The night was difficult, Holmes woke several times, distressed and disoriented and still failed to recognise his friends. His state was despicable, and he neither was able to understand what was happening nor able to form coherent sentences, which limited Watson's hand to find out what had happened to him exactly. Although Holmes deliriously babbled something about moustaches and bright lights sometimes, it made no sense. The good thing was, they managed to get him to drink a bit now and then.
.
The following morning passed without much happening. And although Holmes slept fast and deep, Watson was on high alert. He couldn't help but listen to Holmes' every breath, afraid he might lose him again. There were phases during which his eyes moved under his closed lids restlessly and Watson sat on the bed next to him to monitor his state. Lestrade helped by keeping the room quiet and organising things. Apparently, the investigations at the asylum were going well. They took turns to eat their meals downstairs or nap. Overall, most of the day was a strange mix of tense and boring. In between Watson tried to distract himself by reading the newspaper or drafting new articles for the strand.
It was early afternoon when Holmes started to show signs of waking up.
Watson was sitting at the small secretary when Holmes started to twitch now and then. Only a few minutes later, the detective's breath became strained and Watson silently put his pen down and pulled the curtains closed. He turned his chair around to face the bed. The last thing he wanted was to spook his friend again by close proximity or bright light, the foreign room was probably stressful enough on its own.
Watson could sense his friend tense up, a tell tale sign that he was aware again. The horrors of what he imagined might have happened to Holmes to leave him in a state like this had made Watson's past hours dire.
Holmes eyes opened slowly and he blinked into the dim lights.
Patiently, he waited for Holmes' eyes to focus on the room, but he only stared blindly ahead. The blankness in his gaze worsened the doctor's fears that Holmes had undergone severe maltreatment or even abuse. After some very long minutes of silence, Watson's patience left him.
"Holmes, can you hear me?" he asked in a low and very calm voice.
Holmes didn't react to him directly, though his eyes briefly took in the room - but his gaze remained vacant and disinterested.
Watson waited but his friend made no further attempt to communicate.
"Holmes, look at me," he urged but it was like talking to an empty room.
It took all his might to just wait. He tried to read, but couldn't focus on the article in front of him. Five minutes later, he tried again.
"Hey. Can you hear me?"
When Holmes shook his head, the doctor frowned in confusion, but he was glad there finally was a reaction.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Certain'y. Another… episode of wishful thinkin'… m' mind 's making up," Holmes slurred and although the meaning of the stammered words broke John's heart, it was a relief to know that at least Holmes recognised him.
"What? Good God, no! It's me. I am real. We rescued you from the asylum," Watson gently protested.
"Chances 're 'm hallucinating you…" Holmes whispered and Watson's own face crumpled with worry about his insistence.
"No. I am here. We're in an inn. Bloody Portmann incarcerated you in the asylum under a false name. Lestrade is here, too… Can I come closer?"
"Do wha' you must… Might be m' last chance to… 'njoy your presence," Holmes muttered in a defeated tone. The words were barely understandable and it was so out of character for the detective to show this much desperation that Watson felt even more unsettled about what might have been done to his friend. Helplessly witnessing Holmes give up and abandon trust was frazzling him.
Watson slowly rose and stepped over to the bed. Holmes hadn't moved a muscle since waking up, which was odd. He remained still on his side in a foetal position, facing the room and Watson. Only his eyes moved. He looked completely jaded and still not fully there. It was no use, they needed to wait until the drugs were out of his system before meaningful communication would be possible.
Watson sat down on the far side of the bed and reached for Holmes outstretched wrist lying on the sheets. Holmes' gaze followed him and when he reached for the hand he didn't only place his fingertips on the pulse point, he picked the hand up. Holmes' elbow remained on the mattress but he allowed his pulse to be checked while he remained surprisingly limp.
"What happened? Do you know what they gave you?" Watson asked, trying to figure out a few more details.
"Proba'ly chloral hydrate, Indian hemp, Laudanum."
They wanted him compliant and weak, that much was clear.
