Marill: Warning! Sensitive/dark stuff ahead!
/
Both of Holmes' arms were bleeding, and crusted over with dried blood in several places. He was slumped against the leg of the armchair, looking more than a little drowsy. The needle he was trying to use on himself was bent, another needle having been discarded on the floor for some unknown reason. Holmes, unable to properly inject himself with the morphine, like he wanted, had resorted to scratching at his arms with the needle, in hopes of seeing some kind of result. Several of the cuts were severe, most were superficial.
Watson ran to him, calling his name, yelling for him to stop. Holmes bowed up, preparing to use the stolen syringe as a primitive weapon. Watson stopped four feet away from him. "Holmes," he said, his voice quivering. "Please give that to me."
Holmes snarled and attempted to stand. He swayed and fell backwards over the chair, struggling to right himself. He did get up momentarily, before his wobbly legs gave out and he collapsed onto his back on the floor. Watson drew nearer to him, but Holmes scooted back against the wall, brandishing the needle and soaking Watson's gray rug with his blood.
Watson froze. He was terrified. He had never seen Holmes so primal and aggressive. He immediately thought back to the hospital where Holmes had been restrained to the bed. He had hated the fact then, but with Holmes bleeding out all over his guest room, Watson reconsidered the merits of the restraints.
Watson tried to calmly speak to him. Holmes was growing weary and fighting off the lull of the morphine that had inadvertently been stabbed into his arms, no telling how much. If Watson could keep him occupied for just a few minutes, he might be able to talk him down. "Holmes. I know that you don't want to hurt me. I don't want you to get hurt any further either. Please, please, put down the needle and let me help you."
Holmes violently shook his head, at least partly to shake off the effects of the drug. "Go away," he growled. He held one arm close to his chest, as it was more severely injured. His other arm was outstretched toward Watson, wielding the needle.
"Holmes, calm down, I want to help you," Watson pleaded. He took a step forward, but was stopped by Holmes turning the needle toward himself instead. Holmes glared at him, the threat evident as he pointed the needle toward his own throat. "Holmes…" Watson murmured. "Please, please put that on the floor and let me take care of you. I don't want you to be hurt any worse than you are right now."
Holmes started to breathe harshly, his focus wavering, his indecision rising. Finally, he met Watson's gaze directly and said, "I hate you."
Before Watson could gasp, Holmes punctured his throat with the needle, stabbing it roughly into the delicate tissue. Watson dashed to his side, just in time to catch his upper body before it listed sideways and fell.
/
Watson gazed down at the sedated form in his housekeeper's bed. Since Miss Winney's bedroom was right next to his and Mary's, Watson had opted to move Holmes there temporarily so that he wouldn't have to make so many trips up and down the stairs. Miss Winney had been delighted to be sent to a hotel for a few weeks.
Holmes was still underneath the morphine's tendrils at the moment, but as soon as he started to come out of it, Watson was planning to further tranquilize him. The doctor stared at his disorderly, wild patient. Holmes' throat had required stitches-four of them-as Holmes had jabbed and then pulled at the needle. Watson had also had to remove detritus from the cuts in Holmes' arms. Fluff from the carpet, as well as dirt had managed to embed itself in the angry incisions, and Watson was on guard for infection.
Watson surveyed the most repulsive aspect of the situation: the cushioned leather bonds that secured Holmes' arms firmly to the intricate woodwork on each side of the bed. They were borrowed from the hospital, and Watson had lined them with soft cotton himself to insure that Holmes wouldn't cause more damage to his wounded wrists. It didn't make Watson feel any better about binding him up, however. To Watson, it was comparable to gagging Holmes, but with a clean cloth.
Watson feared what Holmes would do when he awoke and found himself in an immobile state. He knew, however, that he couldn't chance Holmes harming himself again like he had just hours earlier. Once Holmes trusted him again, Watson would release him.
/
Watson wasn't there when Holmes finally came out of his stupor. The former detective opened his heavily lidded eyes with great difficulty. He was lost in a blur of sounds and sights, the sedative in his system still active. He closed his eyes, prepared to fall back asleep.
Then, he remembered Watson and Mary, and the horrible fight. He remembered trying to dose himself with morphine. Holmes moved to push the bedclothes away from himself, but he only ended up painfully yanking his left arm against some kind of bracelet.
Holmes stared at his arm, encased in the fabric shackle. He noted that his other arm was in the same state. Panic burned his throat as he realized that he was in an unfamiliar room. He began to struggle against the bonds securing him to the bed. He panicked more when he realized that he couldn't free himself.
/
Watson was changing Mary into a clean nightgown, as he did twice every day. She soaked them through with sweat and splattered blood upon them quite often, so Watson changed her clothes frequently to insure her comfort. He was fidgeting with her wrinkled collar when a frightening cry for help sounded from the next room.
Watson was on his feet instantly, glancing to be sure that Mary still slept, then dashing out into the hallway. He entered the housemaid's bedroom and crossed to the bed, muttering words of apology and comfort interchangeably.
Holmes was absolutely livid, snarling and tugging at the hospital bindings that held him. When his eyes fell upon Watson, however, his demeanor softened and he looked at his friend hopefully. "Watson, help me," he pleaded.
Watson didn't move. He assessed Holmes with a physician's eye, observing the man's trembling fingers and shuddering chest. Watson recalled Holmes' state the last time he had been conscious and then Watson made his decision.
"Holmes…I'm sorry," Watson said quietly. "I can't watch out for you all hours of the day. I need you to stay this way for a couple of days, so I can be sure that you are stable."
Holmes had a traumatized look on his face. "But, Watson…" he began.
"No, Holmes. In a few days, I'll release you," Watson said firmly.
Holmes shook his head and began pulling at the cuffs again. "No!" he screamed, thrashing his legs uselessly. "No, no, no! Let me go!"
Watson walked over to Holmes and pushed him down onto the bed with one hand, the other hand covering Holmes' riotous mouth. "Holmes, I cannot have you waking Mary. Please calm down. Piper will bring you something to eat, and you will be fine. Just…please…" Watson said, shame clouding his resolution.
Holmes had stopped struggling. He smelled Watson's hand and knew three things instantly: Watson had just taken Mary's clothes to be laundered, he had eaten a biscuit for lunch, and he hadn't washed his hands after leaving Mary's sick room.
Slowly, Holmes' observations made him realize that he was getting better. He was gaining his mind back. Watson still hadn't removed his hand, waiting for a signal that Holmes was going to be still and quiet. Holmes began to strain intensely for his freedom. He cried out behind Watson's hand, jerking in the cuffs and wrenching his hips from side to side.
Watson sighed, his eyes downcast. He solemnly reached for the syringe of morphine he had prepared on the night table.
Holmes took this moment to try to communicate with his dear friend. "Watson! Please stop, listen to me!" Watson rolled up Holmes' sleeve. "I remember! I remember some things! I know what you've been doing! No, please!" Watson injected the morphine. Holmes looked so similar to a raving madman that Watson didn't even consider the words he was saying. "Listen, listen," Holmes begged. "I have to tell you-"
Watson left the room, turning off the lamp as he exited. He left Holmes in the dark, unfamiliar room, the morphine dragging him down into an even darker hole.