Doldrums and Deep Waters

Chapter 8: My wrath did end?

The occasional rustling sound and the scent of Holmes' tobacco told me my friend was still in residence. I sat up upon the sofa, massaging my stiff neck, and attempting to suppress my sense of panic at my encroaching misery.

Holmes looked up.

"Awake, are you? You look a little healthier, yet still distinctly peaky."

"I am not quite myself." I reached for my tobacco pouch, which was by now almost empty, attempting to conceal the trembling in my limbs. Holmes was no longer looking at me; after the first appraising glance he had returned to his commonplace books.

I managed to light my pipe without mishap, and puffed away, staring into the fire. I drew in the smoke appreciatively, realising this was just what I needed. The shaking in my extremities calmed, my nausea was dispelled, and the sense of panic regressed. I inhaled more deeply. Nothing seemed to matter now...

It had me before I had time to acknowledge it. The despair. Although my fear of it had subsided, it had returned, and it was worse than ever. Yet again, my mind and soul were in torment. The crackling blaze in the hearth was no longer a cosy fire to warm oneself beside, but a reminder of the inferno my spirit deserved for its sins. The wisps of smoke collecting again about the ceiling seemed malignant sprites, summoned into being for the express purpose of introducing bitterness and pestilence into the world – and a reflection of my inner self.

I turned my back upon Holmes, so that he would not see my face, would not ask. I could not drag him down with me. I sat like that for an indeterminate time, enough to finish the tobacco in my own pouch and reach for Holmes', frozen outwardly, the only signs of life the puffs of smoke from my pipe, whilst internally my world continued tearing itself apart.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice cut into my self-destructive thoughts. "You look petrified. What on earth is the matter? "

I shook my head. "I will be well, Holmes. Please allow me the time to overcome my weakness." Speaking was an intense effort. My voice sounded surprisingly calm, but it did not satisfy Holmes.

"For God's sake, man! Do you take me for an imbecile? You cannot go on in this way."

"Leave me be, Holmes!" I snapped, keeping my back turned away.

"I have left you be for over five hours! It is morning." Was it really so long? "You must stop this self-indulgence."

At that moment, Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a loaded tray.

"You asked for an early breakfast this morning, Mr Holmes. Are you both going out?"

I could sense Holmes' irritation as he was baulked of his prey. A direct assault was out of the question with a witness. However, Holmes is ever versatile, and he changed his tactics to a flanked attack.

"No, Mrs Hudson. Watson prefers to lounge around here, singlehandedly doubling London's pollution."

I almost winced, but my apathy was too powerful. Distantly, I thought I could hear Mrs Hudson scolding Holmes. So long as I was not forced to move, I did not care. Then her steps were approaching me, and her hand was on my shoulder. She gently compelled me to look at her.

"Doctor, you look like you've seen the seventh circle. Will you not take a little breakfast at least? You've not eaten enough to keep a cat alive for these three days."

"Will you cease your nagging, Mrs Hudson. Food is not a panacea." Exhausted by this impolite eloquence, I slumped again. However, I seemed to have roused our formidable landlady's temper.

"Well, I never! Let me inform you, Doctor, that I prefer not to be addressed in such a fashion in my own rooms. If it be nagging to attempt to stop my gentlemen starving themselves, then so be it. Look at yourself! Can you not at least freshen yourself up a little?"

"Go away, Mrs Hudson."

"I beg your pardon, young man?"

"For Heaven's sake, Watson!" Holmes was staring at me as I finally turned to face my tormentors. "Whatever is going on, there is no need to address Mrs Hudson in such a fashion."

I muttered an apology, and bowed my head again.

"Words mean nothing without actions. Stir yourself, Sir."

"No." It came out as a whisper. I knew I was being infuriating, but somehow, it met my expectations of myself.

Now Mrs Hudson was red with anger.

"Then at least put that pipe out. This is bad enough without setting the house alight. I will not have it, I tell you. Your nasty drunken behaviour, sitting there all bewhiskered in all your dirt, your insulting attitude, and this dreadful idleness, then you have to go and fumigate the house with your horrid stinking pipe. This is a respectable gentleman's residence, and I expect my tenants to behave like gentlemen, not like dirty stopouts who don't know how to behave any better!"

I had not realised Mrs Hudson was aware of my earlier infirmity. I turned to Holmes.