The attitude about laudanum and substances made from poppy in general had changed in the last decade, although it seems in institutions they were still widely used. Overall, medical practitioners have started to recognised how addictive opium derivatives are and its sales were a topic of constant discussion in pharmaceutical circles. Just a few days ago Watson had read an article how the - soon to come into action - pharmacy act would affect its sales. Some wanted more restrictions and regimentation, others (pharmacists who made a lot of money from it) were against that.
Almost a year ago, Holmes had decided to go without his frequent morphine or cocaine use and stay abstinent, a decision Watson had welcomed and supported. Inevitably, withdrawal had followed and it was dire. It also had renewed the doctor's aversion of the drug. Now they were back where they started, it seemed.
"You're safe now. You hear me? It's all right now!"
Holmes didn't react to the statement.
"Any pain?" the doctor asked, despite knowing he was, he wanted Holmes to interact with him and describe his ailments to get a better picture about what they were dealing with.
Apparently, Holmes was not ready to answer that - or did not want to go there because Watson didn't receive an answer to that, too.
"Alright, we need to speak about the laudanum. I can't risk you going into full withdrawal right now, so I'll give you regular doses and reduce them slowly."
The answering nod Holmes gave was barely visible, but it seemed every relief from his misery was welcome.
"I will order some broth and jelly for you."
"Please don't. Not hungry."
"Well, the lack of sustenance is making you weak and irritated. You'll feel much better once you have eaten. The food is good here – a lot better in the country than in London."
Watson ignited the lamp before he left the room to talk to Lestrade. The sun was setting and tinted the room with dark shadows. Giving Sherlock a moment to get used to the situation and the room in private might make things easier. He left the door open and knocked on Lestrade's door to ask him to order an evening meal before he returned.
.
Much to Watson's dismay, when the meal was delivered, Holmes refused to eat and drifted off again - but only after complaining about the smell.
An hour later tea was delivered and Watson woke Holmes up to drink some more. Until now, his friend had been pliant when something was poured down his throat, but this time, Holmes tensed up when Watson helped him into a sitting position. Without warning, Holmes lashed out and shoved the hands holding the teacup away. The content of the cup spilled over the blanket and the cup and saucer rolled over the bed before the cup fell over the edge and the fine china shattered on the floor. Watson reacted immediately and pulled the soiled blanket off Holmes legs.
Holmes on the other and didn't react, although the spilled liquid must have been hot at the side of his bare right thigh, the skin was reddening a bit.
Watson couldn't help but feel a hurt by his behaviour, but not alarmed. He had seen many patients lash out - physically and verbally - in situations like this.
Without further explanation Holmes rolled to his side, away from him and curled up. A clear sign that he did not value company at the moment. But Watson knew better than to leave Holmes to his own devices in a state like this. It would end in more trouble. He leaned close enough to eye the thigh carefully but found he had reacted fast enough. No burns, just a bit of a flush. Perhaps, it was better to not bother Holmes at the moment. It was better to just wait until his mood changed. So Watson returned to his writing.
.
Half an hour later Holmes' posture relaxed slightly and Watson hoped he was drifting off. It didn't last. Moments later, Holmes jerked back awake with an almost silent gasp.
The process repeated itself. Watson assumed that he was afraid he might wake up in his cell if he slept. Which meant he still doubted he had really been saved.
Although Holmes remained overall motionless, Watson noticed when it happened a third time a few minutes later.
Okay, enough was enough. It couldn't go on like this forever. Up to now, they were both prisoners of their recent experiences and therefore Watson was probably more careful than he should be. A change in tactics was needed.
Watson stepped over to the bed and tapped the mattress twice just in case Holmes hadn't noticed his approach. He fetched his bag and poured a small dose of laudanum into the small glass of water on the nightstand, then swirled it a bit for the liquids to mix and put it back on the bedside table.
"I need to check your leg, see how the infection is going," he announced and stepped to the foot end of the bed. Holmes' left thigh was less red than earlier, small mercies.
