Chapter Text
Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Watson
April 12th
After very nearly perishing on a sabbatical at Plodhu Bay, I was almost relieved to finally return to the gloom of London. I had accompanied Holmes with the intention of compelling him to get some rest and restore his failing health, preferably away from cases, but mischief had nevertheless found us.
In investigating a series of local murders, Holmes had seen fit to test a mysterious poison on the two of us. I had managed to drag him out of the deadly room before we succumbed, but it had left me shaken and his health worse than before. In truth, my own health was somewhat compromised, and no amount of time strolling round the clifftops fully aided in recovery.
We had been back in London for a week now, Holmes protesting that he was fully ready for action once again, but I had my doubts. Additionally, we had returned to relentless rain, which had been a plague on me ever since my injuries in Afghanistan, and this slowed my attempts to pry into Holmes’ condition.
One stormy day, when cruel winds threatened to snap the trees in two, I had only ventured out for a brief stroll to the Park before retreating back to our rooms. A cold rain lashed me on the way inside, and I sat beside the fire feeling immensely sorry for myself. My old wounds ached terribly, and the woozy sickness that had often plagued me these past decades set in. My limbs trembled, and I did not even have the strength to fetch a blanket for my lap. I felt as though I might faint.
The door banged open as I huddled in my armchair, and I glanced up in surprise to see the thin, keen figure of my companion dashing inside. “My dear Holmes, whatever are you doing back? I thought you were out investigating… something.”
I could not recall what, precisely. My head grew foggy when I was stricken by these bouts of exhaustion.
“I fear I have come to something of a dead end on my case,” Holmes said lightly, but I could see the perceptive, searching look he ran across me, and the faint worry lines that tugged at his expression. “I might have pursued another avenue, but as the barometric pressure forecasts continuing poor weather, I thought I might as well retreat.”
As he spoke, he shed his jacket and hat. He passed a quick hand over his face, dashing away rainwater, and then stood there for a brief moment breathing hard. He must have sprinted home.
Then he was off to the sofa with his usual speed, and returned with a thick, warm blanket. This he spread across my lap before casting a disapproving look at my boots. “You were out in this weather, my boy?”
“Only briefly, and before it started to rain. I had meant to come meet you.” The warm weight of the blanket soothed my own aches considerably, and I settled back with relief. “I fear I was not quite fast enough in returning, and got caught in the rain.”
“Tut tut! You must take better care of yourself,” Holmes said, seemingly without any awareness of his own hypocrisy. “I would not have you make yourself ill merely to keep me company as I watch over a storefront.”
There was an odd hitch to his words, hardly perceptible. I doubted that anyone other than I, who knew him best, would even have noticed.
“You are not feeling yourself either,” I said as he fussed over me. He had flung himself to his knees with his usual enthusiasm and was gently removing my boots. “And do not try to lie to me, Holmes. I know you too well. You are paler than usual, and out of breath. I don’t think it is just from running home.”
He gave me one of his sardonic smiles as he fetched my slippers from under the table beside my chair. “Ah! My Watson has developed a keen use for my methods. Yes, I am a little tired. No doubt it is the weather.”
I had my doubts about that as well, but the relief at having my warm slippers nearly overwhelmed me. I let out a shaky sigh of relief, leaning my head back against the cushion of my armchair. “My God, that feels better.”
“You are very cold?”
I admitted that I was, and Holmes stabbed enthusiastically at the fire before pulling on his dressing gown. He was moving more slowly as he tugged it into order, and had gone even more pale. He paused, holding onto the mantelpiece, and sank his chin upon his breast.
Concerned, I watched him. He was not merely damp from the rain, but sweating too. He took a few uneven breaths, swayed, and then wilted into his armchair as if almost in a faint.
“Holmes!” I straightened up at once, ignoring my own aches, and clutched at his thin arm. He did not respond to me, merely covered his eyes with one trembling hand. “Holmes, what is wrong?”
He waved his other hand at me, dismissive. “All right, Watson. I merely grew a little dizzy. As you correctly deduced, I am not quite feeling my best.”
“Is it the weather?” I did not feel quite well enough to stand, but I curled my fingers around his wrist and took his pulse. It was rapid, thready, even irregular. “When did you begin feeling ill?”
Holmes pressed his lips together. He lowered his hand at last, still trembling, and gazed into the fire. He looked troubled, unusually so. “I fear I have not been entirely honest with you, Watson.”
Despite my concern, I smiled. “I know.”
“Ah. You have truly become perceptive.” Holmes returned the smile, laying his hand across mine. “Or perhaps you always have been. This is your field of specialty, after all.”
“I am better suited for stitching up wounds,” I said ruefully. “My own illness has always eluded healing. I worry that you may be in a similar state, after all you have gone through. You have been sick for some time, and your condition does not seem to be improving.”
“Nonsense.” Holmes closed his eyes, leaning back. “This is just a little… inconvenience.”
“An inconvenience lasting some months? And you cannot deny that you have often had these bouts of illness before.”
“I was merely tired before our delightful sabbatical. This is no doubt the result of my mad experiment. Poisoning is hardly helpful for one’s health.” Holmes gave me a pained look. “I fear I may have wounded you terribly as well, Watson. I am much more troubled by that than my own fatigue.”
