Marill: Angsty, sad stuff ahead, guys!
/
Holmes ate his lunch while Watson nibbled at a muffin. Holmes only needed help with the porridge, which was thin and dripped out of the spoon far to easily. Dr. Humber checked Holmes over and confirmed that he was doing well.
"Holmes," Watson said, after they had finished their food. "I'm going to go home for a little while. I must have a change of clothes and see that everything is running smoothly at the household."
Holmes nodded, and twisted the bed sheet between his fingers. "Water?" he asked.
"Certainly," said Watson, handing him the cup from the bedside table. He waited for Holmes to take a few sips. "Holmes, would you like for me to bring you anything from the house?" Holmes stared at him, blankly. "Your pyjamas, or your book?" Holmes shrugged, as though he didn't understand Watson's questions. "Never mind, I'll just bring you a few things that I think you'll like. How does that sound?"
Holmes sighed and then nodded, handing the cup back to Watson. "Is Mary going to come see me? Is she angry at me?" he asked. The question forced a lump into Watson's throat as he remembered his haste in leaving Mary when she was sick in bed.
"I'm sure she'll come to see you, old chap," Watson replied, vaguely. "She's been feeling under the weather as well. I'm not sure if she'll be well enough to visit before you're able to come home and see her." Holmes seemed to juggle the great number of words Watson had quickly slung together. "She isn't mad at you," Watson added. "I promise you that." Watson picked himself up out of his chair and grabbed his walking cane. "Now, just let the nurse know if you need anything, Holmes. I should be back by tomorrow, if not this evening."
Holmes waved goodbye to Watson in his childlike manner. Watson smiled back at him and grabbed up his coat to leave.
/
When Watson arrived at his home, he was surprised to see another gentleman exiting through his front door. Watson stepped out of the cab quickly to speak with the man. "Sir!" Watson called.
The heavyset, older gentleman turned toward Watson's voice. Watson caught up to him on the sidewalk. "Hello," Watson said. "Dr. John Watson, I'm the head of the household you just exited. May I help you with any matter?"
The other man shook Watson's hand. "Dr. John Lithinsby," he said. "I was called to see to your dear wife, Mary."
Watson's heart fluttered impetuously. "Oh, dear," he murmured. "Is she quite all right?"
Dr. Lithinsby's face scrunched in appraisal of Watson. "I didn't know why she had me called in, sir, you being her husband and a doctor and all. But, now I see that you must have been absent for some time. I've treated her symptoms, Dr. Watson, but I'm afraid that the illness is clearly displayed in her."
"The illness?" Watson repeated through his tightening throat. "When I saw her last, she had influenza."
Dr. Lithinsby nodded. "It can often look that way, at first," he said, quietly.
Watson's body moved automatically. He did not say a polite farewell to the other gentleman. Dr. Lithinsby no longer mattered, no longer existed. His focus was on his own front door, the world dashing madly around him was unfocused, hazy. He let himself into the house, becoming aware of himself as he did so. He prayed that it wasn't true. He prayed that he had misheard the other doctor.
Piper ran up to him in the foyer. Her red hair was swept back behind her ear, messily, and her pale face was wet with tears. "Doctor, it's Missus!" she said, as Watson caught her in his arms. "She's-she's-" Piper couldn't finish her sentence. She all but collapsed into Watson's shaking arms.
"Miss Winney!" Watson called out for his older housekeeper. He couldn't sit there, tending to a fainted maid. He had to get to Mary. "Miss Winney! At once, come here!"
The silver-haired woman, prim and composed as usual, descended the staircase and took over Piper's well-being for Watson.
Watson's heart pounded in his ears as he ran toward his own bedroom. His leg jolted him in pain, but he paid it no more mind than his other leg. Once he reached the door to his and Mary's bedroom, he stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He steeled himself for whatever horror might be behind the door. He must be brave, he must be confident, he must be…
"Oh, Mary…" he whispered, after opening the door.
She was still, peaceful, wearing a white lace sleeping gown. She seemed to have an ethereal glow about her that Watson distinguished as separate from the sunlight coming in the window. She was angelic, beautiful…too thin, too pale, and severely fatigued, Watson realized as he grew nearer to her side. The telltale signs were all around her: splatters of blood on her collar, the sheen of sweat on her face and chest, the untouched breakfast tray on the bedside table.
Watson sat on the bed next to her hip. He picked up her frail hand and touched it to his face. Mary awoke from her fitful nap and squinted at him. "John, my darling," she whispered. Her voice was worn from coughing. "I'm so glad that you are here."
