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Chapter Text

In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to being touched publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all casual touch and friendly physical contact popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to escape the inevitable shoulder clasping or handshake from hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interest interesting material which had caused me initially of late years to lay very few of my genial touches or compassionate contacts upon his person records before the public. My participation in some of his physical touches — taking my arm, grasping my hand in the dark —  adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me.

- Excerpt from the notes of John H. Watson, under the heading “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”  

That Sherlock Holmes did not like being touched was something I had determined early in our friendship. My genial hand upon his shoulder would cause him to skitter away nervously for his pipe or some other distraction. A cautious hand upon his forearm would have him pulling his arm away to motion for me to remain quiet and stay where I was while he ventured forth alone. Inadvertently brushing hands when passing a drink would cause his mouth to twitch.  

He displayed no qualms about dispensing casual touches himself, going so far as to routinely take my arm when we were upon our walks, but I learned to restrain myself from initiating all but the heartiest of handshakes, which seemed to be his limit. Although I confess to being a bit hurt by his characteristic reticence, I marked it as one of the innumerable eccentricities that accompanied a mind as unique as his.   

When diagnosing his ailments, I often considered in my assessment how long he allowed my fingers to rest upon the near-translucent skin of his inner wrist to feel for his racing pulse, or if he would permit the back of my hand upon his forehead to determine if he was feverish. If he shook me off immediately or twisted away, that was a point in favour for his health. If he submitted to my examination without complaint — or worse yet, went so far as to ask me to attend to him or mend some mark of violence upon his person — I knew that I had cause for alarm and would ensure my examination was as thorough as he would permit.  

I have always felt a discomfort in being disrobed and prodded, discussing intimate details of my body and life with a fellow medico whom I shall no doubt one day see over card tables or whiskey glasses in an altogether different setting. I could easily see how Holmes would wish someone other than his flatmate, friend, and business partner to be the one to attend to him when faced with ill health, especially given how reluctant he was to admit any physical weakness in my presence. For this reason (along with another, which I shall refrain from lamenting so long as that beast lies sleeping), I referred Holmes to Dr. Moore Agar for all but those late-night sutures and quick plasters resulting from his various misadventures. 

I did not begrudge my friend his privacy if it meant that he was to be assured proper medical care when needed. For all the ways in which he failed to care for his body — lack of sleep, irregular eating habits, too much tobacco, his less-than savoury chemical habits — Holmes was a man of remarkable physical condition. The state of his mind when subjected to such a lifestyle, however, was another matter altogether.  

I have documented elsewhere his black moods and nervous exhaustion, but it is the breakdown of his constitution following his exertions in France this spring of which I now write. Although this period of rest resulted in not one, but two cases which have since made their way into my accounts, I set down the more personal events of this chapter, which are of little interest to the public, here for my own personal reminiscences. As needs must, the chronicled accounts of The Adventure of Devil’s Foot and The Adventure of the Reigate Squire have been somewhat artfully (I hope) manipulated to obscure the actual dates and full truth of the events of that time, which marked a turning point in all aspects of our lives. 

Winter had given way to spring, and Holmes had been in France for close upon two months, hard at work investigating a case involving such delicate political and financial issues that I had scarcely any notion of what the problem actually consisted. He had been summoned by his brother to look into the matter and I, of course, had offered what services I could provide by accompanying him. Holmes had politely declined to allow me to take part in the case and commenced packing amidst a flurry of scribbled telegram slips and letters canceling his involvement in all other affairs. I — less politely — voiced my consternation at being left behind and excluded from the adventure, feeling rather sorry for myself, as is my wont in deepest winter, and needing nothing so substantial as being tossed aside like yesterday’s paper to send me into a foul mood. Before that fateful telegram reporting that he lay ill in the Hotel Dulong, I had heard from him only once in the weeks he was away, a communication which came in the form of a one-line telegram some weeks prior letting me know he was faring well. This, I suspect, was a less than accurate report but I was no less surprised to receive the notice of his illness. 

It was from Dr. Agar, rather than my friend himself, that I received the news of Holmes’ invalidism in Lyon. While the brief telegram communicated little in the way of details, suggesting only that I come to Lyon as Holmes was ill, it served to elucidate much about my own sensibilities. Within twenty-four hours I had left my patients and their lingering winter maladies and was announcing myself at the hotel’s front desk, trying to make the hotel clerk understand that yes, I was a doctor there to see Holmes, but no, I was not that doctor, for they only had a record of Dr. Agar and Mycroft Holmes listed as contacts for Holmes.  

At last, I produced the telegram from Dr. Agar, which seemed to carry some weight, and I was shown to Holmes’ room. As I followed the manager down the hallway, despair twisting within my gut, I was discomfited that Holmes had not even deigned to provide the hotel with my name, lest a situation such as this very one occur while he was involved in what he knew to be a dangerous case.  

When I reached Holmes’ room, however, the sorry sight of him caused all feelings of frustration to disperse. I have witnessed him in various states of ill health, misuse, and injury, but never had I seen him so pale and listless as he appeared in Lyon. He lay in a state of semi-consciousness, fitful, with a sheen of perspiration upon his face and his hair clinging damply to his forehead. At once, I went to his bed and sat beside him, one hand clasping his wrist where his faint pulse beat laboriously. I placed the back of my hand against his forehead and his eyes finally seemed to focus on me. I do not think he knew that it was I who had entered his sickroom until that moment.  

Forgetting myself, I let my hand slide to his cheek, my thumb caressing the skin beside his pale lips. His trembling fingers came up to grasp my hand, but instead of pulling it away or recoiling from my touch, I was startled when he pressed my hand more firmly against his face. Turning to me, he sighed into the touch. His eyelids slid closed and both his breath and manner calmed.  

“Watson,” came his broken, ragged voice, “do take me home, please.”  

Whatever agitation I had felt moments before left me completely, along with my breath, and my heart felt as if it would break. I found my other hand carding though his damp locks, pushing them from his face, while he continued to clutch my hand. I watched, awed, as he faded back into sleep pressing my hand to his pale cheek all the while. In that moment I made my diagnosis that Holmes’ iron constitution had broken down completely.  

I spent two days by his side, coaxing him to eat and take water, hovering close lest he need something, and all the while troubled that Holmes never once pushed me away or flinched from my touch. I asked what Dr. Agar’s assessment had been and if he was to return to check on Holmes, but this was merely waved away. I offered to send for a French doctor, but he waved that suggestion away as well, insisting he would be fit to travel soon and that there was no need. Holmes’ sole comment upon his state was that he wished only to return with me to Baker Street as soon as possible. 

He reminded me of the soldiers I had served with, dead on their feet from sleep and exertion, pale and thin as ghosts, yet despite my hesitation Holmes was seated across from me in a private carriage upon the third day. He slept, curled into a contorted pose, the whole of the way back to London. When at last we pulled into the station, he allowed me to place my hand against his shoulder to assist him to his feet without complaint. 

Once back in our rooms, I helped him up the stairs and offered to assist him to bed. He brokered no argument. I aided him in removing his jacket and stood by his bed with one hand outstretched to receive his cuff, collar, studs, and cuff links, holding out his dressing gown with the other. When I made to leave, assuring him I would return with some broth, he surprised me with his request that I return with a book, for he wished me to read to him. Although I believe he was asleep before I reach the end of the first page, it was such a comfort to resume this commonplace ritual that I continued to read aloud until I too fell asleep, slumped in the chair I had pulled close to his bed. 

