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It is a perfectly normal morning at Baker Street, apart from three unusual things; the first is that Holmes wakes up unable to speak. He discovers this when, feeling cheerful, he attempts to sing a snippet of Vivaldi while getting dressed and nothing comes out of his mouth.
Hmm. His mood quickly sours. This is not a new occurrence, but he would much prefer some sort of warning from his body when it does happen. Greeting the day voiceless, with no idea when it will come back, is entirely disagreeable.
The second unusual thing, he notices when the mantelpiece clock is approaching nine and Watson still has not appeared for breakfast. Now, Holmes rising before his dear doctor is not in itself unusual, but Watson is usually up by now, if only to answer the call of his rumbling stomach. What could be keeping him?
Holmes abandons the piece of toast he's been nibbling while he reads the newspaper and heads upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. The door to Watson's room is closed, and there is no light peeking through the gap beneath it. He is likely still asleep then. This is not like him at all.
He knocks sharply on the door. From within comes a mumbled groan that might have been words, so Watson is at least conscious if not up and about. The plot thickens. Holmes knocks again, deliberately ignoring the feeling of something-is-wrong that's niggling at the back of his mind.
"Holmes?" Watson's voice is deeper in the mornings, a baritone timbre that makes him sound older than he is. Today, he also sounds exhausted. "Is that you?"
Holmes knocks twice in response. How aggravating it is that he cannot call through the door. He ought to get a window installed so Watson can see him.
No, no, don't be ridiculous. The man is entitled to his privacy.
"I see." Watson understands his predicament immediately - of course he does. "You can come in, dear. I didn't lock the door."
With a little trepidation, Holmes turns the handle and steps into the darkened room.
Here comes the third unusual thing; the curtains are drawn, the lamps are not lit, and Watson is lying in bed on his back. There is a distinct tang of sweat in the air. In the gloom, Holmes can just about make out that Watson has turned his head towards him, waiting for him to move. He crosses to the bedside and taps his fingernail against the rounded glass shade of the lamp, asking for permission.
"Go on," Watson says in that same weary tone. "I wouldn't mind a bit of light."
How strange. Frowning, Holmes lights the lamp.
Watson looks terrible. His face is pale, there are dark circles under his half-closed eyes, and he is clenching his jaw very tightly in apparent discomfort. Holmes puts the back of his hand to his forehead. His skin is cold and clammy.
Watson. Holmes taps the doctor's wrist urgently until he opens his eyes. Watson. What wrong? You ill?
"No, dear." Watson pats his hand. "Pain's quite bad today, is all."
Holmes raises his eyebrows at the obvious understatement. Isn't Watson always badgering him to say when something is wrong, to share if he feels unwell or something is bothering him and he's trying to hide it?
Watson is a proud man, not of his personal accomplishments per se, but of his ability to take care of others. He prides himself on being there when people need him, being what people need him to be, and as such he is sometimes liable to disregard what he needs for himself. Granted, it does not happen very often, but having been the subject of Watson's single-minded determination to make things better for over a decade, Holmes can tell when Watson is downplaying his own struggles for the sake of not upsetting him.
Holmes understands this, because he does the exact same thing.
Don't lie, he signs sternly, perching on the edge of the bed. You sleep?
Watson sighs, his shoulders sagging. "No," he admits. "Not a wink."
Can you get up? Walk?
"I haven't tried." Watson pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers as if warding off a headache. "I didn't want to risk it."
In case he fell, and was forced to suffer the indignities of not being able to stand without assistance. That in and of itself is not an indignity, but the doctor would take it personally regardless. Holmes twists his mouth in sympathy. Me can hear noise. Can help you.
"I know, dear, I know." Watson has his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I just..."
Holmes understands that, too. It is hard to admit defeat, to take the fact that your body will not obey you as it once did and face it head on until your mind finally accepts it as something other than failure. It is still, after all, often his first instinct to become frustrated with himself when his ability to speak eludes him as it does today. He is getting much better at avoiding that trap, though, thanks mostly to Watson’s influence.
Unable to articulate the reassurances he would like to shower over Watson until his face sports something other than its current miserable, hangdog expression, he reaches out and strokes his damp hair instead. You need what? he signs with his free hand.
