Mary was getting worse by the hour. Watson endlessly bathed her with cool cloths, trying to bring her fever down. He helped her swallow small sips of water, her throat raw from coughing and irritated by sputum. Watson's grief left him in a state of perpetual mechanical motion. He didn't think about what he was doing, or of his beautiful darling wife who was slipping out of his grasp. He didn't even feel as if he were inside his own body. The scene he found himself in was surreal, nightmarish, cold.
He kissed Mary's hand gently, then got up to refill the water pitcher. She grasped for his hand, desperately, as if he might leave and never return. "John, please," she whispered, her voice throaty and strained. "Don' t leave me…John, please…" She continued this litany even as Watson was assuring her that he wouldn't move.
Watson eventually climbed into the bed behind her, wrapping his entire body around hers, soothing her, touching her, pleading for her to calm down, to sleep, to rest. Eventually, Mary shuddered and grew limp in his arms. Watson took deep breaths as he checked her pulse. It was still there, heralding Mary's continued existence in her body.
A knock at the door was ignored. Watson kissed Mary's neck, smoothed her hair back from her face. The knock returned with greater insistence.
"Yes?" Watson whispered, her tone livid at the interruption.
Piper slowly opened the door, her face flustered. "Doctor, I'm so sorry to disturb ya…" she began. She looked at Watson for approval to continue. He simply nodded. "Mr. Holmes is awake again sir, and he's…it's something wrong with him sir. He won't settle down. I tried to get him to drink some tea, but he spit it at me! He's not talkin' either. I'm scared 'e's gonna hurt 'imself. I don't know what to do…"
Watson was silent for a very long moment. Finally, he edged himself out from beneath Mary and laid her gently against her pillows. Watson made his decision without any emotion. He realized that the alternatives were too few and too dangerous.
"Piper, would you please send a telegram to Mr. Mycroft Holmes? Tell him that he was right and that I've decided to follow his original plans. If he can help me with the details of sending Holmes to France, I would be most grateful."
/
The simple reply to Watson's telegram came the next day.
"Contact Dr. Paul Apsey at the Laroque Hospice in Angers. I will handle all financial concerns.
MH."
The doctor stared at the vagueness of the letter. Mycroft had included the mailing site within the envelope. Glancing at Mary's prone and unconscious form, Watson went to his writing desk to begin a letter to Mycroft's preferred doctor.
He sat there, his pen dripping ink on the page, unable to move his hand to make words. Eventually, he laid the pen back in its case, torn by indecision. Watson was a man in shambles, grieved by the slow unstoppable death of his wife. Mary was constantly delirious now, fighting off shadows and demons while awake and asleep. Watson eased her distress (and his own anguish) by sedating her whenever the visions were too ferocious for her. She had lost so much weight that she was rivaling Holmes, who mulishly refused to eat.
Watson sighed. He needed to check on Holmes. He knew that Mycroft would be sore if he saw that Watson had done a poor job caring for his brother. He wanted to avoid that conflict, and insure that Holmes stayed healthy. He called for Miss Winney to look after Mary while he stepped into the next room.
Watson entered the silence of Holmes' new room like walking into a fog. Holmes lay motionless on the bed, never even acknowledging Watson's presence. Watson could tell from his face that he was exhausted, done-in by his attempts at freeing himself.
Watson quietly kneeled beside the bed, resting his hands next to Holmes' side. Holmes finally turned his head to look at Watson's remorseful face.
"Holmes…" Watson began, unable to handle his friend's lifeless stare. "I just want to do the best thing for you. You do realize that, don't you? Maybe…eventually, you could come back here once you're a little better. Maybe I'll be better equipped then…maybe…"
Watson stopped when Holmes grasped his little finger (the only one he could reach) and pulled the doctor's hand closer to his. "Wa'son," Holmes rasped, obviously with great effort.
Watson stared into the familiar eyes, an old spark shimmering slightly within them. "Holmes…" Watson said. "I'm going to let you up."