I awoke some hours later with a stiff neck and sore shoulder to find Holmes patting my knee and encouraging me to take myself off to bed in a soft voice. I insisted upon checking his pulse before taking any such action, and I was gratified to find that it was no longer weak and fluttery as it had been in France. As I held his cool wrist, he watched me closely before pronouncing in a dry tone that further assured me of his recovery, “If I promise not to die in the next four hours, will you believe that it is safe to leave me be? Please, go and rest, Watson.”   

The next morning, I sent a telegram to Dr. Agar informing him of Holmes’ return home and asking that he call to check in on him that afternoon. Holmes’ brows knit together when I informed him of the impending visit, but he acquiesced, going so far as to agree to take some broth before the man arrived. This was unnerving, for a compliant Holmes was a rare and disturbing thing.  

As I walked Dr. Agar to the door, thanking him for coming and asking if he might have any instructions for me, I could not help noticing a glint in his eye as we stood speaking upon the landing. He told me he did not think there was any serious concern to worry about, the lift of his eyebrow and his knowing look indicating that he knew exactly what ‘serious concern’ I worried about when it came to Holmes. He informed me that he had advised Holmes to cease all work and take total rest outside of London for some weeks until his full strength was restored.  

“I have no doubt you can find suitable accommodations for the two of you,” he said, taking up his hat. “I know that he will be in the best of hands, and I shouldn’t think you’d have any need for me, but a wire will find me, need be.” He turned to leave and was down two steps before I was able to find my voice.  

“What — you mean to say that he agreed?” I stammered, bewildered.  

“I rather think he’s looking forward to it,” said the doctor carelessly over his shoulder. “Good day, Dr. Watson.”  

Perplexed, I lost no time in writing out telegrams and letters, making plans before Holmes could return to himself and refuse to adhere to good sense — or worse yet, before a client or the Yard could come tapping at our door with a distraction he could not resist. And so, a cottage in Cornwall was secured for a proposed stay of six weeks. Holmes accepted this without complaint and only waved a dismissive hand when I carefully told him that we could return earlier or stay longer, as needed.  

He shuffled about in his slippers, wrapped in a blanket, making no other effort to assist in our preparations beside casting his long finger about his room to point to items he wished for me to pack. More disquieting, he made no efforts to hinder the preparations either. He had, I must admit, improved considerably since our return to London, but it was a milder and more subdued Holmes who boarded the train with me as we set out upon our journey to Cornwall.  

I will spend little time recounting the first weeks in Poldhu Bay. I have recorded that Holmes spent his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the lonely dun-colored moor and fell into a study of the ancient Chaldean language, amassing a collection of books upon philology from the vicarage and recounting to me discourses upon Phoenician tin traders while out upon our afternoon rambles. Our days were quiet in that lonely place, and his health and mood continued to improve. We fell into our easy companionable ways, although after two months apart and his jarring illness I could not help but treat him with more than the usual manner of deference, as though he was a precarious thing.  

I will spare even less time in recounting those events which have been recorded under the title The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot, languishing in my dispatch box for Holmes’ acquiescence for publication, and resume my tale upon the fateful afternoon in which he nearly killed us both with a dose of radix pedis diaboli. I do not wish to dwell too much upon the now-blessedly-faded memories of those horrible visions but will pick up my story after the exit of Dr. Sterndale, when our little cottage had been sufficiently aired, and we returned for brandy and pipes.  

The effects of the poison had left me sensitive and on edge. There was a mercurial quality that seemed to hang about me as if my emotions were just below the surface — as if I could fly into a rage or a fit of hysteromania if I did not keep a check upon myself. Apart from a mild headache, I did not feel overly troubled about the effects to my personal health, for I knew my constitution and mind to be hale. I was, however, concerned for Holmes. His black mood and recent exhaustion were but a trace, but I knew his nervous and excitable nature was more prone to influence than my own and I feared a relapse into his old habits, or worse, some subtle and unknown reaction to this new drug.  

“May I?” I asked, setting a glass of brandy at his elbow insinuating my fingers into his cuff. “I know you are not fond of touch, but please allow me to satisfy myself as to your heart rate. We have no idea as to the long-term effects of that noxious poison and I’m concerned that you ingested a larger quantity — not to mention that you have not yet regained your full strength. Are you feeling any ill-effects?” I felt Holmes’ pulse beating steadily below my fingers and his gaze resting steadily upon my face.  

“Watson, I am fine. But I must ask you to quantify your deduction. By what means did you come to the conclusion that I disfavour being touched?” he asked, eyebrow raised. He observed me with the same look that he gave to overwrought clients, his countenance a combination of confusion and good humour. I released his wrist in favour of my drink and resumed my seat. 

“I don’t see how it’s a very difficult line of reasoning to follow, old man. Apart from when you are very sick, or else overwrought with exhaustion, you do not care to be touched. When you are yourself, you pull your hand away or deflect even the most innocuous touch. Surely, you are aware of this yourself and do not require an explanation of how I have observed the obvious, Holmes.”  

He gazed at me, his brows drawing together. He steepled his fingers under his chin and shifted his gaze to the fire.  

“Hmmm… Perhaps you have observed but come to the wrong conclusion,” he murmured, more to the fire than to me.  

I stared at him. He shook his head as if to be rid of a thought and reached for his pipe. 

I joined him at the other end of the small settee. The cozy sitting room was furnished with a settee and one rather uncomfortable armchair, preventing our usual Baker Street sitting arrangement before the fire. It was unlike Holmes to voice thoughts upon his own particularities. Not for the first time, I reflected upon the changes I saw in him since his collapse in Lyon.    

“Well, you may have my apologies, my dear man, if I have mischaracterized you. But I’m sure you can see how I might confuse avoidance with aversion. If I have ever caused offence in my ministrations, I apologise.”  

He glanced quickly to me before his eyes shifted into middle-distance and clouded. “You have nothing to apologise for, Watson. It is I who have caused offence, it appears. You are consideration personified. Please, do not let my rudeness be taken as a personal affront.”  

“None taken, I assure you,” I said, warring with my instinct to let the matter drop entirely and continuing to discuss it. I knew I was pushing where I should not, but Holmes had cracked open this doorway of his own volition, and I was anxious to glimpse as much of his private life as I could before the door was closed and bolted again.  

Cautiously, I cleared my throat. “I have taught myself for some years to be careful around you, to stop myself from grasping your shoulder or patting you on the back when congratulating you on some success. I have trained myself to avoid placing my hand on your arm to communicate comfort or solace, or to simply show support and remind you that I am here for you when you are in a black mood. I avoid those small physical gestures which I give without thinking to others, and which I have observed you appear to give freely to me. Have I been wrong to do so?” 

He went quiet for a time, staring at the fire before he spoke. “Communication,” he murmured, apparently to himself. “Watson, are you offering to alter your ways of communicating with me?” 

“I am offering whatever it is you need. You said… well, you indicated that my conclusion was incorrect. Might I then presume that you are not averse to those small points of physical contact I have mentioned?” My throat tightened terribly, and it felt very warm before the fire discussing how and when I could touch my companion. I was suddenly quite glad for the brandy. 

“If you are capable of unlearning such a thing, I am not averse to such displays of sentiment. What was it you said? Comfort and solace? I am not disinclined to the physical manifestations of such things. I am…” his eyes narrowed in thought and his voice trailed off for a moment before resuming. “I am merely unaccustomed. I am not used to being shown such gestures.” He glanced sideways at me again.  