"Thank you for telling our landlady of my weaknesses. I am glad to hear I am a subject of backstairs gossip."

"Backstairs?" Gasped the enraged women, inflating to twice her normal size. "How dare you! I am no servant." She turned to Holmes, who was staring, open-mouthed at me. "Sort him out, Mr Holmes. Or you can both look for alternative accommodation!"

She stormed from the room, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the cloying mist which seemed to be enveloping my senses.

"For your information, Watson, I told Mrs Hudson nothing of your disgusting performance, but she is observant enough to take note of the levels in the tantalus, and she could hardly miss your heaving like a pig yesterday. You appear to be exhibiting one of the less appealing characteristics of the drunkard – the blaming of other people for your own shortcomings." Holmes voice was icy, and seemed to be penetrating my shield of misery.

Perhaps if I had been able to summon the will to apologise properly, to arise from my chair, to clean myself, or even just to show signs of life, I could have averted setting the flame to the touchstone.

Instead, I shrugged.

The effect was dramatic. Holmes seemed to erupt; the cool reasoner and man of tight control swept aside in a display of passion I had not seen before. Unfortunately, I was the recipient.

"YOU!! How DARE you sit there and shrug at me, after this disgraceful exhibition!" He was livid. His eyes flashed at me, and I half noticed his pupils were savagely dilated, his face was flaming, his lips were drawn back, his teeth bared and his nostrils impossibly flared. Veins stood out in his neck and temples, and his long, elegant hands were clenched into fists.

"You sit there, moping for your lost career, which was never so spectacular in the first place from what I can glean! You grunt, you sniff, you groan, yet you achieve nothing, you utter waste of space, except making my life a misery, upsetting our landlady, and threatening to make me homeless! And this after I mopped up your filthy mess, you disgusting, dribbling, crippled, useless, pathetic, sottish FAILURE!"

The screamed words had definitely penetrated now. I felt as if a hand had reached into me and was pulling out my insides. I was rigid with shock; ironically, now that I wished to speak, the words would not come.

Holmes spun on his heel, and turned his back on me, elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, fist clenched to his mouth, breathing hard through his nose. I attempted to speak, but was forestalled by another, heavier tread upon our seventeen steps.

Lestrade entered the room. He did not appear to have heard Holmes' outburst, but the smile fell from his lips as he took in Holmes' forbidding countenance. I shrunk into my chair, hoping for invisibility.

"Mr Holmes?" Holmes must have pulled himself together, as he replied with some composure.

"Yes, Lestrade? Have you news?"

"Certainly have." The little inspectors voice vibrated with suppressed excitement. "He's biting, Mr Holmes. Cancelled his appointment with Bainbridge for something 'urgent' what's come up. He's on his way to the Finchley Road now – I have a warrant, we can catch him red-handed – but I thought you should be in on it."

"Excellent!" cried Holmes. "Then we must make haste!"

Lestrade seemed to hesitate. "Are you joining us, Dr Watson?"

"No. He is not. Come, Lestrade!" Answered Holmes, and he swept from the room without a backwards glance.

I listened to the sound of their feet descending the stairs. I looked absently at my hands, and saw they were shaking. My skin felt clammy, and my clothes seemed to rasp unpleasantly. Holmes' words rang in my ears. "Useless... filthy ..... pathetic .... disgusting.... "

I felt I deserved each and every appellation. Somehow, the fact that Holmes had spoken them gave them a certain veracity and gravitas.

Strange. Whereas before, my soul had been heaving yet my body had felt so heavy I could barely move, now I appeared suddenly possessed of a restless energy, and I could not keep still; but a strange, hollow calm had settled within me, as if every extraneous sensation except quiet despair had been expelled. Holmes words hammered into me, and I acknowledged their truth, yet it was with a resigned acceptance of my very existence being nothing more than parasitic.

"Utter waste of space ... sottish ..."

I could sit still no longer. I leapt to my feet, and the movement, after such prolonged immobility, caused my injured leg to buckle. I clutched at the edge of the sofa, my head swimming, and wrenched my injured arm.

"... crippled ... useless ... you achieve nothing ..."

The sickening pain suddenly seemed to clear my head, and with a flash of inspiration, I realised how I could achieve something at least. It was a sad reflection that the sum of my life could not amount to more than this feeble contribution, yet it had to be done.

With a heavy heart, yet restless legs, I limped towards my medical bag, then stopped. No. That is for healing. It is not right to put it to such a purpose.