When Holmes didn't react, Watson reached for his pelvis to help him turn. He hoped that medical attention and it's necessary touches might ground his friend and reinstate some trust.
"Don't touch me," Holmes snarled.
"Yeah, I will touch you and I will take care of your leg," Watson stated and pulled his pelvis. Holmes fought him but didn't lash out, tried to roll back away from him. But Watson had none of it and pinned his thigh down gently. It wasn't the first time Holmes refused medical attention and in the past, it had mostly worked when Watson allowed his inner army doctor to take control.
"I will remove the bandage and apply a new one, now," he said and went to work. Holmes tried to pull the leg away and Watson reached for it to keep it in place. He didn't use force, he just made it clear that he would not yield.
Holmes jerked it out of his grip and moved away but Watson had none of it, he just went a step around the bed for it to be in reach again and started to undo the knot that held the bandage in place. He was well aware there was a real chance that Holmes might kick him and he stayed alert.
The leg was jerked away again and he again moved to adjust. A stifled kick was next, not one aimed at him, just one to stop him from touching.
It was a double edged sword this situation, Watson was aware of that. On one hand he needed Holmes to realise that he was safe and no longer at mercy of an institution that expected his obedience and was ready to use violence to make him pliant. On the other, he needed to take care of his health, even if Holmes was oversensitive to touch. It was his duty to do everything medically needed to help him. If things went into the direction of a full blown panic attack he would not urge to continue, everything else was a go ahead.
"No, we are not doing this. Stop that now and let me take care of that leg," Watson stated calmly and reached for him again while he carefully listened to Holmes' breathing.
His friend didn't kick again, just jerked his leg away and yelled, "Leave me alone!"
He was shaking now and Watson - much to his surprise - realised it was not from anxiety but anger. Good, it meant he shouldn't budge.
"No," he stated plainly.
"For heaven's sake! I don't want your help!"
"Why not?"
Baffled silence.
"You didn't deem me worth of helping earlier, so why now?" Holmes spat without looking at him.
There they were, though Watson was not sure what he had done wrong.
"I always deem you worthy of help Holmes and I can't remember ever doing anything that might make you think the opposite."
"I do. You weren't there. No one was there. No one cared if I lived or died. I know I am unbearable burden so don't bother to lie and tell me otherwise. Certainly, I do everything wrong and you loathe me for it."
Watson's breath froze in his chest. Horrified about his friend's implications he was lost for words for some long moments. The silence of the room only disturbed by both their agitated breaths.
"Good Lord, I don't think you are a burden and I never said so," Watson finally managed, his tone not as steady as he would have liked.
"You don't need to, it is rather obvious, isn't it?" Holmes hissed and finally turned to face him. "You didn't come, I was alone and at the mercy of him in that hospital." Holmes icily stared at him, which gave Watson the impression that he was missing a lot about what was really going on in his friend's head.
"Well, you are right. I wasn't there. I spent three bloody weeks trying to find you and it was not fast enough. I am very, very sorry. I wished I had been there sooner," Watson saw confusion on Holmes face but ignored it, he needed to get this out and therefore tried to stymie his own built up frustration. A moment later he wondered if maybe anger was what his friend needed right now. Holmes never lost control. Never lashed out. Contrary to popular current believes, it wasn't healthy to bottle up things and be a gentleman all the time. Holmes needed to get it out, feel things. Maybe it was just the volatile mixture of drugs and withdrawal that allowed things to reach the surface that normally wouldn't.
"I busted a gut trying to find you. Do you even know how hard it was? What I went through to do this? I am not proud of my belated detective work and the main reason we found you was your letter," he added in a furious - maybe even provocative - tone.
Instead of venting his anger and giving Watson more clues about his state of mind, Holmes clamped up and kept his silence.
"It is not obvious, though, why you conclude that I don't care or that you do everything wrong," Watson probed. "I couldn't have done it without the letter. I am not a genius. I need to be shoved into realising what was needed to be done and I am chastising myself for it," he continued.