I found myself dumbfounded at this response. “Holmes. I am quite capable of learning or unlearning any number of things. It is simply a matter of not understanding and, as you say, drawing the wrong conclusions. It is against all my instincts in the first place to withhold these gestures, for you are human and deserve such comforts as much as anyone. I am only sorry to hear you say that they are unfamiliar to you, although the knowledge goes a long way in helping me to understand why you are so reluctant to give yourself anything in the way of kindness or grace, if you will forgive my saying so.”  

Holmes looked at me, meeting my gaze fully for the first time since we’d begun speaking. “I do not show myself such consolations because they are indulgent and unhelpful. Why should I show myself soft-heartedness for displays of weakness? What lesson is to be learned by showing oneself gentleness in the face of failure? It’s entirely illogical, Watson.”   

It was on my tongue to chastise him, but I swallowed back the rebuke. “Well, I do not believe that. You are, after all, human and if you will not show yourself compassion, then someone must. If it would not be a displeasure to you, I can alter my manner.”  

He nodded curtly, and I sensed the frank and personal line of communication we had taken — along with the vulnerable state induced in us both by the drug — was too much for him to endure without pulling away into the colder manner in which he felt most protected. “Then may I suggest a walk before it grows too dark? I do not believe it possible to overindulge in fresh air after the experiences of the day,” he suggested.  

We strolled through the desolate countryside for some time without speaking, as was our custom. My leg had begun to throb, and I was leaning heavily upon my stick when I recalled our earlier conversation and my pledge to stop restraining myself in his presence. If I could chastise Holmes for refusing to treat himself with compassion, it would be wrong for me to refrain from showing myself the same favour. I inserted my hand into the crook of his elbow, taking his arm and shifting some of my weight onto him. Of the many hundreds of walks we’d taken over the years, never had I been the one to initiate this contact. He glanced at me, surprise showing on his face but for a moment before his lips twitched into the merest hint of a smile.   

“Is your leg bothering you? We can turn back, for it is starting to get dark,” he said quietly, an imperceptibly hazy quality to his voice.  

“It’s not too bad,” I lied. “But we may turn back. The wind is rather biting.”  

As though I had caused him to remember the cold, he pulled his arm closer to his side, and me along with it. We turned to head slowly back to the cottage. My head felt a muddle, although it was impossible to say whether it was owing to the Tregennis family’s tragedy, the events of the day with Dr. Sterndale, the poison from that damnable root, or this strange new line of conversation with Holmes. In that unnerving way he has of intruding upon my thoughts, he spoke to the last topic.  

“Watson, you said earlier that touch is a form of communication, of conveying something beyond that which is spoken,” he said slowly. I could all but hear his mind turning over this topic and examining it from every angle. I agreed that his recollection of my statements was accurate. He was quiet, his steps slowing until he stopped, facing me in the darkness which was rapidly falling around us.  

“Then what would you say a hand upon the face communicates?” he asked. 

I stood facing him, my perplexity apparently still visible in the twilight. “Such as when you placed your hand against my face in Lyon,” he added, tilting his head in that way that indicated he was puzzling out a solution.  

Despite the dim light, I shifted my gaze, embarrassed. I had not thought he was well enough to recall that moment when I’d sat stroking his hair and tracing his brow while he slept with his cheek upon my hand.  

“Well, it could communicate any number of things,” I said into the distance, deciding to answer the general question and not address the specific instance. “Worry, fear, compassion, sympathy. It can show that you cherish someone, or that you want to ensure they focus on you and heed your words. It could show anything from adoration to vexation, I suppose.”  

I watched as he seemed to turn this information over in his mind. “And how did you mean it?” he asked. Holmes has a way of asking questions in an earnest manner which makes them impossible to evade. My embarrassment dissolved in the face of his frank questioning and I could see that he meant to cause me no discomfort, but was genuinely curious to learn the answer.  

“I believe I also meant several things. I was quite pleased to see you, though terribly worried about the state I found you in. I wanted you to know that I was there, that I would do what I could to aid you and ease your suffering.” 

I let my mind go back to sitting in that small hotel room, the floor covered in telegrams lauding Holmes’ success, my discomfort at seeing them and ruminations of ‘but at what cost?’ while I sat beside my friend. I thought of how my heart had broken when I saw him, and how I had felt as though it would burst out of my chest when he had placed his hand upon mine and weakly asked me to take him home. 

“I wished to let you know that you are dear to me and that I was concerned for you. That I value you, and that it brings me pain to see you drive yourself to the point of exhaustion.”  

He cocked his head in thought. “I see,” he said quietly. He took my arm and we began to walk back, silent, as the night sky unveiled the stars. When he spoke again, it was to inquire if I thought that there was enough stew left upon the stove to satisfy us for supper. 

We resumed our places before the sitting room fire after hasty bowls of hot stew and hunks of rough country bread. Unsurprisingly, after so singular an experience, our conversation returned to the Devil’s Foot root. The conversation meandered through Darwin’s theory of evolution and how such a plant may have come to be, Holmes’ thoughts about trials by ordeal and their history, and my comments upon medicinal research of botanicals.  

We had avoided speaking upon the specifics of our experience, for such horrors could hardly be put into words. I believe we both fell to thinking of what visions and terrors we had seen that morning, for the conversation trailed off and the little room fell quiet, so that the crackling of the wood fire seemed unusually loud. Holmes was perched on one end of the settee, curled into a ball with his chin upon his knee in thought. My mind had unwittingly turned back to the gruesome hallucinations and the hideous cries that accompanied them. I shivered and came back to myself with a start.  

“Do you think it will affect your dreams?” Holmes asked, without looking up. He uncurled himself and reached for his pipe, looking me over as he did.  

“It is hard to say. My dreams are very much already affected, as you know, from my experiences in Afghanistan. I should hope this poison does not make them any more vivid or horrible than they already are,” I said, following his lead and reaching for my cigarettes.  

Holmes offered me the match and then drew thoughtfully upon his pipe. “Is that what you saw today then? The horrors of war?” He tossed the match stub into the fire before resuming his place and tucking his feet underneath himself.  

I do not make a habit of lying to Holmes. But in that moment, I thought to tell him I had relived those experiences, as it seemed easier than the truth. However, I found I could not do so. I shook my head. “No. It was more… personal. It is strange, really. It seemed to go on and on for hours — days perhaps — image after image, scream after scream, nightmare after nightmare. I suppose it lasted mere moments in reality.” 

A shudder ran through Holmes and he twisted around to pull his knees back up to his chin. “I really cannot apologise enough. This is not the first time you have saved my life, and not the first time that you have saved me from my own sorry doings, but to think that I inflicted this recklessness upon you — well, I really am very sorry. And I should hope you have no more ill effects from it. It was really very stupid of me indeed,” he said, drawing his legs closer and shivering again.  

I rose and took the quilt from the back of the settee and placed it around his shoulders, kneeling before him so that he had no choice but to face me. “Holmes, you are not, nor could you ever be stupid. Please do not say such things about yourself in my presence. You have apologised and been forgiven, and while I am not averse to speaking about what we experienced today, I’ll hear no more criticisms against yourself.” I tucked the blanket around his feet and patted his knee when I rose and resumed my seat.  

“You may have forgiven me, but that does not mean I must forgive myself just yet,” he said wearily. “If it was a trial by ordeal, then I would have been judged guilty and condemned to death had you not pulled me to safety. And to think that I should have dragged you along in my guilt — to death.” He pulled the quilt tightly around himself. “I should never forgive myself, in this life or any other.”  

“Hush, now. I do not blame you. I am only overjoyed that I was able to save you this time.” Yet I was distracted as I said it, seeing the images the drug had produced flickering behind my eyes.  