“I am not much more ill than I often am during storms.” I knew that Holmes would not be wholly reassured by that, but I could not be more convincing. “You were more than merely tired before our trip. Your health was crumbling, your nerves in tatters.”
Holmes gave a heavy sigh. He sat still for a moment longer, then rose and fetched the coffee pot. He sank back into the chair, shaking, his breaths uneven. “Admittedly, I have not been myself. But work is the best antidote to all ills, and I have much work to do.”
I could not prevail on him to truly rest, although he did at least remain in his armchair for most of the day. He was hard at work on his index, cross referencing it and adding new information. From time to time, he bowed his head and remained still for some minutes, looking profoundly sick.
My own fatigue was such that I could not bring myself to do anything other than page through newspapers or books, although I found my focus very much compromised. I was simply too tired to read, but also had no desire to go to bed. I was always a very light sleeper, and that trouble only worsened when I was in pain. I would hardly sleep at all tonight.
I nodded off for a time in my armchair, soothed by the steady turning of pages and occasional quiet murmurs from my companion. My dreams were disturbed, full of fears and horrors, the many times I had thought myself in danger of losing Holmes, from troubles on cases to finding his lonely Alpine-stock by Reichenbach Falls.
A more recent incident had just entered my dreams, Holmes’ face twisted in agony and horror as the poison nearly killed him, when I was roused by a hand on my shoulder. I jolted awake, gasping, and found Holmes leaning to me with a look of worry.
“My dear Watson,” he murmured, hand trembling slightly upon my arm. “You were whimpering.”
“I am sorry for troubling you.”
“That is very much not my point.” He raised his hand to gently touch my cheek, frowning. “You, too, are more ill than you let on. Have you been often suffering from such dreams?”
“Not too often.” Nightmares had intermittently plagued me for all of our time together. It was only the nature of them that had changed, from dreams of war to dreams of something happening to Holmes. “I am all right.”
“Tut tut, Doctor. You would, and have, rightly chastised me for such a claim.” Still frowning, Holmes rose. He wobbled, catching my chair to steady himself, and I instinctively clutched at his arm. At once, he gave me a small sardonic smile. “Ah! And now you see I cannot make that claim myself so soon after scolding you.”
“You are dizzy?” I asked, eager to distract myself from the dream even if this was hardly a more pleasant topic.
“I fear I have been somewhat unsteady of late, yes.” Holmes glanced at the window as he poured brandy. He brought me back a glass, then stood back with his hands in his pockets and his chin sunk to his breast as he gazed at me. “I think we should have a little dinner, Watson. And then perhaps it ought to be an early night for both of us. In this instance, perhaps sleep is the better antidote.”
I agreed, and he rang for dinner. But when I tried to rise, my limbs would not support me, and I slumped back with a gasp. My heart raced, and I found myself all the dizzier.
“Dear me! Dear me!” Holmes caught my hand and held it as I struggled for breath. It was as if there was a terrible pressure on my chest, and my temples throbbed with pain. “Now, that will not do at all! Have you eaten enough today?”
I gave him an incredulous look, for he had often driven himself for many hours or even days without eating at all. He had fainted in my arms not two months ago, when all this began. “I have eaten plenty. Just… let me catch my breath, and then—”
“Tut tut!” he cried impatiently, pushing me back into my armchair as I tried to straighten. “I will not hear of you attempting to stand until you have had your dinner. Let me tend to you.”
I knew better to argue with him, although it vexed me to sit by and rest while he was sick as well. Each time I tried to help, he made an impatient noise and gently pushed my hand away from whatever I had attempted to touch.
“There, there. That shall do it.” Holmes patted my arm, then bent to kiss my brow. He made a little noise of dismay, drew his handkerchief, and dabbed at my face. “You are sweating. Are you in much pain?”
“No more than is to be expected.” I leaned into his tender touch, moved by his concern. “Do not worry, my dear fellow. I will be all right.”
But by the time we finished eating, I only felt worse, my head spinning and stomach upset. Holmes fussed over me, although I could see that his hands were trembling, and he was paler than ever. Still, he smiled, watching me attentively.
“I am ready to sleep,” I admitted at last. The gas lamps glowed outside the blinds, but this was much, much earlier than Holmes and I usually retired. On the whole, we kept late hours. “I do not think I can keep my eyes open for much longer. Do you mean to eat any more?”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders, prodding at a remaining piece of bread and butter. “I was only a little hungry. I will be fine.”
I gave him a hard look, and he indulgently patted my arm before picking up the bread. He eyed it for a moment, then ate without much enthusiasm.
Perhaps naively, I had hoped to feel well enough to rise without aid after eating. But I felt as weak as before, and had to rely on both my stick and Holmes’ arm to stand and make my way to bed.
“‘Pon my word, Watson, I have never seen you so ill,” he said anxiously as I leaned on him. “I really think this is all my fault. If not merely for poisoning you, then perhaps for the awful fright I administered by nearly perishing myself. I know full well the horrors I have subjected you to before.”
“I have been this ill before,” I reassured him, “but I ordinarily lie about and don’t move so much. I will be fine after a good night’s rest.”
I was half asleep already by the time he helped me lie down. And although I had intended to ask him to join me—we frequently shared a bed—I could not quite find the energy. I merely curled up in bed as he covered me with blankets, smoothed my hair, and finally pressed a tender kiss to my brow. With such care, I would surely sleep well.