Instead, I crossed to the writing desk, but the object I sought was not there. Holmes must have it. At least he is taking care of his own safety, supplied my mind, the automatism requiring no conscious thought.

I paused, my head in my hands, considering my options for a moment. I then remembered the contents of a box in the attic, from my more athletic days, when I had considered myself something of a pioneer in the sport of mountain climbing. I had scaled Lliwedd and Ben Nevis; days long behind me, of course, but had not been able to bring myself to part with the relics from those adventures.

It was not difficult to find the box amongst my scant possessions, and retrieve what I required.

I returned to the living room. There was a strange ringing in my ears, and I shuffled along numbly. I shook my head to clear it.

I emptied the contents of my medical bag onto the chemical table, and replaced them with that from the box in the attic.

I would need to inform Holmes of my intentions, of course, and apologise for this last inconvenience. I could depend upon Holmes to proceed sensibly. I did not wish anybody else any worry or upset. I sadly withdrew pen, ink and paper from the writing desk, and attempted to steady my hands sufficiently to write. The ink spluttered. Clumsy fool!

I placed my finished missive in an envelope, and addressed it to My Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes, in a moment of wistful sentimentality. It was true inasmuch as he had been a good friend to me.

Before I left, I shaved, quickly washed myself, and changed my clothes. As I looked in the mirror, I had the strangest feeling I was standing behind me, watching myself.

As I descended the stairs and crossed to the front door, Mrs Hudson appeared in the hall. I addressed her, softly.

"Mrs Hudson. Please allow me to wholeheartedly apologise for my behaviour of earlier. It was inexcusable. I must thank you for all the care and attention you have shown Holmes and myself over the years."

"Oh, Dr Watson, please, think nothing of it. I wished to apologise for my own crossness. I don't know what came over me, and I can see you have been troubled recently..."

She sounded tearful, but I cut her off before she could apologise too much, as I cringed that she should find it necessary.

"Please, do not feel you need to say anything to me. I have been a wretched tenant and you have shown nothing but patience." I tried to smile at her now, but my facial muscles did not seem to obey my brain, and I'm sure the result was twisted. "Please, do not prepare lunch for me. As you can see, I am just going out, at last. I may be some time."

~*~

The narrative is continued from this point by Mr Sherlock Holmes

~*~

I noticed Lestrade casting curious glances at me as we rattled along in the cab. I was not surprised, as I could sense the angry flush still burning across my face, my teeth were ground tightly together and my fists clenched.

My entire body pulsed with rage. A small, rational part of my brain seemed to be observing my reactions dispassionately. I was unaccustomed to losing control, and was strangely fascinated by myself.

The Scotland Yard man had initially attempted conversation; to speculate on the likely outcome of our excursion. After he received nothing but tense monosyllables in response, he had relapsed into silence, which had continued for some time.

As we neared our destination, the cab struck a rut, jarring us uncomfortably. I snarled as it exacerbated the tremendous headache that had been nagging at me since yesterday, and snapped;

"Damn this blundering idiot of a cabby! Is he attempting to pulverise us both before we reach our destination?" I struck the roof with my cane, and bellowed, "Be careful, Man!"

Lestrade's eyes opened wider yet. He was regarding me with considerable unease. I was about to strongly retaliate when I stopped. A most peculiar sensation was stealing over me. I felt as if the rage was lifting, almost artificially, as if curtain were being raised from my senses. Guilt began to trickle in instead, and again, there was that odd suggestion that it was an outside agent, not intrinsic.

The stunning realisation hit me, suddenly and forcefully. I was a blind fool!

I have not for years dabbled in the illicit substances that Watson so disparages without developing an awareness of their effect upon me. The artificiality of the sensations were real enough. I truly was responding, and now withdrawing from, an external agent.

With this insight, I gasped, and turned to my companion. As I addressed him, other, earlier, observations slotted into place, lending considerable urgency to my tone, as my mind reeled in sudden horror.

"Lestrade, you may rib me for my blindness as much as you wish after this, but I need us to turn around and head back to Baker Street immediately. It is my strong belief that myself and Watson have been poisoned, and that he has received the higher dose."

Hurry, Holmes!

Oh dear.

*This isn't an AU fic, is it? Surely there'd be a warning on it if it was?*

Read on to chapter 9!

Oh, and thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them. There's been some excellent guessing going on too!