Chapter Text
The morning rain still raged fiercely when their carriage came to a stop outside the cafe. With Mrs Hudson in the country for a few days, Holmes and Watson had taken to breakfasting at a nearby café. Neither having the skill nor will to get up early enough to struggle around pots, pans and heat - lest they end up burning down the entire street.
The two stepped into the warm building and set themselves by a window with a pleasant view of a dreary London street.
Their conversation took a rather pleasant route down an array of safe, yet meaningful subjects. Much like a Sunday afternoon carriage drive, taking the turns alow and languid. Through the lazy morning, Holmes was offered a glimpse of a future he dearly wished to keep hold of. Only a few years ago, Holmes knew for certain this sort of conversation, this sort of day would have bored him. But Watson had an ability to make almost everything interesting, and the detective felt certain he would be able to sit through an astronomy lecture and still enjoy his intonation and story-telling.
They’d just reminisced about their recent case when they were sorely interrupted.
“Mr Holmes!” the small rat-face Inspector grinned at them both as he walked in past a horrified waiter. The man was sopping wet, leaving a trail of water on the lovely carpet, Holmes had to stop himself from laughing.
“Lestrade!” he called, “Pleasant to see you here.”
“Likewise! Good morning to you as well, Doctor.”
“Good morning,” he replied with a bright smile. “Please sit down, is there anything we can do for you?”
Lestrade did just that, slopping into a chair, squeezing out more water onto the floor. The poor waiter was close to having a conniption, “An interesting little problem you might be able to help with.” At first, his heart leapt, a new case, a new problem! But Holmes felt some of his intrigue quite suddenly smothered by a burst of ire. He'd been enjoying this outing.
“Is that so?” he said, catching Watson’s eye to see only a shine of eagerness. All uncertainty died in that instant. If Watson was happy, then Holmes would be as well. “Please, do tell, Lestrade.”
With a bright smile, Lestrade leaned a little closer.
A short staircase took them down to a stuffy little room under the two-story house. There was a small window casting grey, faded light onto a desk, in front of which lay the body of an old man. “The place reeks of blood,” Holmes said, nose wrinkling against the tangy, metal smell.
“Well, there is quite a bit of blood, Mr Holmes.”
And there was. A large pool of it had crept out from under the deceased Mr Hendrickson, creating a massive puddle almost dead centre of the room. Holmes picked his way in, carefully avoiding the papers, pens, and over turned chair along with the blood. “You found no murder weapon?”
“None. No sign of entry or break-in either. And the front door is locked, as well as the back.”
“What do you make of it, Watson?”
His friend followed suit and carefully came around to kneel next to the body. “Nasty neck wound,” he said, “Looks like a jagged knife if the broken edges are anything to go by...” he paused, and leaned a little closer, “I'd say he bled out in less than thirty seconds,” and finally lifted on of the man’s stiff hands, “Death occurred no more than six hours ago.”
“Mmh...” Holmes moved around the room. No footmarks, no sign of a struggle, it appeared on the surface as if the poor man had committed suicide. But where was the weapon? Moving back to the body, he knelt down and carefully examined the right hand. It was covered in blood, but not the palm. If a man's throat is cut, he would grab at the wound in surprise, his whole hand would be full of blood...
He stood, “Where is our victim's dog?”
Lestrade stared at Holmes a full moment, “Outside in the yard, last I saw.”
Holmes smiled and walked up the stairs.
Ten minutes later the three walked back inside the house, Holmes quite smug, Lestrade a little confused, and Watson thoroughly bemused in turn.
“How on earth did you know?” Lestrade spun on Holmes, “There wasn't a dog mark to be found!”
Holmes laughed, “There were many clues! The inside of the man's hand had been clean. Indicating there had been something in the hand. The dog had picked up the ivory knife and used it as a chew toy. But sadly Mr. Hendrickson did commit suicide. Not a strange enough case for the Strand, eh Watson?”