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “This time?”  

“I — when I was seeing those illusions today, I was unable to save you,” I said, my voice dropping as my throat tightened.  

I had not wanted to tell him of the evil visions, but now they seemed to be converging around me again in the corners of the dim room, lingering just at the periphery of my consciousness. I shook myself.  

“I was watching all manner of unspeakable things happen to you, which I was powerless to prevent. I suppose my mind was supplying a confused carousel of twisted images of all the ways in which you could d— come to harm — while I stood by and watched, paralyzed by the drug and helpless to intervene. It was as if there was this fog around you and I — I could not reach you through it. I could see you suffering, I could hear you screaming, but I could not get to you… And when my vision cleared for a moment and I saw you before me, your face frozen in the same expression of fear as we had seen on the Tregennis family, well, I suppose it was what gave me the strength to act.”  

I looked over and found Holmes staring at me, his lips parted in a look of shock. I let out a shaky breath and realized the fog of those horrors had seemed to lift all once. I felt them dissipate into my memory - no, further, as though they were a distant dream I could not recall upon waking. It was a dizzying relief, as if breaking the surface of water and being able to breathe freely. I ran my hands over my face and chuckled. Holmes started at the sound, no doubt worried my sanity had cracked.  

“I am fine,” I hastened to assure him. “It is a laugh of relief. Oh Holmes, in speaking it, it is like the thing lifted. Like fog burning off in the morning sun. No, no, I’m quite alright, merely relieved that the visions have left me for the first time since our misadventure.” 

“Oh? Well, that’s… that is remarkable. I am glad,” he said, sounding most certainly less than glad.  

“Do the visions still plague you?” I inquired. “You have had a stronger dose, and your constitution is still weak. I am concerned for you, Holmes. Do you wish to try to speak of your experience? It may do some good.”  

He looked at me wearily and sighed. “I suppose it shan’t do further harm. As you say, I imagine it was the rational mind taking in the current circumstances and twisting them into a myriad of horrid images. I was inflicting… harm, upon you, Watson. I was — it was really most ghastly and we needn’t go into details, but suffice it to say, I was —” He looked away and his voice dropped. “— Hurting you, quite against my will and without the ability to stop.” His shoulders twitched beneath the quilt.  

“Oh Holmes.” I felt my heart drop, as he lay his head upon his knee. I moved to sit beside him, placing my hand gently upon his shoulder and feeling him take in a ragged breath. “You did not hurt me. You could not hurt me. It was an illusion, a cruel illusion.” I moved my hand down his arm, to grasp his forearm which lay upon his knee. He lifted his head and looked at me in sad confusion.  

“Is this solace?” he asked, causing me a moment of worry that his sanity had cracked. And then I laughed and squeezed his arm.  

“Yes, this is solace. Is it alright?”  

“Yes. It’s… agreeable,” he said, forcing a tight smile. “Thank you, Watson.” 

“Of course,” I said giving him a final pat on the arm and rising. “Tea?”  

“Please,” he said uncurling enough to reach for his pipe.  

I busied myself with the kettle, thinking of how frightful the human mind could be. Holmes, unaware of the outcome of his experiment, had conjured the notion that he was intentionally hurting me. No wonder he was so reticent to forgive himself. That he wasn’t capable of such a thing made no difference. We had each seen a variation on what played out before us in real life, twisted by the drug and the fears that lay in the depths of our minds.  

I thought of what Dr. Sterndale had said about how the drug stimulated those brain centers which control the emotion of fear, and surmised that it might bring visions of each victim’s greatest horrors. To see Holmes in pain, or worse, without being able to act was certainly among the things I feared the most. It may not be a stretch to believe that seeing me hurt, or causing me pain, could be among his. I thought again of sitting beside him in Lyon when he was in such anguish, and then the piercing shriek of the kettle brought me to myself.  

I handed the cup to Holmes and apologised for the lack of milk, as the girl had not left any this morning and the excitement of the day had eclipsed any thoughts of going into town. He did not seem to hear me, lost in thought as he so often was. He eventually looked at his cup as if he’d not realized he was holding it and suddenly looked to me, as if surprised to find me there.  

“You’re right, Doctor. I believe it is somewhat diminished — the visions. Let us hope that is the last of it purged from our system,” he said, before putting down his tea and flipping the quit around him like a cape. He rose to retrieve his violin and played wordlessly until the fire drew down and I was nodding off.  

“To bed, Doctor, and that is an order. Kindly rouse yourself.” Holmes’ voice cut in upon my unconsciousness as he tapped my knee with his violin bow.  

“Sorry, old man. The day has caught up with me, I believe,” I said, rising and turning towards the downstairs bedroom. “If the weather is mild tomorrow, I may walk over to Tredannick Wollas to see about some supplies, if you’d like to go. Sleep well.”  

“Watson.” Holmes’ voice was pensive. “Do you think you will be alright tonight? I am concerned your dreams may be more… unsettling, than usual. For that matter, I am worried about my own, for I feel as though the images have not left me as quickly as they appear to have left you. I confess they began to come back to me even as I played for the last hour.”  

I frowned, fearing deeply what effects this drug might have upon his mind. I hesitated but for a moment.  

“Let us do this, if you are amenable. Since I won’t be able to hear you easily from downstairs if you are disturbed during your sleep, let us share the larger bed in your room. That way, if one of us becomes disturbed, we can more easily detect it and wake the other. It is the same precaution you suggested in your experiment today. Would that be acceptable?”  

“Perfectly. I have no doubt the effects of this are not long lasting, but it would ease my mind to know that we would be able to rouse each other should the visions overtake us in our sleep. A well-reasoned solution, Doctor. And now, go and prepare for bed and let us make for the arms of Morpheus.”  

I awoke in the still-dark hours, at first unsure as to what had pulled me from a deep and dreamless sleep. Within a moment, Holmes’ ragged and hitched breathing and twitching shudders from the other side of the bed brought me fully awake. His head rolled on the pillow, as though he was fighting to keep from looking at something in his sleep. His hands were clenched into fists and his breath came quick and sharp. 

“Holmes, Holmes! Wake up!” I seized his shoulders. “Wake up, it’s only a dream, Holmes! Holmes!” With a violent start and a noise like a wounded animal, I could just make out the sight of his eyes flying open in the dark. His breath caught again in what could have been a sob and he lay motionless save for his heaving chest. “It’s only me, Holmes. I’m here. You were having a dream. You are alright, are you not? Holmes?”  

Gradually, his breath slowed and he released the blanket he had been clutching defensively over himself. “J — Watson… Watson, apologies. That was — thank you for waking me.” He sat up, passing a shaky hand over his face.  

“Are you well? Was it the same visions as earlier? Do you think it was the root? Here, give me your wrist.” Questions and orders tumbled from my mouth before I could think. I grasped his wrist in the dark and felt his pulse hammering.  

“It was — yes, it was more of… earlier. Illusions, as you said, though damn realistic ones. Are you alright?” he asked, turning to regard me holding his wrist in the dark.  

“Me? Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I don’t believe I dreamed of anything at all, actually. I am worried about you, though. Can I get you anything?”  

“No, no,” he said, waving me away and fluffing his pillow before laying down again. “I am only sorry that I have now robbed you of sleep in addition to the other unpleasantness I have subjected you to in the past day.”  

“Do not worry about me. This is precisely why I am here, to wake you should you need it. I know you will do the same for me. It is my greatest joy and privilege to help you,” I laid back and smoothed the blanket.  

