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As was too often the case, I awoke with my hands in fists, my bedclothes drenched with sweat, and my jaw clenched tight against a scream of pain that I dared not set loose.
Sometimes, I nearly gave in to the urge to scream. But always, I feared that if I began to scream or even to truly weep, I might never stop.
Blinking away the tears, I forced myself to relax. But even as I released the tension in my muscles so as not to worsen the lingering pain in my shoulder and leg, the battlefield encompassed the whole of my world. The screams of my wounded patients, the blood slicking my hands, the smell of gunpowder.
It seemed as real as the day I’d been shot, and I was helpless to find my way back out. I tensed again, and it faded, but the illusion of battle still fogged my mind. To my horror, I found myself incapable of movement.
A hard knock on my door intruded into the reverie. I inhaled sharply, endeavored to collect myself, and called out, “Yes, Holmes?”
He did not open my door, for which I was grateful. I had not yet managed to bring myself under control, and tears dampened my cheeks. “I have a desire for a strong brandy, Watson. Are you awake?”
If I hadn’t been, his knock on the door certainly would have shattered my sleep. It had not been a subtle knock. Even in my current state, I managed a small smile. “I regret that I am indeed awake.”
“Don’t regret it too much. I shall be glad of your company.”
With a trembling hand, I dried the tears on my cheeks and struggled to rise. My old wounds ached more sharply than usual, and I limped as I crossed the room. Shivering, I wrapped myself in a thick, warm dressing gown and joined Holmes.
He waved me to the sofa with a kindly look, and I sank into it with relief. My hands still trembled, and I folded them together in a transparent attempt to hide the unsteadiness.
But while Holmes—as ceaselessly perceptive as he is—no doubt saw through my ploy without even the slightest effort of his brilliant mind, he courteously neglected to mention it. He merely set the already poured glass on the table beside me, and busied himself with pouring his own while I clutched at mine and attempted not to drop it.
It felt as if a train was sitting on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. I attempted to draw breath, but was unable to. The battlefield still held me captive.
“I wonder whether you’d like anything besides the brandy.” Holmes’ familiar voice again drew me back, at least partially. He sat beside me, watching me with those keen eyes. “You ate very little earlier. Perhaps a light meal now would aid in the search for sleep?”
Even in my current state, I had to smile at the question. Ordinarily, I was the one attempting to persuade my dear friend to eat something rather than chasing after the next case like an overly dedicated hound. “How odd to have you fussing at me over my eating habits! You, who so often neglect yourself entirely.”
“I am accustomed to doing without. My work often provides sustenance enough to neglect an occasional dinner.” Holmes fell silent, staring almost moodily at the brandy in his thin hand.
It wasn’t the ordinary silence between us, comfortable and serene. I was in battle with my mind and the barrage of memories, while Holmes seemed engaged in his own struggle. He had no doubt correctly identified everything that haunted me. My own powers of reasoning, weakened as they were right now, could not begin to guess as to what occupied his mind.
A few minutes passed. I drank my brandy, then gazed into the empty glass. The heat of the alcohol flushed through my body, relieving some of the chill, but my mind remained in turmoil. Would I never recover from this? Was I always to suffer these terrible dreams?
Beside me, Holmes inhaled in a slightly different way, a way that announced he’d come to a decision. I automatically shifted my focus to him, looking up.
And for a moment, I glimpsed the pain on his face, the grief at seeing me so disturbed.
Quickly, I averted my gaze. I had no wish to grieve him. I thought it might have been better if I’d stayed in my room, frozen, rather than disturb his oft-precarious equilibrium.
But before I could even think of withdrawing to my room, Holmes settled a hand across mine. “My dear Watson, I hope that you feel at home here.”
I looked to him again, startled by the odd comment. “I fail to see how I could feel any other way. In all the time I’ve lived here, you’ve never made me feel as if I’m an imposition on your way of life.”
“The opposite, I hope. Your company is of greatest value to me, and I know I can rely on you even under the most taxing circumstances.” Again, Holmes hesitated in a manner most unlike him. After a brief moment, he pressed on. “But it is my wish that you know you may rely on me. And I fear I may have given you cause to doubt me.”
“Doubt you?” I readied myself to protest. “Why, I…”
He raised an eyebrow, and this time I was the one who hesitated. I did not doubt Holmes, precisely, but it was indisputable that I refused to rely on him on this matter, a matter which troubled me greatly. Whether due to a worry of impeding his work, unsettling his finely tuned mind, or because of his discomfort with the gentler feelings, I did not know.
“Ah, there. I see I was correct,” he said softly. He clasped my hand, holding it in a steady grasp. “I do not intend to inquire as to the nature of your affliction. I can read it most easily.”
I did manage a weak smile at that. “I assumed as much. I fear I have been poor company these past weeks.”
“Never,” Holmes said, so firmly that I could not doubt him. “I hope, though, that my disclosure of this fact will encourage you to rely on me as I do on you. I am at your disposal, Watson, even if I can merely sit with you.”
I opened my mouth to reply, perhaps in reassurance, but found myself entirely strangled by a flood of emotion. It was as if everything I had fought to restrain was attempting to burst out all at once. For a moment, I feared I might shatter under the pressure of so much fear, so much pain.
But Holmes was beside me, his hand steady even as mine shook violently. My tears escaped, dripping to my lap, soaking into my dressing gown. Even a few quiet, exhausted sobs slipped out.
I could not have borne conversation or words of solace. Holmes, sensing this with that uncanny ability of his, remained still and silent beside me. He merely stayed, allowing me to take comfort from his presence through the onslaught of distress.
Even now, I felt as though the weeping might never stop now that I had surrendered to it. But with Holmes right here, supporting me, I knew I could endure.