He received no answer, only sharp heavy breathing.
The wash of dread almost floored him, sending a spike of pain right up his arm to his head. These sorts of reactions were sparse and far between, reserved for moments in his life when their lives hung in the balance. But at that moment, the dread was suffocating.
Watson was breathing sharp and fast, his hands planted over his ears as if trying to block out a horrible sound. His expression was one of pure agony. Holmes stepped closer, “Watson-”
“Don't touch him!”
He jumped away, his anger spiking as he spun on the Inspector.
“You'll make it worse.” Lestrade said quickly, eyes pinned on Watson, “Keep an eye on him, I'll ask the constable to send for a cab, and don't touch him!” he called, disappearing around the corner. Holmes turned back to his friend who was now taking hard deep breaths, but his eyes were still fast shut, and ears held closed, but Holmes could now see his teeth clenched.
Watson was scared. Clearly of some horrible sound, something only he could hear. A little dismayed, Holmes looked around the floor and hallway, hoping to see something that could have caused this reaction. But all he could see was their wet boot tracks, a bit of muck stuck to the carpet, and a few stains of a blood in the mud.
Inspector Lestrade returned just as Watson went down on his haunches, fingers now gripping his hair, as if ready to tear it out. Holmes knelt down with him, fingers interlaced and sitting right in front of him. He might not be able to fix this, but he wouldn't let him suffer alone.
A light hand touched his shoulders, which he ignored. “Give 'im some space, eh?”
Holmes turned to glare at the Inspector, but his expression was one of such absolute kindness and understanding it washed down some of his anger and (though he would never admit it) fear. Slowly he stood and allowed Lestrade to lead him only four paces away, no more.
If Watson should need him, he had to be close. “What is this?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as pleading as he felt, but Lestrade seemed to understand.
He shot him a hard look, his expression guarded and scrutinizing. Holmes stared back, he needed answers and the Inspector seemed to be the only one who would be willing to give them.
When Lestrade moved he removed his Inspector's coat, draped it over a nearby chair, and deliberately took out his badge and placed it on top of it. The message was clear; what we're discussing is personal, off the clock, and not something he will tolerate being mentioned beyond this day. Finally, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Holmes who gratefully took one.
“My Grandfather used to get it,” Lestrade said, and lit both of their cigarettes with a match. Shaking it out he took a long hefty drag and continued, “They call it Soldier's Heart, nice name for something so dreadful eh?” As if on cue, Watson gasped, both of them looked at him just as he started muttering in Arabic, “It's quite normal for the men coming back from the front line. They get stuck back in the war, and ya can't shake em back out.”
Watson was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, breaths still coming in fast.
“Is there anything one can do?”
“Not much. Short a putting him in Bedlam,” Lestrade took a long drag from his cigarette, “How many times has it happened?”
“Second time since I've met him.”
“That's not bad,” he took another drag, “My Grandfather used ta get it about twice a month.”
His heart sank, “Will Watson get worse?”
Lestrade shook his head, “No. I don't think so,” he eyed his cigarette before pressing it to his lips. “My grandfather was in the war for over twenty years, he got captured by the enemy a few times. And when he got back...” the smoke spilled out in a long-suffering sigh, “Let's just say he wasn't exactly welcome back with open arms.”
The sharp little gasps were slowing to deep hard breaths. The hands had slid from his scalp to the front of his face. Holmes could still hear faint muttering.
“Besides,” there was a faint smile in the Inspector's voice, “He lucked out with you, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes turned slowly back to him, carefully keeping his face blank. Lestrade seemed a little uneasy, and quickly crossed his arms, “The fact that ya didn't run at the first sign o' trouble is good enough for me.” he snubbed out his cigarette, “Not everyone is that lucky.” he pushed away from the wall. “Looks like it's over.”
And sure enough, Watson's shoulders had relaxed, his breathing had calmed and now he sat, hands around his head staring at the floor. Holmes shot over and knelt down next to him, touching his arm softly.