I saw Holmes turn onto his side in the dim moonlight which streamed through the tops of the window. He surprised me by reaching over and laying his cool hand upon my face, his long, slim fingers laying against my cheek bone. 

“My dear Watson. Thank you.” He said it quietly, although the words were not new to either of us. I placed my hand over his before he could withdraw it, keeping his palm pressed against my cheek.  

“Of course,” I said, fighting the lump which had risen inexplicably in my throat. “What is this, Holmes? Solace?” I knew he could feel my cheek rise into a smile under his hand.  

“Cherishment, I believe,” he said softly. His hand slipped from under mine and he turned away. “Sleep well, Watson.”  

It was some time until I was able to fall asleep again. When I finally managed it, I could still feel the ghost of Holmes’ cool palm against my face.  

I awoke to the sound of rain upon the roof. There would be no venturing out today, I thought, turning over and pulling the blanket tight around me. I realized I was in Holmes’ room and the bed was empty save for myself. I fumbled for my pocket watch on the side table and saw that it was only just eight o’clock. I padded downstairs, wrapping my dressing gown around me and found no sign of Holmes. Fear clenched my heart, and I could feel panic rising when the side door flew open, delivering a gust of wind, rain, and a bedraggled Holmes, clutching a bottle of milk and a soggy newspaper. We looked at each other, startled for a moment before dissolving into laughter.  
 
“I won’t even ask. I am stoking the fire and putting on tea. Go change and dry your hair before you catch your death,” I commanded as I filled the kettle. Holmes triumphantly held up the half empty bottle of milk.  

“For your tea. I tried to make it back from the vicarage before the rain caught up to me, but it overtook me as I was just at the end of the lane. I knew we wouldn’t be able to make it out today and I know you do not enjoy your tea black,” he said, depositing the milk on the table and peeling off his dripping coat.  

“Holmes, you shouldn’t have gone all that way. I will not forgive you if you waste all my efforts reviving you these long weeks by catching your death of cold. Go change. I’ll lay the fire.” I limped from the room only to turn back after a few steps. “But that was very kind. Thank you.” 

We sipped tea before the fire, Holmes seated upon the floor, his long legs impossibly splayed out at all angles, in order to dry his hair and warm himself following the torrential downpour. After the first cup of tea the newspaper was dry enough to open, and I waited until I was safely hidden behind it to inquire how he had slept the remainder of the evening. I could feel the color rising in my ears as I recalled his voice in the dark and his hand against my face. He made a thoughtful noise and said he believed he had experienced no other disturbances, but then he betrayed himself by yawning. I flipped the paper down to look at him. Sitting in front of the hearth, damp and sprawled, he looked like an overgrown boy. I informed him that, in my medical opinion, he was due a nap after lunch. 

“You are no doubt correct, Watson,” he agreed, and I was disheartened to hear no argument.  

After breakfast, I retrieved my ink and foolscap to make some notes upon the case. Holmes lay supine on the hearthrug reading a volume of Chaldean root words, which happened to be only type of root I could stomach to think on at the moment. We passed an hour in silence, the rain at the windows and the ruffling of pages the only sounds to keep us company. Finally, Holmes sat up, tossing his book aside.  

“You won’t write this one up. Not yet at least, since Sterndale is living.”  

I glanced up from my writing to see that his hair was falling into his eyes and the warmth of the fire had put color in his face. “No, not for a while. Not until you give your assent. But I did want to make some notes while it is fresh in my mind.” 

“Will you write about what we experienced? Under the influence of the plant?”  

I thought for a moment, more about how to answer than what I would answer. “No. I think it will be sufficient to say that we witnessed horrors, that we were subjected to illusions, hallucinations, visions, what have you, that encompassed our wildest and greatest fears. I do not see a need to detail them before the public,” I responded.  

Holmes nodded, lighting his pipe. “Our wildest and greatest fears… yes, that is more than adequate.” 

We were quiet for a time. I stared at my writing without reading it but recalling what Holmes had said yesterday about his visions of harming me. In some of the visions I had seen an unknown hand inflicted harm upon him. In others, the hand was his own, holding the syringe and pressing it down into his veins. While these both had been unspeakably painful, at least I had the surety of believing that it was not me who inflicted harm upon him.   

“It’s no good thinking I could not, Watson, for you don’t know what diabolical strain of villainy runs through my blood,” he said, intruding — no, bursting in upon my innermost thoughts. I started so violently that I dropped my pen.  

“Would you cease doing that, Holmes? You are making quite a habit of commenting upon my unspoken thoughts. It is unnerving. And you cannot and will not harm me. Ceasing thinking of that, too.” Exasperation coloured my voice as I bent to retrieve my pen from where it had rolled beneath the settee.  

He had the grace to look ashamed for a moment before continuing the train of my unvoiced musings. “You know nothing of my family, Watson,” he said contorting himself so that his chin rested upon his knee. “There is some history of violence and hereditary villainy there. You cannot know for certain.”  

I was aghast. I had known Holmes for years before he thought to mention his family — announcing his brother’s existence and his French lineage in the same offhand manner in which one might announce that they planned to dine upon duck for dinner. Never had he made any other mention of his family, and he certainly had said nothing to indication violence and villainy, save the occasional cavalier remark that he might make a fine criminal should he turn his mind to it. I stared at him, waiting for him to turn with an impish grin or otherwise indicate his words were some hateful joke. When he failed to shift his gaze from the fire or add any additional comment, I rose and took the quilt from the couch to sit beside him on the floor. He said nothing for a time, toying with a piece of kindling from the firebox. Finally, he spoke.   

“There is a…cruelness on my father’s side,” he said, glancing at me but not meeting my eye. “A cruelness bordering on the criminal, which is not the trait one wishes to see in their country squires, I am sure. It is fitting, I suppose, that the family motto is Fide sed cui vide, ‘Trust, but in whom take care.’ I have heard my father laugh as he told the story of my grandfather setting fire to the home of a man whose only crime was coming from a foreign land.”  

I was not quick enough to suppress my audible gasp. Holmes’ hand flinched upon the kindling as if I had struck him. I reached over and placed my hand upon his shoulder and after a moment he briefly covered it with his own in acknowledgment. We sat before the fire in silence for a few moments before he gave a smile which could have easily been a grimace and patted my hand before continuing his story.  

“As I say, my father had a tendency towards cruelty. Do you recall Dr. Grimesby Roylott, Watson? He of the speckled band? My father was a bit like him, although less inclined to give warnings through misshapen fireplace instruments.” He flashed a twisted grimace and threw a piece of the broken kindling into the flames, watching as it caught fire and burned.  

“I am sorry, Holmes,” I said quietly. “Did… did he show your own family violence?” 

He flashed a miserable smile and looked back at the fire, his expression answering my question and making my stomach knot in anger and sickness. That a man could use his family so cruelly made me feel a flash of murderous rage.   

“It is, I believe, how my brother and I grew adept at so early an age of the science of observation and deduction. By the time I was five years old I knew what mood to expect from my father when he returned home by the way he discarded his boots in the hallway. I learned how to observe not just my mother’s behavior, but that of the household’s meagre staff to determine if it was safe to enter the main part of the house to venture to the library. I could tell by how the cook had toasted the bread in the mornings if I should be able to practice my violin indoors that day or if I should have to take it up into the stable loft lest I risked harm to the instrument or myself.  

“I left home after a particularly viscous beating for — well, for something which did not deserve such a response, and ran away to my old-maid aunt’s home, where Mycroft and I were sent for summers. She wrote to my parents, and since I was already there it seemed pointless to send me home again, I suppose. It is from her that I learned to expand my knowledge of observation and deduction, but that is not the point of this tale. I tell you this, because even though you insist I could not harm you, you simply do not know that. I do not know that. I do not know what violent tendencies may have been passed to me along with my name.” He peeled off another strip of wood and tossed it into the flames.  