He could a almost see the cogs in Holmes head start turning. As if he had realised he made a mistake and was trying to analyse it. Something was happening. Holmes' gaze lost focus and he could see the retreat. Unfortunately, the result was that Holmes started trembling again, not in anger any more, but in fear, which was so very unsettling to see.
"Talk to me!" Watson ordered, wishing he could manage to kick the man out of his head at least once.
What the hell made him like this?
Instead of answering, Holmes again just rolled away towards the wall and curled up.
"Right. The only thing that is burdening me is to see you suffer and being unable to help," Watson addressed his back and didn't hold back on the frustration that was leaking into his voice. "Someone has to take care of you when you can't or won't take care of yourself. I am happy to do it. It is my privilege and I will definitely not stand by while you suffer. You need to trust me and remember that anything I do, I do because I know you need it."
His speech seemed to have overwhelmed his friend, who remained unresponsive. Judging by Holmes' reaction it was better to give him some space, therefore Watson didn't insist on treating the wound.
They didn't speak for the next hour and Holmes' tension didn't leave him. Watson was torn between giving him some space by going down to have a midnight snack or stay with him so he knew he wasn't alone. Their confrontation has left him shaken and he was aware he was not as calm and collected as he should be - as Holmes needed him to be. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to leave the room.
.
It was past midnight when Lestrade brought a tray with bread, cheese and sliced meat. His eyes asked silently how they were doing, but all Watson could do was shake his head and shrug.
While he carried the tray over to the table on the opposite side of the room from the bed, Watson found his leg was hurting again and he couldn't prevent a subtle limp to show. When he turned back to the secretary he saw Holmes had turned around and was trying to reach for the glass of water containing the laudanum. Even though Watson was sure Holmes wouldn't manage to drink from it on his own, he didn't jump to help him.
"That's your next dose of laudanum," he simply said. Holmes actually looked at him but his gaze only told him he had stated the obvious.
Unsurprisingly, when Holmes tried to lift the glass to his lips, it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Another piece of inventory shattered on the floorboards.
Silently, Watson got up, fetched a new glass, poured a small amount of the drug into it, added as much water as the glass could safely hold, and sat on the bed, the glass in hand. If Holmes wanted the full dose he had to drink the entire glass. He needed liquids.
Holmes had sunken back into the cushions and his hands were clawing into the linens in frustration. He neither asked for help nor the drug, he just struggled with whatever was happening in his head in silence.
"Sit up for me," Watson ordered, no nonsense.
Without a supporting hand, it took Holmes three tries to work himself into a sitting position. The struggle left him paler than before and clearly feeling like shit. He was also back to evading eye contact.
Watson offered the glass with his left hand but didn't let go of it when Holmes wrapped both hands around it and brought it to his mouth. The fact that his eyes seemed glued to Watson's hand didn't escape the doctor's notice. While taking slow sips, his gaze checked where his right was and Watson made sure to keep it in sight and still. Obviously, something was unsettling Holmes, he looked less angry and more anxious now.
Then Holmes seemed to shove it away and focussed on gulping the liquid down greedily, either because he finally realised how thirsty he was or because the cravings had set in.
Once the glass was empty, Holmes let go of it and sank back. Carefully, Watson took it away and rested his free hand on the other man's shoulder. As expected, Holmes flinched.
"You are shaky because of the lack of nutrition and water," Watson stated, pretending not to have noticed that apparently, a hand near his head was unsettling for Holmes. "Eating would help you recover faster. You want some dinner?" He stood up and moved over to the tray. "There's bread and cheese and -"
"And if I don't, will you force me?" Holmes interrupted, his voice hoarse and full of venom.
Watson turned away to prevent him from seeing him close his eyes to collect himself.
Had they done that to his friend?
He rubbed his hand over his face.
God, he was tired.
"Of course not," he hurried to answer, well aware that his horror must be present in his voice.
It didn't take long until Holmes succumbed to the laudanum.