"Mary," Watson said. There were so many things he wanted to say. I love you. I'll save you. I'll take care of you. You'll be all right. But he couldn't say those things once he was in the moment. "Why didn't you send for me?" he questioned instead.
Mary turned her head and coughed briefly. John stoically yet tenderly handed her his handkerchief, which she used to mop up the trickle of blood from her lip. "I did not want to further burden you, John. You had so much to worry about as it was."
Several emotions ran through Watson's body. Guilt at not noticing the symptoms before they had progressed so badly. Shame that he had spent his every moment doting on Holmes, instead of paying a small bit of notice to his wife. Anger that Mary's courage to face this without bothering him had not broken. Anger that Holmes' condition was not improving. Fear that he was losing them both.
Watson squeezed her hand. He couldn't stop the next question from at least trying to come out. "Did the doctor…that is…do you know how long…" He simply couldn't finish. His eyes stung with wetness.
"Let's not talk about the ghastly details," Mary implored him.
"But you do know?" Watson pressed.
Mary smiled faintly. "Yes, John, I asked him."
Watson kissed her hand and nuzzled it to his neck, begging God to give him more time. To give him a cure, or a miracle.
Mary placed her other hand in his hair and stroked the back of his head gently. "I love you, darling," she said. "Please don't cry for me."
Then, John's strength collapsed and his tears ran down his face.
-
Two days passed. The hospital sent a pageboy to inform Watson that Holmes had been released and needed an escort home. Watson had scarcely left Mary's side, but briefly dispatched a telegram to Lestrade to fetch Holmes from the hospital.
Piper helped settle Holmes back into the house. He was slow-moving, deliberately, as the surgery had tired him out and he had already experienced a tumble out of a chair while in the hospital. He was frightfully pale and even appeared alarmed when Watson did not greet him at the house. Piper brought him a tray of lunch and left to go to her other duties.
Holmes picked at the muffins, and the turkey. Finally, he left the couch, glanced briefly at his picture book and left the room. Out in the hallway, he heard Miss Winney's voice berating a salesman at the door.
"Sir, the lady of the house is very ill. Don't bother us with your wares again." Without waiting for a response, the door closed.
Holmes went further into the house. Mary was sick. But he knew that, Watson had already said so, right? So that's where Watson was. He was taking care of Mary. Holmes had the notion to do something for Mary too.
He quietly crept to the front door and went outside.
/
Watson wasn't even aware that Holmes had returned to the house. After all, Holmes was all but silent these days and the doctor had been in his bedroom nearly every hour. While Mary was peacefully sleeping at around two o'clock in the afternoon, Watson took up the cloths and tepid water he had been using to bathe her forehead and neck, with the intention of changing them for fresh cloths and cool water.
On his way to the water closet, Piper came upon him, beseeching him to take a break for himself and to eat something. Reluctantly, Watson agreed, his stamina depleted from his nighttime vigils.
After a quick 20 minutes of lunch, Watson headed back to his bedroom. Then, he saw Holmes. He was at the door to their bedroom, knocking. At first Watson thought that Holmes might be looking for him, might have needed something. That thought vanished when he realized in horror that Holmes was turning the doorknob.
Watson reacted quickly, closing the distance between Holmes and himself in two strides. He seized Holmes by the shoulders and pulled the bewildered man around to face him. "Come. With. Me," Watson hissed. He didn't give Holmes a chance to respond; he simply grabbed the other man's bicep and started moving. Once they were in the parlour, Watson released him roughly.
Holmes averted his gaze and fidgeted with something in his hand. He looked plainly frightened and ashamed, but Watson had to keep him safe. Holmes could not contract tuberculosis too. He could not lose them both, regardless that he had already lost Holmes to a degree.
"I…just wanted…" Holmes tried to explain, holding up the yellow flower he had brought for Mary.
"I don't care what you wanted, Holmes," Watson snapped. "You are not to go into that bedroom, are we clear?"
"She is mad at me…" Holmes whispered, lowering his gaze once more.
Watson drew close to the other man, snatching up Holmes' collar. "She is not angry at you, Holmes. She is dying because she cared too much about your wellbeing to tell me that she was sick." Holmes grunted as Watson shook him brusquely. "Because you are selfish, because you are so damn needy my wife is dying, and I can't do a damn thing about it."
Holmes regarded him, uneasily. He offered up the only sentiment he could manage. "I'm sorry."
Watson released him. How dare Holmes be so pathetic and pitiable. "I would that I could send you away from here, Holmes," Watson swore. "But no one would take you."
Watson left the sitting room, crossly. Holmes sank to the floor. He dropped the yellow flower and crushed in under his foot.