A large drop of rain fell down the chimney, hissing and spluttering noisily and causing me to jump. I moved closer to Holmes, my back to the fire so that I sat beside him, though facing him. The lines around his eyes were deeper than I recalled. My heart ached for him.  

My mind’s eye conjured up an image of a young Holmes, seated at the breakfast table, feet swinging where they did not yet reach the floor, and studying the toast with grave attention. I thought of Mycroft, sitting safely within his silent club, surrounded by others while remaining entirely isolated. I covered his hand with my own, where it plucked nervously at the hem of his dressing gown. Wordlessly and without looking up, he turned his palm up and our fingers fell laced together. I wanted to weep for him — not out of pity, but at the injustice that life could bring upon an innocent child.  

“You are the kindest and most just man I know, Holmes. You have spent every minute of the time I have known you working for good — aiding others, assisting the police in catching those who do harm, in the detection and prevention of crime, and protecting those who come to you in fear — often for no reward to yourself. You have just come off of a most taxing and injurious stretch working yourself into a fevered state in the pursuit of justice. You almost killed yourself just yesterday in trying to solve the madness and murders of the Tregennis family, and then you let Sterndale leave a free man because you saw the justice in his actions. There is nothing you can tell me about your ancestry which will convince me you are anything like them, nor that it is within your powers to ever be so. You are aware of what kind of man your father was and it appears you have spent the whole of your life not only ensuring that you are the opposite, but in doing enough good to tip the scales.”  

Holmes stared at where our fingers lay laced together before smiling faintly. “Tip the scales… yes, that is an accurate enough description of how I see it, Watson. And thank you, my friend. It is gratifying to hear that I have done some small amount of good.”  

“You have done more than a small amount, and you well know it,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “You are a force of goodness and justice, Holmes. I am honored to know you, and more honored still that you would share so personal and painful a history with me. It … it cannot be easy to speak of.”  

“It is the first I’ve spoken of it to anyone but Mycroft, actually. And we have long since ceased to speak of our family. I endeavour always to live up to your perception of me, Watson.” 

The rain continued to pour and the fire crackled and sputtered behind me, but we sat motionless, our hands resting together. I was lost in thought of all he had told me when his voice pulled me from my rumination. “What is this, Watson? Comfort? Support?” 

I smiled, catching his eye. “Admiration. Affection. Deepest respect and tenderness could also be added.” He returned my smile and squeezed my fingers before rising.  

“I believe I was instructed to nap. If you’ll excuse me, I really should follow my doctor’s orders,” he said, from the bottom step.  

I sat watching the rain for some time, transfixed by the drops sliding like tears upon the glass, contemplating all he had divulged. I thought of Holmes saying he was not accustomed to comfort and how I had witnessed him show such little to himself. When faced with a problem, he was punishing to himself, working without ceasing and showing little regard for his health and safety. I wondered that his remarks about showing himself grace for weakness or failure did not arise out of the violence of his boyhood, where a miscalculation could be tantamount to an unfortunate encounter with his father. Knowing my friend, I could imagine him putting pressure upon himself to precognitively deduce and avoid all such interactions; deeming himself a failure when he was unable to predict the future or the fiendish man’s whims. It would be no wonder that Holmes questioned the value of gentleness shown to himself for such ‘failures.’ 

I thought of how he had started at my touches before all of this and worried over his instinct suggesting that I had ever meant harm. I thought that perhaps it was not aversion to the softer emotions, but that they were alien to him. I thought of his drug use and his need for problems to distract his mind when he was not upon a case, worrying at what his mind turned to when it was not engaged. I thought of his black moods. That I loved him was unquestionable, but as I sat there watching the Cornish rain, I felt that there should be a word larger and stronger than love to describe what I felt. 

“What was your boyhood like, Watson? I have told you of my darkest family secrets. I believe it is customary to impart some such sacred knowledge in return, is it not?” His eyes glimmered as he teased me lightly.  

I set aside my yellow back novel and pulled out my tobacco pouch. “Well, there is not much to tell. We were not very well off, but we had all that we needed, just nothing more. We were a normal, happy family, for a time. I was the middle child. You know about my brother Henry, of course, but I had a younger sister as well. There was an accident and Anna died quite young. My mother was injured in the same incident, when the cart they were riding in was overturned. She was confined to bed after that, although I do not know if that was due more to physical injuries or the heartache of losing my sister. My father took to drinking more after that. Henry left to find work. I left as soon as I could.”  

“I am sorry to hear of your misfortune, and for your mother and sister,” he said quietly.  

“It is alright. It was long ago. It does not change it, but I suppose it becomes easier with time. They’re all gone now. I sometimes look at our clients who are the age my sister would have been and wonder what she would be like. But on the whole, I think of my family little, and fondly when I do.”  

Holmes gave me one of those sad smiles and refilled his pipe. “Normal, happy families have the curious effect of making me uncomfortable. I’m glad to find that you, who purports to be the product of one, do not.”  

I chuckled. “Why should they make you uncomfortable?”  

Holmes did not laugh but cocked his head in that way which showed he was untangling something in his mind. He studied my face before looking away to draw on his pipe.  

“Because I do not understand them. You of all people should know that I am uncomfortable with what I do not understand. I have made a career out of knowing the unknown and understanding what others cannot grasp through their own perceptions. I cannot comprehend the puzzle of a happy home – there is no monograph on the subject, I cannot place it under my microscope, nor can I organize the facts into any type of pattern which stands up to reason, for it seems to defy all logic.”  

“My dear boy, I did not mean any offense. No, I can quite see how your boyhood could cause you to feel that way. I spoke without thinking.”  

“It’s quite alright. It is like when I told you I was unfamiliar with comfort… I did not understand it, at least when applied to myself. Growing up, we did not interact with many other families. When I became acquainted with those whom you would term ‘normal and happy,’ I found them strange to be around because the observational skills I had developed in my own household were of little use. They did not pose the same level of threat and a need for constant awareness of my surroundings, and that felt even more dangerous — as though I were missing something vital, failing to observe a danger which would catch me unaware. I was quite on edge around them. Does that sound strange?”  

“Not in the least. I experienced a similar feeling after returning from Afghanistan. When you have trained your mind to detect danger for so long, it is hard to stop it from looking for peril around every corner. And when there truly was no threat, I imagine it must have felt that your mind was that racing engine tearing itself to pieces — like how you are when there is no problem to untangle.”  

“Yes! That’s it precisely, Watson. You understand,” he turned away to face the fire, but I caught the genuine smile which lit his face. I believe it was the first time I had seen that particular look of happiness from my companion. His smile was such a fragile and wonderful thing and I wanted to lay my finger upon it, to touch it before it left his face.  

We shared a quiet evening, but before I turned to my room he asked, “Will you share the bed again tonight? I have not felt the creeping sinister cloud of the drug around me as strongly today, but I confess I could not sleep when I went up to nap. I would be grateful if you would allow me to impose upon your rest again.”  

Naturally I agreed to watch over him. 
 

Holmes was calling my name. I ran towards him, expecting to encounter that invisible wall of fog around him which had kept me from reaching him previously, but to my surprise I easily reached him. He threw his arms around me and shook with laughter. I awoke a moment later to Holmes shaking my shoulder and calling my name. With a start, I sat up, confused.  

“What happened? Are you alright?”  