“I'll meet you out front,” and Lestrade was gone, but Holmes barely noticed, keeping his eyes focused on his friend, who refused to meet his eyes.
“Watson?”
He dropped his hands, but still refused to look at him.
Holmes held back a sigh, and instead reaffirmed his grip on his arm, “Let's go home.”
A sudden flash of pain was smothered by a curt nod, but he stood slowly and allowed Holmes to slide his hand into his arm and lead him to the front of the house. Before they even reached the front door, Watson suddenly stopped and slid out his hand. He nodded at Holmes, keeping his eyes low, and walked out with a firm stride.
Holmes followed with unsure steps. But information quickly prickled and popped in his mind like crackers. Of course, Watson was a man of pride, he did not wish to be seen as an invalid. Outside Watson was already climbing into the carriage. Holmes saw Lestrade and the Inspector smiled:
“Till next time, Mr Holmes!” Holmes would have to make a note to thank Lestrade for being so understanding and kind.
Inside the carriage, Watson kept his gaze studiously to the outside. Twice Holmes opened his mouth to speak, to say something and both times he fell silent. What could he say? He had no idea what Watson went through during those episodes, and he doubted his friend would want to speak with him about it. He'd made it clear he had no desire to speak of it.
When the cab stopped, Watson hopped out and went inside, leaving Holmes to pay for the fair. That was unlike his friend, but under the circumstances, Holmes wouldn't complain. Inside he heard the door to Watson's room slam shut and he sighed again.
Perhaps it was best if he just let his friend be for now.
The morning eased into a cool afternoon and then faded into a dreadfully cold evening. The thrill of solving a puzzle had died long ago, leaving him lethargic and introspective. His thoughts mulled over Watson's newest episode, what Lestrade had shared and what all of this meant for them. He couldn't deny that these episodes were... disturbing. He would also be a liar if he didn't admit they made him fear for his friend.
Bedlam. Such an outcome would be devastating, to lose such a comrade to such a horrible place. No, Holmes simply wouldn't allow it. A sudden bout of thunder pulled him from his thoughts, a sheet of rain washing over their city. Holmes turned to the clock and frowned; it was well past six in the evening. Although it certainly was not uncommon for Holmes to lose himself in his thoughts for so long, having Watson stay so cooped up was definitely something new.
He stood. The option weighed in his head, approach Watson or rather retire and give him the privacy he so clearly craved.
A good night's rest might be what he needed, perhaps if he'd retired early, he might avoid the nightmares altogether. There was no fact to go on this assumption, but for now, it was all he had. The small voice encouraging him to go upstairs and check on him was drowned out by logic, instinct had never been his strong suit.
Holmes went to bed and tried to ignore the trepidation building in his chest.
He woke sometime in the night. Something had disturbed him. Sitting up Holmes listened carefully in the darkness. Outside the rain had eased into a soft mist, no cabs or other traffic was running in the street, indicating quite a late hour, close to midnight perhaps even later.
Inside the house, it was dead quiet. Holmes stood and listened still, he walked to the landing, taking a candle on his way which he lit and went to stand just at the foot of the stairs to Watson's room. He listened, and swallowed, realizing his throat was tight.
There was a light on in the room, a halo of gold rimming the door. Heart in his throat Holmes hesitated again. His heart beating in his chest, uncertainty clawing in his gut, tearing up his insides. He desperately needed to do the right thing. He had to make sure he didn’t push Watson away.
Soldier’s Heart, Lestrade called it, such a strange thing to call such an ugly condition. Men who were shocked and hurt during their ordeal, men who struggled to forget the blood and pain from a warzone they’d ran into to help. And now they were left with no one to help them.
No medicine or surgery could help Watson. His soul could not be patched with bandages or healed up with salves. Holmes closed his eyes, all he could do was be there. With a steadying breath, he reached up and knocked.
There was no answer.
“Watson?” for a long moment he waited, hoping his friend would call him inside. But after a long moment, when no answer came again, he gently pushed open the door and pressed beyond the threshold and through that veil of selfish privacy.
His friend lay curled up on the bed, back to Holmes, his breathing quite ragged only serving to crack Holmes’ heart. With quiet steps he went over to Watson’s bed, noting the candle had been burning for some time. Placing his own next to it, he sat down on the bed.
“Was it another nightmare?”
No answer.
Holmes sighed again, then shifted. “Watson, you will forgive me for saying this. But things simply cannot continue as is –“
“I know.” He said, so softly Holmes thought he may have imagined it. But Watson turned, revealing a face drawn and pained. “I know Holmes, and I should have expected this sooner.” He smiled, but it seemed so frail, nothing but a bit of goodness holding it there, “I understand very well and I apologize for this… inconvenience. But I thank you nonetheless for at least trying so long.”
Holmes blinked, perfectly baffled, “Watson, forgive me, but what are you on about?”
“As you said,” he said, his smile dying and eyes now pinned to the colourful throw over his legs, “It cannot continue in this manner. My… problem, caused you issue today. On a case of all things!” Watson sighed, and wiped his face with a rough hand, “It would be better for me to leave, and give you the chance to find a more suitable rent partner.”
The words pierced ice-cold shock straight through him, freezing him to complete immobility. Faintly his ears were ringing. Watson wanted to leave. He wanted to up and go, the one thing he treasured now wanted to abandon him to his loneliness –
No, no, Watson did not want to leave, his mind quickly supplied, clues and demeanour and Watson’s despondency waving like red flags in his head. He only wished to leave because…
Because he did not wish to be a burden. The ice thawed a little, and Holmes couldn’t stop himself from leaning closer, to place a hand on his arm, “My dearest friend, you are quite mistaken, I do not wish for you to leave my side at all.”
Watson flicked his eyes up, a small whisper of hope shining in those orbs and all at once Holmes felt realisation dawn. Watson, his dear Watson somehow, cherished their friendship as acutely as Holmes did. Neither wished to lose the other. What a pair of fools they were. Now he chuckled, surprised that when he blinked a sting of tears burned his eyes. “You are my dearest friend, Watson. All I meant was that seeing as you suffer so, you would perhaps be willing to let me help you?”
Again, the eyes shot down to inspect the throw, but Holmes leaned in a little, hoping to catch his eye. His uncertainty at the action gnawing in his gut, it was purely instinct, but so far no action had proven to result in far worse consequences. He would risk it. “If you are worried that I would mind, do not even think it. If our roles were reversed, I am as certain the sun will dawn tomorrow, that you would only wish to do the same.”
Watson pressed a hand over his brow, hiding his eyes completely. “What of your cases…?”
Here Holmes squeezed his arm, coaxing Watson to look at him, his expression faintly haunted “Then we will handle it. You are my friend, and I …” cannot lose you. His throat tightened, refusing to relent those final words. But Watson, dear Watson understood completely and placed his calloused hand over Holmes’. His own face now gentler, the fear fleeing into a faraway place already forgotten.
“Thank you, Holmes.” And without another word, he reached forwards and pulled Holmes into his shoulder. Holmes instantly tensed, his entire body going rigid at the sudden contact. A hug. Dear God, when was the last time he’d received one? But Watson was warm, solid, and holding him just right. And so, a little unsure, he wrapped his arms around Watson in turn. His heart beating fiercely, but somehow feeling complete.
That night he would sit with his friend, rubbing his shoulder until Watson finally slept. And sure, enough Watson would have a better morning again, once again buying some good tobacco to share. It would become a bit of a ritual for them after his episodes.
Holmes still isn’t sure on many aspects of friendship – more often than not he blunders, but his Watson by his side, he is learning. And he is mightily grateful, Watson is still there to do just that.