"Oh, a working pair of legs." Watson huffs out a shaky laugh. "And a cup of tea. I think that would suit me nicely." He's trying to put on a brave face again, and though Holmes can see right through the act, he won't call him on it.
Now then. As brilliant as he is, Holmes is unfortunately incapable of conjuring up a functioning pair of legs, short of grabbing a shovel, donning a mask, and doing his best combined impersonations of both Burke and Hare and that would-be doctor from the well-thumbed copy of Frankenstein that Watson enjoys so much.
On the other hand, he can make a reasonable cup of tea – it is only chemistry, after all – certainly good enough to pass muster with the doctor, but there is still a pot downstairs under the cosy and the contents are still warm, and so he will avail himself of those instead. He is loathe to set foot in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen without permission, and equally reluctant to attempt making Watson’s drink with only the help of a Bunsen burner.
He kisses his dear friend’s cheek, then stands up and stretches. The purpose of the day has changed. He had no appointments, no clients visiting that he was aware of, but anything else he might have done has fallen by the wayside in favour of taking care of his Watson. He may be a terrible patient when the occasion calls for it, and still not much of a doctor though he has attempted to learn as much as he can, but he will do his best.
With quick, nimble movements, he takes off his jacket, removes his cuffs, and rolls up his sleeves.
"What are you doing?" Watson asks. He tries to sit up and grunts in agony, collapsing back onto the bed.
Holmes spins around and leans over him, eyes flicking this way and that, checking he's alright. Stay, stay, he urges. Me look after you. Don't try say no.
"But, Holmes…"
He taps Watson’s lips with one finger, signs insistently with his other hand. Not. One. Word.
Watson has a very odd expression on his face; guilt, affection, and sheer stubbornness have turned his features into a battlefield, warring for supremacy. Affection, it seems, comes out the victor, and his face finally relaxes. “Very well,” he sighs at last, Holmes’s fingertip being merely representational of shushing rather than actively preventing him from saying anything. “Though I’m afraid I cannot face the stairs.”
Holmes can, thankfully, and he takes them downward one at a time. Heaven forbid he fall and render both of them incapacitated and miserable. He bustles about the living room, trying to think of things Watson will appreciate when his movements are so limited; tea, toast – cold and limp at this hour of the morning, but he must eat, mustn’t he, as he is always saying to him – and something to read. The papers, then, along with one of his yellowbacks for a change of pace.
Can he chance it with the laudanum? It is not morphine, he would not consider giving him morphine. There is none in the house anyway. Holmes hesitates. He eventually takes it, resolving to offer it to Watson and see what he would like to do. He will not insist upon it.
What else? He stands in the centre of the living room, balancing on one spread hand a tray full of items that even Lestrade could deduce were about to be delivered to a bedbound patient, but he feels something is still missing. There is more he can be doing here.
Had he a voice to use, he would talk endlessly to Watson, soothe him with his words. He happens to know exactly the pitch and cadence which can lull his companion to sleep through a long soliloquy – no, a monologue, for the doctor is not only a captive audience but a fellow player on the stage alongside him, of course – on the textural variations between certain types of paper derived from differing sources on the Continent, or the merits of each movement of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor…
Oh, of course. That’s what it is.
Thus equipped, Holmes returns upstairs and nudges Watson’s door open with his elbow. The lamp is still lit and doctor has not moved, as is to be expected. His face is screwed up in a grimace.
Aside from the fact that Holmes is extraordinarily good at reading people’s faces, the doctor is a very expressive sort of man. Even when he is deliberately schooling his features into neutrality, that only makes it clearer that he is experiencing an emotion he considers to be unbecoming of the situation.
It is very clear he is in terrible pain, and Holmes’s heart breaks a little at the sight.
He crosses the room, stepping with more force than usual so Watson can hear that he’s there. He lays his violin case on the floor and carefully places the laden tray onto the bedside table. The rattle of the teacup in its saucer makes Watson open his eyes.
“Hello,” he says. His words are laced with agony and strain. “I thought you’d be gone longer.”
Hence why he’d allowed a modicum of his discomfort to show on his face. Holmes huffs in lieu of verbally admonishing him. He brings finger and thumb up to his nose, as if pinching the tip, then points at Watson, and lowers both hands, palms down. Can you sit?
Watson ponders this for a moment. “I think I might, if you’re willing to help me.”
As if he has to ask.