.
Sherlock woke some time later from a nightmare. Unfortunately, the laudanum didn't keep them away, quite the opposite, it made them worse.
He didn't open his eyes but could feel Watson's presence in the room. Their earlier confrontation came back to him immediately. In hindsight, he was shocked about the overwhelming anger he had felt. It was an emotion he rarely was plagued with and the depths of it had caught him off guard. Equally puzzling was the fact that its source was not clear to him.
For weeks, he had longed for Watson's presence, and now that he was here, he was refusing him. It had been Rubenstein who had planted the idea that he was an unbearable burden in his head… or maybe his own fear that manifested this way.
Additionally, Sherlock wasn't ready to believe his senses. The fear of waking up in a cell or a dingy cellar at any moment remained.
The presence and the tender touches of his friend were something that had always soothed and reassured him in the past, even if he was not ready to admit that out loud. Normally, John's mere presence was a guarantee that situations became less threatening, but now it was making things worse. One reason for that was that it felt unreal, as if his mind was mocking him for his need. Also, somehow he felt he didn't deserve the care - even of a virtual John. The cause for that escaped his mind, but there was something he couldn't grasp about it that made him recoil from remembering.
When John tried to help him sit up and then guided his trembling hands to hold the cup of sweet tea something boiled over in his mind.
Now Watson pretended to care, when it was too late because the damage had been done. He would never be able to forget feeling as alone and abandoned as he had in the past weeks. Even if anything returned to how it had been, his mind would never be the same. The shadow of the memories would stay with him and he would never be able to trust John like he had before. Once burned twice shy. The reason why he didn't trust people as a default setting was that he had learned that lesson in his youth and Mycroft never seized to remind him that caring was not an advantage.
Stupid, he had been so stupid to not heed that advice. He had trusted John.
Despite his own readiness to risk his life to save others, no one ever bothered to do the same for him. He was not worth saving. Most people just took, they never gave anything back. He had thought John was different, but recent events made him doubt his belief in that. John hadn't bothered to save him, he had almost died because of that. The part of him that was broken over this little fact - still vividly remembering how it had felt to realise he was not worth it - had exploded the moment Watson pretended to care.
Sherlock stayed still in the bed, struggling with his insights. Additionally, the remnants of the nightmare that had woken him lingered and made it all even more sinister. He tried to remember details of it. There had been a distinct horror about being held down in a bed. The absence of John was another aspect of the dream. John, who had not bothered to prevent him from being killed. It seemed to have been a major part of his dream and analysing it left him shaken.
Furthermore, there were glimpses of oddly furnished rooms again, of a Watson without the moustache, clad in odd garments. The hazy memory added new fuel to the smouldering panic and he couldn't stifle a little gasp. Deciphering what was a dream and what reality had become impossible. Sherlock still felt detached and the even without the fog of the drugs the situation felt surreal, as if he was still caught in a dream. On top of that, he was disgustingly weak, unable to defend himself should need arise.
"Bad dream?" Watson asked unnecessarily. He finally opened his eyes and noticed that someone had covered him with the blankets while he slept. The small gesture stirred up more and surprisingly strong sentiment but he couldn't decipher what it was or what it meant, just that it was unsettling.
He needed - wanted - Watson's care, badly. But for some reason couldn't endure it. It felt wrong.
Without warning Watson increased the light of the lamp and even lit up the other lamp on the nightstand.
"I have to check that leg," Watson informed him before flapping back the covers. The first try to do it had ended with Sherlock freaking out in anger. This time he would manage to keep it down, he decided. A storm of emotions he couldn't even start to name followed.
Vulnerable at John's mercy.
Enduring John's anger.
Full stop.
It was his own anger he tried to keep in check, not John's, wasn't it?
He raised his forearm over his eyes to get the little privacy it would provide, which had the additional advantage of blocking out the lights. The back of his hand came to rest against his left eyebrow and a stab of pain went through his forehead. He felt for it. There were stitches near the ridge of his brow.
