NB: New chapter - poor Watson, he just can't seem to get one full night's sleep! None of the characters belong to me…Thank you so much for all the reviews, please keep them coming, I love every single one I get!
Three o'clock in the morning. Cavendish Place was silent. There was silence in the house of the Watsons, and silence in their bedroom, and, most importantly of all, silence in Watson's head.
But of course - in a world in which Holmes existed - there would never be silence for long.
Bang bang bang! The door rattled with the force of his knocks, and, in his bed, Watson screamed soundlessly into his pillow.
Mary turned over, snarled something incomprehensible into Watson's ear that contained the words idiot detectives and no sense of decorum, and fell back asleep.
Back, legs and eyes protesting, Watson wrestled on his nightgown, and once more began the trudge downstairs, all ready to give Holmes a black eye.
Or two, he thought, and opened the door wearily.
He was ready for Holmes to be standing there aimlessly, or perhaps even collapsing through the door with some injury, or rushing through to escape some sort of nightmare in his head. What he wasn't ready for was for an unkempt, manic Holmes to barrel into him, knock him against the hallway wall and twist his arms painfully behind his back.
"Ouch! Holmes, what on earth?"
The menacing and overly familiar click of handcuffs, and the sudden bite of metal into his wrists made him freeze, enough for Holmes to lean in and hiss deeply into Watson's ear.
"Caught you, you foul villain! Thought you could outsmart Holmes, eh? Well I'm onto you…"
"Holmes, have you finally lost your mind?"
"Silence, knave!"
"Holmes!"
Holmes grabbed his arms, spun him around and smacked him back into the wall again. Watson glared at Holmes, taking him in properly. He took in his tangled mess of hair, his odd mismatch of clothes (he was wearing a shoe on one foot, two socks on the other foot, and had a hat sticking out of his shirt), his drawn face with its waxy complexion, and most of all his pinpoint pupils in his wild-eyed gaze.
Watson sighed and would have crossed his arms, if they hadn't been clamped behind his back.
"Taking opium again Holmes? I've told you about the complications you could get, hmm, remember? Like death - "
"Do not try to twist my mind, fiend, I know probably more than you ever will about the games your sort play!"
"Holmes, what are you talking about?"
"You, sir, have committed a crime, and I have solved it, and have now come here to apprehend you in the doing!" His face lit up as he spoke, the expression of a small boy who had won a small victory over the world.
Watson groaned, trying not to be acutely aware of how close Holmes was to him, and how his face was only inches from Watson's own.
"Go back home, Holmes," he said wearily.
"Sorry, old boy," Holmes responded firmly, "But your time's up."
Watson realised Holmes was slurring. He wished he could check his pulse, but his own hands were cuffed behind him. Holmes must have overdosed again, and rather heavily to think that he, Watson, was some sort of criminal…
"Just what sort of crime do you think I've committed?" he asked, humouring Holmes so that he had time to think about what he could possibly do next.
Holmes put his hands behind his back and looked at Watson with his head cocked.
"Impersonation," he said finally.
"Well, then, who do you think I'm impersonating?"
"Dr John Watson."
"Wha - Holmes, I am Watson!"
"Ah ha!" Holmes jabbed a finger at him triumphantly. "I knew you'd say that!"
Watson rolled his eyes.
"You can't be Watson," continued Holmes victoriously, unsteadily, "Because Watson would never leave me."
Watson froze.
And then a wave of guilt washed freshly over him, too sudden to be quashed by either his common sense or his sense of propriety, and he momentarily slumped.
"Holmes," he whispered, but Holmes carried on, too out of his mind to notice Watson's sudden deflating, or his murmured word.
"You must have captured Watson and disguised yourself as him - haha, a clever ploy that indeed took me in, until now! You must have impersonated him to get closer to me, the great, wonderful, brilliantly minded…Sherlock Holmes…" he swayed dangerously, and Watson leaned forward quickly, not sure just how much help he would be to Holmes if he collapsed since he was handcuffed…maybe he should call for Mary…
"Anyway," Holmes was mumbling. "Any…way…" His legs sagged. Watson tried to nudge him upright with his shoulder, but just as he shuffled forward, Holmes sprang back to life again, like a clockwork soldier who had just been wound back up. "Anyway!" he shouted suddenly, "You couldn't fool me! Trying to go and get 'married' in order for me not to suspect you were getting too close - but that just made me more suspicious, didn't it, dear boy! Because Watson…would never…"
He drooped again, leaning his forehead against Watson's shoulder and allowing himself to slump on top of him. Watson squirmed, but his wrists were locked tightly behind him, and Holmes was too heavy for him to move out of the way.
"Holmes…" he complained.
"Would never…leave…me…" Holmes sighed into Watson's shirt. Watson's stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he wished his hands were free so that he could touch Holmes on the shoulder.
Holmes snuffled into Watson. He tutted gently to himself.
"Holmes…I'm." He paused, then ploughed recklessly on. "I'm sorry…"
His confession was responded to by a loud snore. Watson twisted his head painfully to look at the suddenly sleeping Holmes, and in doing so, managed to dislodge him from his shoulder. Holmes' slipped from Watson into the wall, face first, then slid slowly and droolingly down to the floor, where he lay in a crumpled, snoring heap.
Watson sighed and stood quietly for a moment, staring at the opposite wall.
The clock struck half past three.
Slowly, and with some effort, Watson sank to his knees, shuffled over to Holmes and perused his pockets as best he could do with his hands trapped behind his back (which meant he had to face the other way whilst he was feeling his way around various, strange, sometimes slimy, things in the pockets, and cursing silently all the while) until he found the key.
It took him a further fifteen minutes for him to unlock the handcuffs, and by the time he had released himself, he was no longer in the mood to do anything but fling the handcuffs on the floor next to the incumbent Holmes and storm upstairs with every intention of going back to sleep.
And then he did what he always did, he stopped and had a violent wrestle with his conscience.
He glanced over his shoulder. Holmes was still tucked against the wall, still deeply asleep, now drooling merrily onto his front.
He couldn't really leave him like that. In good conscience he couldn't, even though, he thought sulkily, his wrists still hurt.
Watson sighed again, and permitted himself a grim smile. How did Holmes still manage to have a hold over him, even when he was in a drug-induced stupor on his floor?
"Damn you, man," he said quietly, then clunked back down the stairs and got back on his knees, shaking Holmes' shoulder.
Holmes moaned into his saliva-covered shoulder. Watson narrowed his eyes.
"Get up Holmes, or I swear I will make you sleep on the doorstep. Which is still covered in your blood," he added as an afterthought.
Holmes eyes flickered open, took Watson in, closed again. He smiled a little crookedly.
"'Lo, Wats…"
Watson shook his head with another resigned sigh, and wrestled at Holmes painfully up until he was at least standing up, even if it took all Watson's strength to make him do so.
"Holmes, you actually need to do some of the walking yourself," he snapped, already regretting being nice in the first place. Sluggishly, Holmes stumbled forward, and Watson guided him silently into the living room and onto the sofa. Holmes was already falling back asleep by the time Watson had managed to get him lying down properly, and made no sound when Watson slipped his one shoe off.
Watson stepped back and surveyed the sleeping Holmes with a doctor's eye. His head was elevated, so that was all right…and he seemed to be sleeping more peacefully now. Hopefully the opium wouldn't damage his brain cells too much, he thought ironically, and his moustache twitched in black amusement as his mind added disloyally, it would serve him right if it did!
"Sleep well, Holmes," he said softly, and left, to get some well-deserved rest.
The clock struck four. Neither men were awake to hear it.
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