Sanguinary Tears – sorry for making you cry with that chapter! I'm glad you're getting used to the angst though as there's plenty more to come :-P
Dark-Yukari – this part isn't as angsty as the last (although there's still plenty in there!) Hope you like it!
VHunter07 – glad you're enjoying this. I think I shall be abiding by your wish not to include slash in this story as I honestly don't think it would work here; there might be a bit of 'manly hugging' later but they'll probably end up just shaking hands or something…
Igiveup – Watson is certainly going to try his hardest to help our dear Holmes but it's going to be a long process! Glad you liked my little Locky
From the diary of John H. Watson MD, 3rd September 1884
Four o'clock in the morning saw me at my dear friend's bedside as he physically and audibly fought off whatever mental demons were assailing him. "Holmes! Holmes, for God's sake man, wake up!" I gripped him by the shoulders and tried to make him hear me. My attempts to free him from his nightmare had thus far proved futile as well as rather painful for me as his flailing limbs struck several blows to my person. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat and he shivered feverishly even as he fought with surprising strength.
His terrible cries must have woken our dear landlady as well for I soon sensed her concerned presence behind me. "Could you fetch me some brandy please, Mrs Hudson?" I asked to give her something to occupy her worried mind. To my great relief, Holmes appeared to be stirring but I did not release him from my grip; "easy now" I softened my voice as his eyelids flickered. In the dim light of the oil lamp I recognised the look of frightened confusion on my colleague's face because it was the same one that he had worn in our sitting room earlier that day but I was no less shocked by it now than I had been before.
Soon, and to my great relief, Holmes began to return to himself. I offered him a glass of brandy wordlessly and he took it in a shaking hand, a slight flush gracing his otherwise ashen complexion. I looked away, knowing that my proud friend would want some time to compose himself. "Get out" I turned in surprise towards the trembling source of the remarkably collected whisper; the voice rose an octave as the words were forced once more from a stricken throat "get out!" With a sad sigh I inclined my head and did as I was bid.
Although I was stung by his words it was not because I considered him callous- quite the contrary, I had long ago ceased to regard the illustrious detective as a being nothing but an unfeeling rationalist. The vehemence with which he wanted me not to see him in this weakened state betrayed a very great and anguished heart; a heart that feared it would be broken. What hurt was that he did not trust me to see him in this state and still remain the loyal friend and companion that I always had- nay, always would- be. If only I could make him see, I mused as I sank morosely into my chair and watched the sun stain the sky in a faded boutique of magenta and yellow which fought for supremacy against a watery blue.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that I failed to register Holmes' presence in the room until he spoke, his haunting tone sending shivers down my spine. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." I took a deep breath, needing to compose myself before looking up.
Holmes stared straight ahead as if his impromptu bought of Romanticism had been directed at the sunrise; he was seemingly oblivious to the effect this words had had on me or even to the fact that I had heard them at all. It was not just that this at times almost oppressively scientific man had suddenly started reciting Shakespeare- although this, in itself, was shocking enough- but I knew all too well what this particular Macbeth speech implied and the implication chilled me to the bone. I knew my friend's black moods well and had learned to cope with these bleak psychological periods but never before had I seen him so… so desolate and what was worse, I could not for the life of me fathom the cause; we had a case, after all, so why the melancholy?
"My dear Holmes…" I started to rise from my chair, unsure of what to say but knowing that I had to do something to bridge the awful and incomprehensible chasm that seemed to have formed between us that day. He held up a hand and the light from the window fell across his face, illuminating a brief smile which might have been a grimace. "Don't…" he paused, "don't concern yourself about me, my dear fellow." I sighed inwardly and shook my head, despairing at the unfathomable nature of the man I had come to revere above all others.
Yet as I sat in my chair and he in his it was as if nothing untoward had happened between us; the silence now was comfortable, not stifling as it had been, and when it was broken it was by Holmes' ponderings on the case, not on mortality. Indeed, I now begin to suspect that the aforesaid events were just figments of a tired and strained imagination for nothing has seemed awry since the morn. The rest of our day has, as a point of fact, been a productive one, the results of which I have noted up for publication as yet another example of the many skills of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes.