Chapter Text
“Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars.”
--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
“Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.”
--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
“...he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.”
--The Return of Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
Darkness.
Stifling, oppressive darkness.
It surrounded him. Crashing in, wave after wave, thought after thought, indistinctly flitting at the edges of his mind. Nothing was clear, logical. A tornado roared inside of him. He had to get out. He had to escape, to distract himself from his confused and over-excited mind. But he could not. He could not. He could n—“
“My dear Holmes! I beg of you, please calm down!”
Sherlock Holmes felt a gentle touch on his tense forearm. He tried to release the pressure in his shoulders and took a deep, rattling breath.
“I-I am sorry, Watson,” he said unsteadily. “Forgive me for my outburst.”
“There is no need to apologize, my good man. I cannot fathom how much you must be suffering. You have every right to act however you wish. I just am worried about you, is all.”
Holmes tried to give a small smile in what he thought was his friend’s direction. “Thank you, Watson.” Holmes stood up slowly and rather uncertainly. “I am simply stuck in my own mind, with nothing to occupy me. Come, let us go out. I believe it is time.”
“Are you sure?” he heard Watson ask worriedly.
“Yes, exceedingly,” Holmes replied, grasping for the cane he thought he had left beside the settee. He found it and swept it in front of him as he made his way to the door of 221B. He heard Watson walk quickly to open the door.
“Here, take my arm,” the good Doctor said. Holmes reached out and lightly rested a long, thin hand on the Doctor’s forearm. Together, they made their way down the 17 steps.
Lestrade filtered in and out of Baker Street regularly in those terrible, early days. He brought cases he thought were easy, armchair-conundrums to appease the Once-Great Detective. Some of them transpired to be so. Lamentably, many of them contained some outré impediments that Lestrade had missed that would require a visit to the crime scene. When Lestrade presented a puzzle like this, Holmes would tense, infuriated, then curl into himself in a defeated, despondent manner. Once this happened, Watson would cast a pitying look at Lestrade and show him to the door.
One day, after another unsuccessful attempt at engaging the detective, Watson joined Lestrade in walking out the door. They paused to talk on the cobblestones outside of 221B.
“I am at a loss, Lestrade,” Watson began. “I know Holmes cannot last long in this state. It is tearing him apart! He hasn’t ate nor drank in three days.”
“I understand, Doctor,” Lestrade replied somberly. “This has to be unimaginably difficult for him.” He was suddenly seized with a righteous anger. “But why, of everything that could have happened, why did he have to lose his sight?”