Where did they come from?
He couldn't remember. For a brief moment he wanted to ask John about it but couldn't bring himself to do it for some reason.
Watson wordlessly changed the bandage. Another injury he didn't know the origin of. The pain in his leg had lessened, probably due to the opium plaster the doctor was renewing now. Watson took his time, especially when resting his hand on Sherlock's leg to feel for warmth that might indicate an infection. His touches were gentle and caring - more than usual - and something in Sherlock's mind hurt from the tender treatment, so much that tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He fought them, blinked furiously under his forearm.
He was forcing himself to give up control willingly like this. To trust someone with taking care of him had been a struggle all his life and after the recent events it was all too fresh and sore. Every touch felt like a violation and a threat. He couldn't help it. Once more touches were something to be avoided or endured, nothing that helped or even soothed. He longed for the latter and grieved about having lost what he had worked hard for - to experience touches from certain people as positive.
The tears started to flow and he was too exhausted to keep them back any longer. They remained unseen, though, hidden behind his forearm still covering his eyes. All he could do was keep his breathing even to not alert Watson to his distress.
Breathing deeply, the smell of the fabric hit him. It must be Watson's nightgown he was wearing. A sudden maelstrom of misery pulled him down into the void of self-hatred. His breathing hitched; he was unable to prevent it.
"Holmes?" Watson asked and he was able to hear the honest worry and uncertainty in the doctor's voice, which somehow renewed Sherlock's stamina to keep it together. He gulped and nodded, then cleared his throat and answered.
"Don't stop. Get it over with." His voice was rough and shaky, but Watson continued his work nevertheless. If he noticed his turmoil, he ignored it.
It felt like ages until the doctor was finally finished and covered him up again.
"You can have another small dose of laudanum if you feel you need it," Watson offered in a sympathetic tone that grated on Sherlock's nerves.
When he heard him turn away from the bed to fill another glass with water, he used the unobserved moment to wipe his eyes with the lose sleeve of the gown. Then he attacked his close eyes with his fingertips and rubbed violently to chase away the desperation and the headache that had suddenly appeared a few minutes ago.
Sherlock hummed in agreement and allowed John to help him to drink another glass of medicated water before he sank back into the cushions.
By the time he started to drift off, Watson had dimmed the lights again and returned to the secretary.
But like before, Sherlock jerked awake the moment he fell asleep, his heart pounding.
He felt the mattress dip when Watson sat down on the bed next to him.
"You can rest, Holmes. I'll be here when you wake up."
Sherlock stifled a remark about him understanding nothing. Much to his surprise, John placed a hand on his chest and put gentle pressure on it. All he wanted was to get up, get out of this godforsaken room and return to familiar surrounding to feel a hint of safeness again.
"No!" Sherlock protested, well aware his voice was leaking vulnerability that Watson would not miss. John didn't remove his hand and Sherlock was glad he didn't.
"Call a cab. I want to go back to London," Sherlock urged.
"Not happening. You are in no state to travel. We'll discuss our return tomorrow. Rest until then," Watson said in a calm voice.
Giving up, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close and tried to shove away the misery decisions made without his consent brought. On the other hand, in a situation like this, he should be able to rely on Watson. He was in two minds about it. It would be advisable to shove the feelings of abandonment and damaged trust away and forgive John in order to restore his trust in him.
So why was he (his transport?) resisting?
'There's always two of us.' Watson's words from the waterfall echoed through his mind.
He wanted that back, the reliance, the trust, them easily sharing a flat and solving cases.
Maybe he was denying himself this out of self loathing, an all too familiar set of mind, renewed by his time in the asylum. He should be able to get over it and accept help.
He always survived a fall, he had said it himself. But not without John, who was always there to pick up the pieces.
He drifted off and this time sleep took him. At some point he dreamt of Watson resting his hand on his brow and murmuring, "Relax, you are safe. I will watch over you. You can sleep."
A/N: Constructrive criticism welcome. Write a review and make my day.