“You were calling my name,” Holmes responded. “Was it a nightmare?” 

“No… no. It was a similar landscape but not at all the same. It wasn’t a nightmare. You were laughing.” Holmes scoffed, as if he knew better than I what he did within my dreams. “I was running towards you, expecting to be unable to reach you, but I had no problem. There was nothing standing in the way of my getting to you. And you were not hurt or in pain, you were just… happy.”  

Holmes lay back and pulled the blanket around his chin. “Well, then I’m sorry to have woken you. What was I doing that made me happy?” he asked with a yawn.  

“I am not sure… we were just together, and you were… happy.”  

“That sounds plausible,” he said closing his eyes.  

“Holmes?” 

“What is it?” 

“Earlier, you smiled at something I said.”  

“That also sounds plausible.”  

“Don’t be an ass. Let me finish. You smiled when I understood what it had been like for you as a child around other families, do you remember?”  

“I do.”  

“I — It was nice. To see you look so happy. I wanted to reach out and place my hands upon your smile… But I don’t know what that touch would have communicated.”  

“Hmm… cherished?”  

“Yes. Yes, definitely. I cherished it. Your happiness and smile both. I think that is why I was dreaming of it.”  

Holmes made a humming noise, his voice muffled slightly by the pillow, “I wonder at what it would feel like to be cherished.”  

I reached over and put my hand along his face. “You do not have to wonder.”  

He mimicked my gesture with less certainty, cradling my head against his palm. “Nor do you, Watson. Pleasant dreams.”  

When I awoke again, it was with the sense that there were eyes upon me. It was not yet fully daylight and Holmes lay on his side, facing me, but staring into the middle distance.  

“Can you not sleep? Did you have another dream?”  

“Good morning. I had dreams but they were of a different sort — nothing like last night, thank you. I was just thinking.”  

I sighed and rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “Do you wish to speak of it?”  

“No, not particularly. Go back to sleep, it is still early.”  

“Where was your mother?” 

“Beg pardon, Watson?”  

“When you were younger and your father was — well, was she there?”  

Holmes was quiet, his eyes narrowing, and I regretted bringing up the subject immediately, but it had been nagging at me that he had not mentioned her, and I wondered that it did not have something to do with his distrust of women. The air felt heavy with tension. “Forgive me, Holmes. I should not have asked. I am still half asleep—” 

“No, it is alright. Yes, she was there.” He did not elaborate. 

“I see. Well, I would very much like to thrash the hide from your father.”  

Holmes smiled wryly. “You would have to dig him up, I am afraid.”  

I propped my head up on my hand. “I would do it. I would dig him up and thrash his bones. I cannot stand the thought of a father being cruel to a child.”  

“Of course you cannot, Watson. You are a good person. You always take offense to those who abuse their authority.”  

“And abuse those who are incapable of defending themselves. I should not say that a parent does not have the right to discipline a child, but it sounds as though what you experienced far exceeded that. You did not deserve to be treated so. I am sorry that you were.”  

The corner of his mouth twisted. “I dare say the man likely believed he was making me into an obedient child.”  

“Somehow, I find it impossible to imagine that worked,” I teased.  

“Touché . But you are right, he always failed to correct my behaviour.” 

“What did you do? Set fire to the barn? Poison the cook? Dissect a frog with the good silverware?” I continued to tease. 

Holmes snorted. “Heavens, no. Well, not that last time, when I ran away at fourteen. He’d caught me behind the barn being kissed.”  

I snorted. “No! Well, fourteen is not too young. I’d had plenty of kisses by that time, I think. I had my first kiss at twelve from a girl with the unfortunate name of Hildagard Cottisford.”  

“I dare say if he had discovered me kissing someone named Hildagard Cottisford he might not have beaten me, unfortunate an appellation as it may be,” Holmes said frowning. I could see his brow knit in the half-light. The air seemed to take on that heavy quality, as it had when I had inquired about his mother. I could feel my instincts telling me to let the subject lie, but again I pressed against that door which had been cracked open.  

“So, who were you kissing behind the barn at fourteen, if not Hildagard Cottisford?” 

Holmes went very still. He studied my face in the dim light and I could see he had ceased breathing. After what seemed like minutes, he took in a deep breath and gave me a heartbreakingly sad smile before saying quietly, “The stable boy.”  

I felt my own smile crumble.  

“Oh, Holmes, no… tell me he did not beat you for that,” my heart seized in my chest.  

Holmes raised a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. I reached over and placed my hand against his face and was dismayed when he flinched at my touch. I withdrew my hand in an instant.  

“I am sorry — I did not mean to startle you or —"  

“No, do not apologise, Watson. I —"  

“You are not accustomed to comfort,” I said quietly.  

“I am not. But that does not mean I am not growing accustomed to it. Nor that I do not appreciate it,” he said gently.  

“May I?” I asked, slowing showing him my hand and that I meant no harm.  

“If you would like.”  

I tentatively reached for him and traced my fingertips along his sharp cheekbone before placing my hand against his face. I felt him smile beneath my palm. I raised my hand to trace his temple and run my fingers over his hair before replacing it to his pale cheek. In that moment, he seemed so unlike the Holmes I had known for years. In the soft light of morning, he felt a delicate thing I wanted to protect with my life.   

“Comfort? Cherishment?”  

“Both… and amazement that you’ve managed to make me jealous of a stable boy,” I breathed.  

Holmes face was split by a smile and he placed his hand atop mine, caressing the back of my hand with his long fingers.

“You needn’t be,” he said, before removing my hand and placing a kiss against my palm.  My breath hitched and then came quickly as he gazed at me with those silver eyes in the early morning light.

“What does that one mean?” I managed to ask.  

“A promise,” he said, as I turned his hand in mine and kissed the back of it, before kissing each knuckle in turn. “And that?” he asked, still gazing at me.  

“Confirmation, agreement,” I said, raising myself to my elbow. “Holmes, may I ask something else, although I do not have any right to force a confidence after you have bestowed so many?”  

He raised himself up a bit, tilting his head as if puzzling out a question and lifting an expectant eyebrow in response.  

“Since you have returned from France, you have been… different. Agreeable and accepting of my assistance. And since we have been here you have been so open — so trusting — do not misunderstand, I am delighted, and I have felt closer to you in the past few days than in the past few years. I treasure it but… it is most unlike you. I wonder at the change.” 

He ran a long, thin finger down the side of my face, tracing from temple to jaw. “You may be displeased, I fear.”  

“I do not know that you have it within you to displease me, but I cannot know unless you should be willing to tell me.”  

“I intended to tell you, but I was unsure how. Do you recall the argument we had before I left?”  

“Argument? No — oh, you mean my ill temper at not being able to accompany you on your case? I would not call that an argument so much as it was my foul mood with winter aches and frustration at feeling left behind when all I wished was to accompany and assist you.”  

“You said, if I recall correctly, that you ‘could not be expected to remain sitting at home like a forgotten glove’ and that I ‘had a morbid habit of resisting your assistance in my most dangerous cases and that you did not wonder if I was trying to see an early grave,’ I believe.”  

I felt myself blush in shame. I had not thought that he was paying any attention to my words as he dashed about, flinging belongings into his trunk and penning telegrams. I had experienced such fear for his safety and anger at being left behind.  

“I had no right, Holmes, I am sorr—“  

“No, you had every right. It was not that I did not want you there or did not trust that you would be useful, it was that I was trying to keep you safe — well, and single-mindedly focusing on the case — and did not consider how abandoning you would make you feel.”  

