Title: Our Time is Running Out—Won't Let You
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Warning: mentions of psychological trauma
Summary: Continuation of my AU—Holmes debates on how safe Watson is with him as Watson recovers from his loss. Watson debates on his use to Holmes after Mary's death. The shadow of Moriarty draws a bit too close for some.
Author's Notes: I totally blame med_cat (from LJ community Watson's Woes) for this, but in a good sort of way that involves cake and beverages. It was going to be different but then the two who inhabited the story (Moran and Moriarty) wandered off and haven't returned.
Which is good because they were becoming likable *shudder*
(I won't let you bury it
I won't let you smother it
I won't let you murder it)
Holmes want Smith's head, and his heart, and to torture him for decades, then centuries, then to kill him slowly over the course of a week.
When Smith spoke at the end of his trial, Holmes wanted more then all that. Holmes wanted to kill Smith then and there, to resurrect him time and time again so he might ensure the torture lasted longer.
From the sounds around him, Holmes wasn't alone as Smith began to speak.
Of course, it had been like that through most of the trial. Watson and his maid's trustworthiness was called into question, though that quickly shot down by the man's own defender, but when it was insinuated that Watson had allowed Mary to die…
Smith was calm as he spoke, looking at the judge and a few of the others there. "I am guilty of nothing but doing what should be done. That our current cure is deadly enough to kill a person as often as the disease is not something that should be tolerated. That it would take men like me to study the disease and take up the cause is a sad and sorry lot indeed. I would not have had to do this had Mr. Holmes not pressured me. I would not have had the knowledge had my plantation gotten the cure quickly enough, and had it been the same one that Mr. Holmes took from me so casually after that trap of his."
Holmes had risen, Lestrade trying to hold him down until the next line.
"Had Doctor Watson been more knowledgeable, his wife might still be alive, and he wouldn't have needed me. Instead, she is one of the many who died because I could not give out the obviously perfected cure that I and only I know."
Lestrade and Gregson stood, Hopkins only standing because he seemed to realize that Holmes and the other two were about to lead a mob after the man and he wasn't sure who to join at the moment.
His decision was almost cemented when Smith looked at the still-sitting and almost defeated-looking Watson. "You are Holmes' biographer, and many people give him praise for the fictions you write. Can you not write fact this time? Tell them what I did, what help there was as compared to the other cure. You must, or I will carry the cure to my grave, and what will that get you? More will die of the same disease, and that will be on your head."
Holmes let out a growl as the courtroom erupted in angry cries, the judge's gavel doing little to calm it, though if anyone could tell, he wasn't trying as hard as normal. Smith's defender shifted, as if realizing the dangers that Smith was stirring.
Watson's voice, calm and weak, caused Smith's own calm to crumble as the man looked at his would-be murderer and man who, despite it, had also saved him. "I would not write that up, or even agree to what you said, even if it meant I see her alive again."
Smith's destroyed calm was enough to restore order for the sentencing, and the look of dejection and fear that came up seemed enough to calm the three who wanted his blood, all three sitting as Holmes reached over to take Watson's hand in his, frowning as he felt the fine tremors that seemed to threaten to break him apart.
"Can we leave now?" Watson asked, his voice all the quieter as Smith was taken away. It seemed to Holmes that those few words had taken more out of Watson then the whole of the trial, and he nodded, helping Watson up as Lestrade, Gregson, and Hopkins went out to get a cab and usher away the waiting press.
Watson held together until the sitting room, Holmes supporting him all the way there until his Boswell sat heavily on the sofa, burying his head in his hands.
Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to put out some tea, and Holmes poured out two cups before taking one over to Watson, who ignored it in favor for whatever divine inscriptions his hands held.
"You should have something to drink," Holmes said, disliking the role-reversal and wondering if this was what it felt like to the good Doctor when he forgot to eat and when he used cocaine.
Watson's non-answer got him even more concerned, though he sipped his tea and considered things before saying, "Watson…"
"it is my fault."
"Rubbish. Pure and utter--."
"I must have given her the other cure, Holmes…the one that…he…was raving about. I gave it to her, hoping beyond all I knew that she'd get better, start to recover, but…oh Holmes, I--."
Holmes put the tea down and swiftly moved to take Watson's trembling hands, forcing the man to look at him with tear-bright eyes.
"What do you remember of that sick-room, Watson? The attending physician did not find any such drug in her system. You were delirious for days afterwards and caused all of us to worry that Smith's cure wouldn't work. She told you to not blame me, and I do believe that when she did, she also meant to not blame yourself." Holmes swallowed before saying, "She and you had every reason to hate and blame me for bringing such dangers to your doorstep. Had I not tossed that stone, had I not anger that particular nest of hornets, then you both would've come out of this unscathed."
