.
"Forty," Holmes murmured. "That's better than it was. His normal is around seventy-five."
"You know your roommate's normal resting heart rate?"
"And his average active heart rate. And my own. I keep careful records for scientific purposes. I tried to keep track of my landlady, too, but she told me pretty vehemently to sod off."
Sterndale chuckled very softly. "I suppose I am in no position to call your methods into question, Mr. Holmes, seeing as how I routinely collect animal urine to test it for disease."
"Really? Fascinating. Tell me, how did you realize we were in danger?"
"I was thinking about what I heard you say to Doctor Watson as I left you. You said something along the lines of wanting fresh air. At first I thought you were simply commenting, but then I realized you may have been exposed in some way to the effects of the root. Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I never imagined you'd done it to yourself on purpose! I thought I had plenty of time to come to you and warn you of the danger of inhaling even a small amount of the root and give you the cure in the event you started to feel any effects of withdrawal. I was quite surprised to see you were already in the throes of withdrawal, and more surprised to see you'd saved youselves. Well done, sir."
"I still don't understand, Doctor Sterndale. Why didn't you mention any of this before? And why did you not give the antidote to the Tregennis brothers?"
"To be frank, Mr. Holmes, I didn't know anyone was in danger. The others: Mrs. Porter, the police, the vicar, they'll all be fine save for a headache or two. What good would it have done to tell them? They would have insisted I help the remaining brothers, but the antidote would not have restored the sanity of my unfortunate cousins. The death that follows from withdrawal was, for them, a blessing."
"Was?"
"I received word that they both died early this morning."
"You just let them die? Knowing the pain and suffering they would go through? Knowing they didn't have to?" Holmes's voice was sharp, and Watson vaguely knew he was agitated.
"They were already gone, Mr. Holmes. Their minds would have never been restored. I wouldn't want to live like that, and, I strongly suspect, neither would you. Quietly letting them die in the asylum was mercy. I would have helped you had I known what you'd done, but it did not occur to me that you could have been exposed to more of the root than anyone else in this business until I was nearly on a boat to Africa all over again."
Holmes sighed. "And now it is I who must admit I have no place to criticize you. I… am not a strong man. I have no capacity to allow the death of those I love, and no tolerance for the premature, self-inflicted demise of anyone. Even if my own dear Watson here recovered from his paralysis only to be as mad as your cousins, I still wouldn't be able to allow him to die, not if I could prevent it? Is that selfish of me? Perhaps, for I am not a good man."
That was the most ridiculous thing Watson had ever heard, and he must have said so because suddenly he could feel both men beside him, sitting him upright and calling his name.
"John, please, say something else" Holmes was saying while Dr. Sterndale said, "Come now, doctor, wake up."
"What will he gain control of first?" Holmes asked.
"Probably his extremities," Sterndale answered.
Watson felt a hand in his hand, then, and he did his best to move his fingers.
"What did he say?" Sterndale asked.
"I don't know. I sincerely hope it was just an incoherent rambling and not a comment on our conversation…"
"I would doubt it," Sterndale assured him. "Go warm some blankets by the fire, and get him some water. Did he bring his medical bag?"
"Yes."
"Find some laudanum, then. He's going to be in quite a bit of pain, and I suspect he's going to have a lot of questions as well. This knock to his head looks rather bad. How'd that happen?"
"My fault, I'm afraid. I was rather rough with him while saving his life and pulling him away from the ledge. I was panicking at the sight of him about to kill himself, however, and so I have every reason to believe he will forgive me. He was only a few meters away from me and I was screaming at him and running as fast as I could, but I still thought it might not be enough…" he trailed off. "Apologies," he murmured. "I… can't find laudanum."
"Do you have any morphine? Cocaine?" Sterndale asked, ignoring Holmes' emotional recollection and completely unaware of the magnitude of what he'd just asked.
There was a pause, and even though he was still gaining control of his limbs again Watson felt tense, held his breath. Please, God, let Holmes say no.
"I…" Holmes said hesitantly. "I… used to. Until two days ago, in fact. But today we will have to utilize something else."
"Very well," Sterndale said, unaware of the significance of what Holmes had just admitted. "We'll find something else."
Watson knew the lion hunter was right that he was in for some pain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was too delighted to hear his suspicions confirmed. Holmes was about to be going through his own withdrawals soon, but Watson was going to be there to help him through. He was going to sit and listen to their explanations about withdrawal from the Devil's Foot Root as if he hadn't heard a word they'd said, accept Holmes' apology, and would assure his friend that they were going to be alright. And they would be, Watson would make sure of it. Holmes had finally kicked his cocaine habit, and making that decision on his own was the hardest part. He didn't know if Holmes would tell him about it, but he didn't care. He would be there for him nevertheless, and if being poisoned and suffering withdrawals himself was what it took to push Holmes to stop his habit, then he would gladly have helped Holmes with the Devil's Foot Root experiment a hundred times over.
Holmes did tell him. It was a week later when they were both fully recovered, and Holmes had walked with him to an area of the beach where the waves lapped gently against the sand instead of crashing against the rocks. There was a simple wooden boat on the sand, and it was to this Holmes directed him. He abandoned the blankets he'd been wearing in the grass nearby, and also took off his coat and socks and shoes, directing Watson to do the same.
"This doesn't quite look seaworthy," Watson commented as he helped Holmes push the craft into the water.
"It's not, Watson, but don't be alarmed. It doesn't have to be for long. We are not going far. Sit here beside me, and I will take this oar and you will have the other."
Watson did, and they rowed in tandem until they were a few hundred yards away from shore. It was there that Holmes retrieved a bundle from the bow of the boat. There were two cork life vests, and Holmes fastened one around himself and gave the other to Watson. Then, he took another bundle in hand which was wrapped in cloth.
He unwrapped it, setting a small bottle, a syringe, a familiar morocco case, and a box of matches on the seat in front of them.
"I was keeping this," he murmured, "as a backup. But I don't want a backup. I want to burn the ships." He grinned very slightly. "This old thing was the best I could do at short notice."
"I don't suppose it would do for me to point out that unless you're at war 'burn the ships' is supposed to be figurative," Watson murmured
"I have been at war," Holmes pointed out sadly. "And as you have been my faithful comrade, I guessed you'd want to be with me when it ended. If you like, this boat isn't leaking so much it can't get us back. And yet I hope you will join me. Will you?"
"Of course I will," Watson assured him.
Holmes nodded, took up the box of matches, and lit one. Watson took it, and touched it to the cloth. Holmes lit his own, and dropped it in his morocco case. Finally, he lit a third and stuck it backwards into the match case like a miniature fuse.
They watched as the flames caught, and the old, dry, wooden seat of the craft began to go up in flames.
Holmes put his hand on Watson's shoulder, squeezing it slightly before using his friend to steady himself as he jumped out of the boat. A moment later, Watson splashed into the water beside him. They swam hard as if they really were escaping a shipwreck, and were both panting hard from exertion as they crawled up onto the shore and collapsed. They lay side by side on the sand for a long time, and even though they were shivering from cold and their skin was tight from seawater and irritating sand was inside their clothing, they didn't complain. They didn't look back, either, and the last of the flames died and a few final wisps of smoke disappeared into the clean sea air as the last of the boat was claimed by the waves.