It is a slow and laborious process, though Holmes moves him as gently as he can. Every shift, every motion, is enough to make Watson wince and grit his teeth and screw up his eyes. Not for the first time in his life does Holmes find himself wishing he had a physique that less resembled a lamppost. He would dearly love to be able to lift Watson up and carry him about as directed, but while he is admittedly stronger than he looks, alas, it is not to be.
Eventually the doctor is positioned relatively upright, both legs straight out in front of him and his back supported by pillows, and the next stage of caretaking can commence. Holmes begins to place things on the bed for him within easy reach; the newspapers, the book, the plate with two slices of cold buttered toast. The bread did not survive the buttering very well, but Watson can pick at it as he likes. Finally, he holds out the tea. Watson takes a grateful sip, then cradles the cup between his hands for warmth.
“I must say, Holmes,” he says, “your bedside manner is greatly improved these days. Perhaps, when cases are few and far between, we could go into practice together.”
It’s a rather feeble attempt at a joke, from a mind clouded by pain, but it is a joke nonetheless. Holmes will take it as a good sign. Only good nurse, he replies with a wry grin, when me quiet.
Watson snorts with laughter – regrettably so, as it quickly morphs into another groan of pain. Holmes is there at his side immediately, circling his fist on his chest. Sorry, sorry.
All of a sudden, Watson reaches out and wraps his fingers around Holmes’s fist, stopping the motion. “You mustn’t apologise,” he insists. “This isn’t because of you. You could have easily left me alone up here to languish in the dark until I felt capable of walking again, and you have not. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had, mind. You are doing all you can, Holmes, and I appreciate every bit of it except your insistence on martyring yourself.”
It's the most he’s said all morning, and the little speech appears to take all his breath away. Poor, dear Watson. He may have left the war behind, but it will never do the same to him.
Holmes takes his time with his signing. You know. Me want help. Never leave you alone. He actually feels mildly offended that Watson has entertained such a notion. Does he really consider himself such an inconvenience? Does he really think Holmes would go about his day as normal, knowing his dearest friend was suffering?
He shakes his head and points to himself emphatically, using repeated gestures and raised eyebrows to convey what he cannot through tone of voice. Me. M-A-R-T-Y-R? You. Same. Remember me here, please.
Watson chuckles at this and gives him a wan smile. “That’s fair enough, dear boy. I do find my mind turns melancholic far more easily on days like this. Forgive me.”
Forgotten. It isn’t, and they both know it isn’t, but they also both recognise the need to move the conversation on. Now eat. Holmes waits until Watson has picked up a limp piece of toast and taken a bite before he stands up again.
“Holmes, what are you –” Watson turns his head and follows Holmes’s movements with his eyes, then settles back against the pillows again. “Ah. I see.” He sounds pleased and embarrassed in equal measure, and it lends quite a lovely quality to his weary voice that Holmes tucks the sound away in his mind, making a mental note to see how he can replicate it another time.
Shoeless, jacket-less, cuffless, cravat-less – for a man is entitled to such things under his own roof, or at least the roof of his landlady – Holmes nevertheless picks up his violin and tucks it under his chin with all the grace and finesse of a tuxedoed concert soloist performing at the Royal Albert Hall. This morning, however, his is an audience of one, in a small and neatly furnished bedroom on the top floor of a house in Baker Street.
For the next hour, perhaps more, everything Holmes wants to say aloud is instead expressed through his violin, with his fingers and strings and well-placed strikes of his bow. He speaks of pain, sadness, and grief for what has been lost, in soft and sweet minor keys that ache with wistfulness. He speaks with bright trills and glissando flourishes of companionship, joy, the feeling of having somebody around who understands you entirely and would never ask for what you could not give them.
He speaks, quite frankly, of Watson, and all that he means to him. Perhaps it could be called a serenade; it is an ode to love, after all, not of the romantic kind but of something else both inexplicable and irreplaceable.
The music may be complex, but the emotions that propel it are very simple indeed.
When Holmes draws his bow across the strings for the final time and holds it aloft, the bedroom settling into silence once more, he opens his eyes. When did he close them? He isn’t entirely sure. He blinks a few times and looks towards the bed.
Watson is staring at him with a rapturous expression, which is infinitely preferable to any sort of pain. The pain, of course, will not have been driven away through the power of music alone – nothing so fanciful – but the plan of distraction has succeeded. He takes a bow.