Watson was silent, so much so that Holmes almost wasn't sure if he'd heard him or if he was still there. It had been one of the things that scared Holmes earlier in their association, that odd sense of Watson's mind retreating to some memory that would send him jumping at the slightest sound or touch. It had been a major reason that Holmes didn't tell Watson of his profession until some six months after meeting him, and had been happy to never see that look upon his friend again. It always scared Holmes, as if some part of him realized if he didn't waken Watson he'd lose him to that mass of broken nerves and memories of a battlefield.
"Watson?" the word drew out the grieving physician, who swallowed before saying, "she's gone, Holmes. My Mary's gone…"
It was proper to hold a person at such times. Holmes, despite popular belief, was a person who understood the delicate nature of touching, and who found that such touches were welcome to someone like Watson, who seemed to crave physical contact in order to understand a patient's problems.
Holmes wasn't a patient. Watson wasn't a problem that deduction could figure out.
Holmes held him anyway, as the gesture was returned and Watson's grief overwhelmed him for a second time.
Professor James Moriarty was many things. He was known as the Napoleon of Crime. He had aided in many despicable acts upon the general populous of England and some of Western Europe. Despite having an idea of every crime that would take place in most of Europe, Moriarty disliked a few things. The most prominent one, which was currently a minor annoyance, was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but that was mainly because Moriarty knew that, by the end of it, Holmes would find a thread and use it to unravel his lovely network.
The other was diseases and those who used them.
Diseases were chaos incarnate. Diseases answered to no one's law: not God's, not the Devil's, not even that of Math, which Moriarty held as the high authority and law granted to Humanity by the Divine. Diseases, though, did not answer to it. He had been asked to take a History class once and had complied, writing up a paper on the Black Plague of Europe.
The Plague alone had taken many due to their lack of knowledge in medicine. But as he read about the events, his mind grew to hate diseases with a passion, a huge one that he could not put on Holmes for Holmes, being human, was not as chaotic and fell under enough laws to be predictable. Diseases fell under no law, none. He calculated the amount of fleas that could normally be on a rat and carry the plague, then that they were transmuted to humans and animals, and learned of how high a flea could jump, how it reproduced, all that there was.
For all that he found, everything down to the flea and the blood was under the law of some form of order. Yet under that, and with varying calculations that he added into the paper, the Plague should not have lasted as long as it did, nor should it have killed so many, even in close quarters with it spreading as it did.
Disease, then, was chaos incarnate. It was the worst form of thing that any being dreamed up and should be destroyed.
When he heard of Smith, a man who used a deadly disease on Doctor John Watson, biographer of Holmes, he became curious as to who believed he could entrap chaos. The more he read, the more he hated the man and feared what could have happened had Holmes not stopped him.
For one brief moment, Moriarty was grateful for such a man as Holmes.
Then came the confession that Smith would've unleashed a disease upon London. Moriarty had began making plans to ensure the man's death had he not been given the strictest sentence. Moran had taken it up with vigor. Moriarty suspected it was because the man had lived in India, where disease had a season and killed more men then uprisings, both on their side and on the other's.
The sentence came of hanging, and despite Moran's hope to get the man, Moriarty stayed Moran's rather enthusiastic hand. He'd rather the man hang, but be scared before then, instead of being killed outright.
Moran's smile was dangerous and cold as he went to relay the message.
1891 began with Watson moving back into Baker Street, but Holmes could not be happy about the situation that brought this about. The thought of ensuring Watson was sane had fallen upon Holmes' shoulders, it seemed, and short of a holiday in the country to not only recuperate from his illness but also to slowly cope with the loss he'd faced, Holmes knew of nothing that might help his friend. The chill had stopped even the great spider-like Napoleon of Crime, whom Holmes identified shortly before the Douglas case a few years back. As such, both he and Watson were stuck indoors, which gave Watson time to recover and Holmes time to brood.
It had been because of his failure to predict that Smith went after Watson. Watson's own mind was jumbled about the events, leading him to believe he'd failed his wife. Holmes' facts knew that Mary had died of the disease, that Doctor Walker had not given over the cure to Watson before Smith arrived, and therefore Watson couldn't have given it to Mary. There was also the fact that Watson didn't have the drugs in his case to make the disease, and even if he trusted himself to make it, could he have administered the correct dosage?
Holmes smoked his pipe furiously as he considered what there was to do. Taking Watson to the country would be a good move, but if he did, he might lose a chase to catch Moriarty. To keep him here, though, would only invite nightmares and painful memories, and while he had admitted to not blaming Holmes, the great detective could not help but blame himself for all that happened.
He stood to refill his pipe. What could be done?
I was quiet as I sat up by myself, watching the darkness play across the room I'd left only a few years ago for Mary and a practice. Now I had sold the practice, unable to even think of reentering that room, not without being assaulted by too many memories and ghosts. Baker Street, at least in the day, held enough sunlight and those worried enough about me that I could adjust to daily living, but at night…
I had not had many nightmares after a year or two back from Afghanistan. Friendship with Holmes and his inclusion with me in the cases that he took up had allowed me to recover the nerves I thought shattered forever. When I woke from the first dream, I'd hoped that a return to normal would help me shake them off.
