Chapter Twenty Four.

Between them Cassia and Watson got Holmes on his feet, the younger man leaning more heavily against Watson as they staggered to his bedroom, neither man making any mention of the fact that Holmes was temporarily blind.

However, by the time they got him to his room and sitting down on the bed, from the way he began to move his hands before his face again this time in more intricate patterns, Watson began to suspect that Holmes' vision was starting to return, blurred perhaps, but at least it seemed that he could now see light and shapes and movement.

After Cassia left them to attend to her shower, Watson gave Sherlock a thorough examination and by the time he had finished, Holmes could see properly once more.

When he was sure that Sherlock was safe to be left alone, just for a moment, he returned to the kitchen to retrieve his medical bag and to fetch a bowl of water with antiseptic dissolved in it, and then carefully dressed the burn on Holmes' inner left thigh and after removing his wristwatch, bandaged his left wrist.

"Sherlock..."

"I know what you're going to say, John."

Watson looked up into his friend's pale face and knew from the solemn expression that he found there that Sherlock fully understood this sudden new development in his condition, and its implications.

"You know I'm right. We had a deal, Sherlock. It's time. Don't make me punch you."

He was only half joking, and they both knew it.

"John, we are so close. Just give me one more day. Twenty four more hours, please. For Cassia's sake, as well as mine," Holmes implored softly, his now clear eyes focusing on his friend's anxious countenance.

"Please. My vision is clear, my head is still splitting, but I have my strength back. I'll be better after I have slept for a while."

"You're playing with fire, Sherlock. Yes you can see again, but next time you might not be so damn lucky! Next time you might have a seizure! It's a warning, Sherlock. A warning, that that ruddy time bomb in your head is getting ready to go off."

"One more day, John. Please."

"Sherlock, you can try to con me that you're alright, you may even be able to convince yourself, but there is no reasoning with a brain tumour, my friend, and it will get you in the end."

"I only had the MRI scan today. Sir Roger won't have had time to analyse it yet," Holmes reasoned softly now. "One more day, John, that's all I ask."

"This is not a game, Sherlock. This is your life you're playing with."

"Yes. I know. My life ..."

Oh hell ...

There really was no reasoning with him.

Watson knew that he could keep banging his head against that particular brick wall until the cows came home and the end result would still be the same.

He would only end up in a big pile of cow manure with a headache of his own, and still be no nearer to making his friend see reason.

Watson let out a long, heavy sigh.

What choice did he have?

Really?

Holmes was determined to see this thing through to the bitter end.

No matter what.

He could argue with him, make life miserable for both of them, and perhaps run the risk of ending up being shut out of Sherlock's life when he needed him most.

Or, he could go along with the silly dimwit and be there to catch him when he fell.

And he would fall.

It was inevitable.

Oh bugger ...

"How did it go at the hospital?"

Watson decided to be gracious in defeat and to change the subject, now that he was satisfied that whatever had happened to Sherlock had indeed passed and the blindness had only been temporary.

"I don't know. They never tell the patient anything anyway."

Holmes sank back against his pillow wearily.

"I had the scan, that's it. Surely in this day and age they must be able to design a machine to do the job that isn't so claustrophobic, or damned noisy. I felt every thump and bang in my bones," he grumbled. "Not to mention my skull."

"Did you take your pain meds?"

"Yes."

"When are you due for the next dose?"

"Ah, well, I had a shot of brandy, just to settle my nerves. I'll make do with a cup of tea..."

"Sherlock..."

"John, it has been a somewhat trying and tiresome morning, can we not just drink our tea in peace, like ordinary people?"

Ordinary!

You're having a laugh, Sherlock!

There was nothing ordinary about Sherlock Holmes, or the way that he lived his life.

Or indeed, the way he chose to die.

"You can use the time to compose a list of insults to hurl at me at a future date."

"Wanker."

Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"I must see about getting you a dictionary and a thesaurus. You're starting to repeat yourself, John," Holmes smiled softly as he lifted his legs up on to the bed, wincing as the burn on his leg throbbed and protested against the movement as the bandaged chaffed against the raw skin, and tried to get comfortable.

"Numb nuts."

"I wish... "Holmes gave a quick, wry look, downward, and suddenly, he realized that he was sans trousers, but he also realized that he was too weak and far too weary to do anything about it now.

Watson went to the kitchen and poured away the tea that Holmes had made from the pot because it was stewed, then made a fresh pot, all the time keeping an ear out for any sign that Sherlock had taken a turn for the worse.

He could hear the shower running and sounds of movement from the bathroom as he worked, and then he loaded a tray and returned to Holmes' bedroom with a small glass of water, a mug of tea and a plate of sweet digestive biscuits, and the bottle of painkillers prescribed by Sir Roger Witty.

"How much brandy, Sherlock?"

"Not much. About one finger's worth," Holmes mumbled sleepily. "Just enough to steady my nerves."

"How long ago?" Watson asked as he read the label on the bottle of pills, trying to decide if it was safe for Holmes to take any with alcohol in his system, weighing up the risks against the positives, and he heard someone knocking at the front door, and then the sound of someone going down the stairs, and realized that Cassia Ingram must have gone to see if it was the taxi bearing her clothing.

"About an hour ago, I suppose." Holmes responded groggily.

"Ok, you can have one of these now. Here..."

He waited for Holmes to open his eyes and helped him to sit up slowly, and then he gave him one painkiller and a small glass of water.

"Take that with the water, then drink your tea, and eat a couple of biscuits. Don't argue. Doctor's orders. You need something in your stomach to counteract the alcohol. I don't suppose you ate much before you went to the hospital."

"Thank you, John. I'm sorry to cause you such trouble."

"Oh, think nothing of it, Sherlock. You haven't seen my bill yet."