Read Perception first to avoid spoilers
Yet another match landed in the fireplace, and I pressed my face into my palms, fighting against the panic trying to cloud my thoughts. I was safe. In my room. No one could hurt me here, and panicking would only bring the attention I wanted to postpone.
A slow count of ten gradually calmed my heartbeat, and I lit another match—to no effect. The heat radiating through my window put me at least two hours late for breakfast, but even blinking hard enough to make my eyes water found nothing but inky darkness. Yesterday's minor concussion had proven itself not so minor.
Not that I could do anything about it now, and that final match landed in the fireplace to let me grip the edge of the bed. No doctor could restore sight taken by a head injury. It would return on its own or not. Either way, I needed to decide what to do next.
Clinking glass put Holmes at his chemistry set. A simple trip downstairs—or even calling through the floor—should rapidly set aside whatever experiment he ran. Asking for help would make relearning the flat infinitely easier—and less painful. Did I want to admit the problem?
No. I wanted to hide it indefinitely. To avoid the fuss of an injury until enough time had passed as to declare the problem permanent, but I knew better than to count that a true option. I had at best an hour before the concern at my "sleeping" so late made him check on me.
So did I want to ask for help? Or did I want to make him ask what was wrong?
The former. Making him ask would increase the hovering, and I much preferred to get such an awkward conversation over with. Two rounds through my room gained a shallow understanding of how to navigate by shadows—and forced me to retrieve a sturdy cane when bed, bookshelf, and nightstand all conspired to trip me—and a few minutes sufficed to tentatively skirt the doorframe, then aim for the top of the stairs. Slow caution cleared one step at a time. I had no wish to descend the fast way.
Nor did I want the sitting room to exacerbate the problem. Mrs. Hudson dropped something to make me jump, then glass somehow clinked behind me rather than below me. When running footsteps outside nearly unbalanced me, I stopped in the middle of the stairs to put my back against the wall. I was safe. I was at home. No one would hurt me. My lack of vision did not matter when I was fine.
I still needed two deep breaths to continue, and my steps slowed the closer I grew to the sitting room. From the crackles and explosions of his experiments to the hawkers announcing their wares on the street, the sitting room stayed much louder than my bedroom. If just descending the stairs already had me jumping at a trash bin falling over, did I really want to occupy my chair?
No, and the continuing clink of glass hitting glass suggested Holmes too deep in his experiment to note my approach. When the paperboy nearly made me drop my cane, I finally sighed and retreated back to my room. Maybe another hour or two would ease the irrational fear birthed at being unable to watch my surroundings.
Provided Holmes let me. Apparently paying far more attention than he let on, I barely reached my room before a flurry of motion climbed the stairs.
"Watson?"
A moment's reach quickly closed my drapes. No light meant nothing to use for deductions—and eased the voice gibbering about "securing my surroundings" when I put my back to the door. This would have been easier to handle if my battle reflexes had stayed where they belonged, but I would still try to send him back downstairs. Lowering my volume tried to answer without revealing anything through my tone.
"Holmes."
And failed, evidently. The answering "Alright?" tested the knob at the same time.
"Of course." Readjusting on my bed sent my cane to the floor. I ignored it. "Go back to your experiment. I'll be down later."
Like luncheon. Or maybe tomorrow. We had no plans today.
Except those dictated by an impatient detective. Loud clicks announced impending company and gave me just enough time to ensure my cane within reach, but a reflexive remonstration did nothing to stop my door from swinging open. He paused on finding a darkened bedroom.
"Watson?"
Irrationally building fear would not make me face the doorway. I refused. Facing the doorway meant facing Holmes, and I did not want to handle both him and my own fears at the same time. A wave tried to send him away.
"I'll be down later."
He ignored the hint. Long strides crossed the room and strengthened the fear fighting for attention. Only my tight grip on the covers held me in place. Why could he not leave?
Because he was stubborn. I knew that just as I acknowledged I would probably do the same in his position. That did not change the fight or flight making my hold waver, however. My pocket watch provided an anchor that did not involve attacking the "threat" standing behind me.
Or in front of me. Shadows shifted to suggest my friend stood to the right of the now uncovered window, but I paid him no mind. Acknowledging him meant acknowledging the vibrating desire to prove myself safe by eliminating a threat. He needed to move away.
Which he finally seemed to grasp. Motion stilled, then worry threaded a low question.
"Watson, are you with me?"
Mostly. His words referenced a regression, but the irrational fear stemming from my lack of sight could fall under the same heading. A moment's debate provided a faint hum. That might make him leave the room.
Or at least lower his threat level. He moved to kneel in front of me, probably frowning when I edged away to put my back to the headboard rather than the open doorway. Gentle fingers started tapping a cadence on my knee.
"You are safe. You are in London. You have lived in London for nearly twenty years. You helped me finish a smuggling case yesterday. You intended to start writing it today. We have a meeting with Lestrade later…"
He continued in that vein, short sentences following the pattern we had established years ago. A spoken anchor to compliment the tactile one tapping a scrambled Morse on my knee, he rambled everything from the most recent case to a concert playbill he had seen last week, but only closing my eyes let the stream of words calm my racing pulse. Closed eyes were supposed to be dark. An unexpected inability became a known inability, and with repeated firm reminders that Holmes knelt in front of me—Holmes, my friend, who would never attack me—irrational panic gradually subsided to a tense wariness. Rhythmic tapping eventually became a gentle grip.
"Watson?"
Here. I was here, though I did not yet dare open my eyes. My hand found his instead. Maybe I could act well enough to make him leave?
Unlikely. He spoke before I could find a question to redirect his attention.
"Why are you fighting off a panic attack in your bedroom?"
And guessed the problem before I could formulate an excuse. A rush of wry amusement tried to reach my expression, but I searched for a way to word what I had discovered on waking. His grip briefly tightened when I debated for too long.
"Watson, answer me."
Trying, I thought with a grimace. He probably read as much in my expression, but I could not reply when I had no idea how. I could not give him the straightforward answer. Announcing that my situational awareness apparently remained active enough to feed an irrational panic even at home—because blindness in battle meant death—would only confuse my friend and therefore worry him more. How could I tell him I had woken almost completely blind?
"Do I need to call another doctor?"
No, he needed to learn some patience, but when his other hand cupped mine, I finally sighed a resignation. If I could not tell him, I would have to show him.
His next question cut off when sightless eyes stared through him and the wall beyond.
Hope you enjoyed :) Reviews are always greatly appreciated!