But my health was horrible, perhaps as bad as it'd been when I first returned to England. On top of that, I could tell Holmes was looking into some long and drawn-out case, perhaps about the math professor that he'd mentioned in passing as the Napoleon on Crime. I could also tell that he didn't want me involved.
For the first time in our decade-long history together, Holmes didn't want me on a case with him.
A rational part of me said it was because of what had happened. Holmes had been shaken to anger and fear by Smith and his tactic. Why, then, wouldn't he attempt to keep me safe? He had readily admitted to blaming himself for all that had befallen me, and I had relayed Mary's final message—
I swallowed and curled up in the bed, shaking from holding in more tears. Her death, the reality of it anyway, hit me at least twice already and had left me feeling emotionally and physically drained. Such knowledge hit me almost in small waves, as if threatening a larger one but never quite making it so. First Mrs. Hudson, then Holmes, had been there to remind me that Mary wouldn't want me to dwell on such things. I knew her better then them both…and I knew they were right. Mary had not dwelled upon her unhappy loss of her father, or even upon finding out that she had lost him in such a way. She had instead rejoiced that such a strange thing brought her close to me, and for her that was enough to blind out all the sorrows of the world.
So what did I have? Without Mary, I was without a practice. I was back, in a sense, to where I started when I'd returned from Afghanistan.
Not true, a voice pointed out, you did not have Holmes, or Mrs. Hudson, or any of the others you have that hold you up when you first came home.
I let out a breath as I lay flat on the bed. Had it not been me, would Holmes have gotten that deadly disease? Would Smith have been so caring and brought the cure for him?
I swallowed hard at the thought that I would be without my friend in such a manner. I was saddened, in mourning, over the loss of my wife. I was recovering from the effects of a disease that killed even more then the fever I'd been struck down with in India. I needed an outlet of some sort.
The problem, I suppose, was what I could do.
My thoughts were interrupted by Holmes' cries from downstairs.
There are, perhaps, classifications of nightmares, and sadly I have been through all of them. The recent events had not helped, and now nightmares came that showed my folly as well as the worst possible outcome…
I woke and found Watson shaking me, my mind still remembering him dead, still remembering the bodies on London's streets as Smith taunted me, saying my pride would destroy all that I cared for.
"Holmes," Watson muttered as I gripped his shoulder, perhaps too tight, and finally fell back, realizing suddenly that he, too, must be suffering through sleepless nights.
"Watson," I replied, finally sitting up and looking at him as he slowly raised the gas light in the room. "I do not think that this should continue."
Watson froze and I quickly said, "Staying at Baker Street. There are too many ghosts, too many things we must resolve. I can only hope we've resolved all that is between us…but I don't think we can resolve everything else. Not without someone else helping us."
Watson let out a sigh and walked back over to the chair in the room. "What do you propose, Holmes? That I just leave and you go into a new case?"
"There is one apparently brewing in France, from what I can tell," I told him, "and sadly, they will not take well to you being there to make notes. This is more like the events on the continent much earlier: it is not that your presence won't help me, but it will hinder the client for some reason or another. In the meantime, I would like for you to take a holiday. Anywhere that will help you heal."
"I feel like I am being pushed away, Holmes," Watson said after a moment, "I cannot redefine myself except that I am a decade older then when I met you, and now I am being asked to leave you alone?"
"No," I quickly said, "I would never push you away. No, Watson, I know that we cannot remain in Baker Street. I must throw myself into work in order to recover from this, in order to not second-guess myself that anything I do will not…will not harm you in some way that I have not already harmed you in." I paused before saying, "You've heard me talk of this Napoleon of Crime before, have you not? The one who helped kill the man himself after being approached by an offshoot of a group of Americans?"
At Watson's slow nod, I continued. "He is beginning to move, as this thaw comes over London, and his threads are pointed towards France. I have few clues, far too few to make a charge stick to more then maybe one of his lower lieutenants. I intend to take down his whole organization, Watson. France is my only chance at that, I am sure, but if you are here, if you are left behind without some protection…then I am leaving you open to be used against me again. I am leaving you open to more pain, more suffering, and that was the cause of the nightmares." I looked at him as he, in turn, studied the ground. "Smith has caused me to realize I have no choice but be cautious, not so much as to how much I allow you to follow, but how much I am able to protect you. You can protect yourself, I know that much, but Watson, should another attack come from something that I have done…that I provoked? I cannot stand to think of how I would feel, how I felt, when you were at Death's door for those few days. Please Watson. Give me until April to find the thread. If there is nothing, then we shall, both of us, take a holiday."
I waited, and finally, Watson looked up. "It pains me that I must be left behind, Holmes, but…but I understand. It cannot be helped when a client distrusts me, and so it is such. Very well. We will see what April brings us."