“Bravo,” Watson whispers. “Bravo, indeed, my dear.”
Holmes beams at him before setting his violin back in its case. He may play it again later, if his doctor wishes. Along with lengthy monologues, his music has also proven to be very effective at helping Watson sleep.
“Come here.” His friend is reaching for him. “Please.”
He moves immediately to take Watson’s hand and squeeze his fingers. You alright?
“No.” Watson rubs his eyes with his other hand. “I am in an awful lot of pain, dear, sleep continues to elude me, and I find myself once again contemplating the baffling nature of the world.”
Confused at this line of thought, Holmes frowns, and releases his hand so he can sign back to him. You. Mean. What?
“I mean to say,” the doctor responds, “that I wonder how it is possible for a man such as myself has found a partner such as you. Supremely intelligent, occasionally aggravating, unfairly talented, singularly dedicated to justice, deeply caring, and able to make a decent cup of tea. It boggles the mind. Though the toast leaves rather a lot to be desired.”
Holmes is a very pale man, and so when he blushes – as he is doing now – it is impossible to hide it. He purses his lips as he feels his face flush pink. For at least ten seconds he has absolutely no idea what to say, and finally he settles on, me not make toast.
“There you are then.” Watson shakes his head fondly. “Even that cannot be held against you. Look at me – how ever am I meant to compare?”
Without thinking, Holmes slaps him on the wrist. Sometimes such gestures are easier than trying to convey his thoughts with signs and finger-spelling; a certain amount of sign language is universal, in a way.
Watson gasps, smiling despite everything his body is going through. “What was that for? I just told you I’m in a lot of pain, and here you are, smacking me about. Honestly.”
Holmes draws his right hand down the front of his face, parallel to his nose. Sad. He spells the next word. M-E-L-A-N-C-H-O-L-Y. Stop it. He crosses his palms over his chest as an affectionate afterthought. Dear.
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry, my dear fellow. Thank you for catching me, though I am afraid I must continue.” Watson leans back into the pillows and picks up Holmes’s hand, turning it over and back, playing absently with his fingers. He lowers his head and addresses the hand instead of Holmes’s face. “It is difficult, you know. There are days when I feel perfectly well, able to walk about town for hours or chase down a criminal. I enjoy those days. But I am soon reminded, by strain, exhaustion, or inclement weather, that I am not the man I used to be. I cannot keep up with you.” He clears his throat. “It scares me. In my darkest moments, when I cannot rest at night and every shadow on my wall is reaching for me, I worry that you might leave me behind when I have proven one too many times how useless I can become. And so, we return to the baffling nature of the world. I do not understand why you are still with me.”
Oh, Watson.
Very gently, Holmes extricates himself from his friend’s grasp and cups his cheek with one hand. He is relieved to note that the doctor’s skin isn’t as cold as it was. Look at me, he begs. Please. Look at me.
Watson does, silent.
Holmes lets him go so he can use both hands, though his fingertips linger on his face. He wishes fervently that his voice would return, but there is something to be said for the simple sincerity of expressing himself this way instead. He can ensure nothing will be misinterpreted. You wonderful. My best friend. My partner, my companion. Fantastic doctor. Brave man. Kind man. Me talk, me talk lots, you listen. Me...not me without you. You can’t – he pauses, unsure how to sign “keep up”, and settles for “follow” instead – follow me, me go slow. Me stop. Me not leave you.
Watson looks like he might be about to cry, whether from immense pain or emotion or both, it isn’t clear. Either way, he does not say a word.
Nibbling his bottom lip, Holmes reaches for the tray resting on the bedside table and picks up the laudanum. You need? Pain bad?
“No, no, not that.” Watson takes a gasping breath. “Just…just you, dear. Come here.”
There is space beside him on the bed, so Holmes goes to him, stretches out long and lean by his side and holds his hand again. Watson rests his head on his shoulder and lets out a sigh of relief.
“You don’t have to stay up here all day,” he whispers, and before Holmes can interject in any way he holds up a finger. “You don’t, if you’d like to go out or sit downstairs, or anything else. I won’t mind. But I do appreciate the company very much.”
Then there is no choice to be made. Holmes tilts his head so he can kiss the doctor’s brow, and they settle down for the day.