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“Holmes.”
Watson’s soft voice is a solace in a confusing, frightening fantasy. The noise in his head recedes but pain throbs and his ears ring like a hundred hammers on a hundred anvils.
“Holmes, I know you can hear me.”
He whimpers and shudders. A blanket is tucked around his chin.
“Oh my dear, my dear. I know it hurts but you’re going to pull through. Drink this.”
Holmes shakes his head but Watson accepts no refusal. A strong arm supports narrow shoulders and a cup is held to dry lips. He drinks. It’s tea, sugary and warm. Why is the cup empty already?
The cup rattles on its saucer. “I’ll get you some more. Can you suffer to sit up?”
Pillows feel cool on his back. His clammy hand covers his face. An anguished cry escapes nevertheless. Watson’s strong arms come around him once more.
“Do you remember what happened?” Silence, then a sigh. “I’ve deduced it. What if I tell you and you confirm one or two minor points?”
Holmes gives the slightest huff of reluctant amusement.
Watson scoffs back. “You always laugh when I apply your methods. Usually it’s irritating, but this time I’m glad.”
More tea, slowly sipped this time. Holmes clasps the cup shakily.
“Tell me where I go wrong, Holmes. And I hope to God that I am wrong.”
Nod.
“You were having a seizure. Pulse abnormally rapid. Pouring sweat. Your hypodermic was on the floor nearby. I conclude that by accident or design you took too much cocaine.”
Nod.
“You have been suffering particularly badly from your black moods recently, Holmes. I conclude—” Watson bit off the word. “I fear. I fear that you intended a different outcome.”
A nod, a shake, a groan.
The arm around his back tightens a little. Something brushes his temple. A soft kiss, perhaps. “Your head hurts, I’ll wager.”
Another groan.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you anything stronger than tea.” Definitely a kiss this time. “Listen, Holmes, I know someone. A colleague. He has a… a facility. A hospital for people with… for people in your situation.”
Holmes’s chest tightens. Breath catches and won’t release. He wheezes and coughs and what remains of the tea spills on his chest.
“Don’t be afraid!” Watson’s warm hand takes the cup. “It’s not an asylum like they have here. I’ve seen pictures of it. It’s in Switzerland! The prettiest little chalet you could imagine.”
“No!” Holmes’s voice is weak and sounds pathetic inside his own head. Watson strokes his hair until he calms.
“It’s more like a hotel than a hospital. My dear, think of it as an extended holiday. You need rest and good food and clean air and… and diversions. You can have your violin and some books and we can go sightseeing.” Watson’s voice takes on a cajoling tone. “I’m told there’s a rather dramatic waterfall nearby.”
Holmes lets his head sink onto Watson’s shoulder. He closes his eyes against the daylight slanting through the gap in the curtains. He sheds silent tears.
With effort, his voice is stronger. “Stop meddling. Leave me be.”
“Absolutely not, my dear.” Watson’s handkerchief feels soft on his face. “I asked Mrs Hudson to telegraph my colleague to let him know we’re both coming for a month at least. I’ll stay there with you for as long as I can. I’ve always fancied a trip to the Alps.”
Holmes looks up, lips drawn tight and bloodless, eyes unnaturally dark and sunken even for him. “You’ll have to tell my brother the truth. What will you tell everyone else?”
A reassuring smile. Holmes reaches up to stroke Watson’s cheek.
“I’ll think of something for my readers,” Watson says. “The story of Sherlock Holmes will be suitably heroic. This won’t be how it ends.”