“You did not abandon me, you were simp—“ 

“Allow me to finish, please. Once I was there, I realized I had blundered. I very much wished you were with me and should have liked to have had a steady hand with a service revolver at my side… not to mention all the other charming traits you possess. The case was more dangerous than I had foreseen, and there were some moments where I actually feared for my life. Also, I worried that I would return to London to find that you had not waited upon me — that you would finally be through with my arrogance and refusals of your kindness, and so I worked around the clock to wrap up the case more quickly than may have been wise.”  

“Fifteen hours a day and at five days a stretch is beyond reckless, even for you.”  

“Well, I did not accomplish the feat unaided, as I am sure you guessed,” he said, having the decency to drop his eyelids and look away at the mention of the vice. 

“No, I had guessed. No one can stay awake for that long naturally. You know how I — “  

“Yes, I know you how feel about it. As I say, I was injecting myself full of cocaine and working all hours at very dangerous work alone, not involving the police as much as I ought to have for fear they would slow me down. I was using myself up very freely and recklessly and anxious all the time that you were in London coming to your senses at last and taking other lodgings. I promised myself that should I pull it off, I would make it right with you and that I should refrain from abusing my seven percent solution in future… And then I almost failed to pull any of it off. I miscalculated — I’m not sure how many days I had been awake at that point, and I suspect I lost count of my injections.”  

“My God, Holmes, no…” I had taken his hand during this explanation and I could feel my blood turning cold at the thought of him misusing himself so. “The hotel did not even have my name — something could have happened to you and I would not have known!”  

“Of course they did not have your name, Watson. You were too far away. Dr. Agar had been in Lyon for some weeks studying at one of their hospitals. I had given the manager word that should something happen to me medically — foreseeing that I could become a target of the Baron Maupertuis’ gang— the hotel should contact Dr. Agar. If something else happened, the worst, let us say, they were to contact Mycroft. Did you really think that if something happened to me over there I would want you to learn of it through a hotel manager? And should an emergency arise, what good would it do to notify you when you were too far away to be able to assist me immediately?”  

“Oh…” I said, somewhat stunned. I had not considered the angle he laid out for me. 

“And so, I gave the French police an account of the trap I had laid for the Baron and the instructions they would need to catch him that afternoon when he attempted to flee France. I asked the Commissaire to wire Dr. Agar and to hail me a cab back to my hotel. The cabman was failing to rouse me when Dr. Agar arrived, and I was carried to my room. Agar is an exceptional doctor, as I was unfortunate enough to have need to learn first-hand, Watson. I am not sure how he managed to do it, but…well, I survived, as you can see.”  
 
Tears pricked my eyes as I clutched Holmes’ hand to my lips.  

“Dr. Agar set me to rights again and gave me a rather strong professional lecture. Besides the risk of permanent disqualification from work, it included medical opinions which I am sure you will agree with — such as that I am a stubborn man who takes unwise chances, I should know my limits and know when to accept assistance, and I ought to listen to your advice about the use of that now-discontinued vice.” 

“He is a better doctor than I have given him credit for. I do agree with all of that.”  

“I asked him to hold off on wiring you until the worst of it had left my system. I could stand for nearly any doctor to see me in the depths of my suffering as the chemicals left me, save one in particular who matters to me rather more than most. Once he determined I was sufficiently out of danger and could be returned into your care, he wired you.” 

"I am forever grateful to him.”  

“Before he left to return to London, he asked me to examine what I held most dear and suggested that changes may be in order should I wish to continue enjoying those aspects of my life. And although I did not tell him that my answer was ‘my work and my Watson,’ I believe he may have chanced upon half, for he made a rather direct comment about my trusting and devoting myself to following my doctor, by which, I take that he did not mean himself. It was that Parthian shot which left me reflecting upon how I could improve my relations with you, dear Watson, and how I could adapt my manner of, as your mind so elegantly envisioned it, removing that invisible wall I had placed about myself. I vowed that if you should come to fetch me home, that I would make an honest effort at…well, at being honest, and at allowing you closer.” 

“And may I?” I asked, stroking his hair as I had in Lyon. “May I be allowed closer to you now?”  

“Always,” he said as I moved to share his pillow and take him into my arms.  

We spent the remainder of our time in Cornwall developing this new language between ourselves, devoting ourselves to the study of our new linguistics so that we might fluently and eloquently hold entire conversations without words.  

Chapter Text

Post Scriptum:

Some weeks later we were aboard the train to Surrey to visit my old friend Colonel Hayter before we returning to London. Our remaining time in Poldhu Bay had been idyllic, making those events which had been deemed “the Cornish Horror” seem all the more like a nightmare when contrasted with that land of dreams.

“Holmes,” I said, drawing his attention from the moors which unrolled out of the private carriage’s window, “You have not told me of your aunt and the ways in which she broadened your practices of observation and deduction. I find myself curious, if it is a tale which would not cause you pain to recount.”

“Not in the least,” he said, twisting around so that he reclined with his head upon my knee. “You don’t mind? Ah, no, I did not think so,” he said when my fingers fell to stroking his dark hair.

“She was my mother’s eldest sister, unmarried, lived her whole life in Nîmes, and was as imposing as the Pont du Gard. She cared nothing for children, but as I dare say Mycroft and I never behaved as such, I believe she was actually rather fond of us. She had a passion for gardening, and it was from her that I first took up an interest in poisonous plants, which – forgive me, Waston, I fear we have had quite enough of that subject for now.”

“Yes, I would rather skip that part for the time being, if it is all the same.”

“Assuredly. She was rather a recluse, choosing not to venture out from the crumbling estate; however, she maintained a strict regimen of meetings with members of the local populace – more the summoning of subjects than cordial invitations to tea, you see. In this way, without setting foot outside of her domain, she was rather the center of local society and possessed a vast knowledge about all the neighborhood denizens. She was quite sought out when a member of the community desired advice or when there was some provincial dispute.”

“I see,” I said chuckling, unable to keep myself from imagining a severe older woman seated in Holmes’ customary chair before our fire and haughtily receiving and dispensing information to visitors. Holmes’ brows furrowed in mock annoyance at my mirth and interruption.

“As I was saying, it was with her that I honed the science of observation and deduction concerning people who were but strangers to me. By sipping her tea and speaking very little, save for asking a few questions, my Aunt Raissa and was able to draw forth a wealth of information from her callers. Furthermore, it was what they had not said – not with words, you understand – that she was so adept at understanding. You, of course, already know what may be gleaned from observing trifles, Watson.”

“Of course,” I agreed, delighting at the vision which presented itself of both a young Holmes and his aunt sipping tea and looking down their noses to scrutinize some poor soul.

“She would make some little comment or ask a question to confirm what she had deduced, always demurring ‘or so I am told,’ so that the unsuspecting guest assumed she had previously received the information – no doubt from some gossiping busybody – and they would think little, therefore, of discoursing on a topic they believed familiar to her. When she saw that my brother and I possessed talents which lay in that direction, and that we could occasionally observe some triviality or make an observation which had escaped her, well, it became a bit of a game between us,” he concluded with a dismissive flourish of his hand.

“Is she still living?” I asked, conjuring horrors of a tea where I was the object of sport from such a woman and the Holmes brothers.

“Long gone, I am afraid,” Holmes said, pushing himself upright.

“Ah, more is the pity. I am sorry, but I am grateful to her for taking you in.”

His eyes twinkled mischievously when he answered. “You should be grateful she did not have a stable boy. Now do tell me about this Colonel Hayter of yours,” he said, leaning back with his hands behind his head and his long legs across my lap.

-JHW