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“Pour just under half of this into water or tea.”
Watson’s words rang through his mind, reminding him of their plan, but though the window quietly thumped shut behind Carver’s exit, he merely stared at the vial. Did he really intend to do this?
Did he have a choice? They could not stay here. Holmes could not stay here, more specifically, but he knew better than to go alone. Not again. Not after Switzerland. If he left without his friend, he might return without him as well. Watson’s every word had warned what would happen if he woke up alone.
But Watson was allergic to sedatives.
“ It does not even share the same ingredients. Most people wake up in about two hours.”
And while he trusted Watson to account for medical complications, his friend had not identified his spiking fever only a few minutes after suggesting they use the compound. Could Watson have missed some possible side effect as well?
“How will it affect your fever?”
“It won’t, though it might take me a while to wake up, considering how tired I am.”
Unlikely, he decided. Watson would not have suggested this plan if his illness made a complication likely, and considering the circumstances, Holmes had no other way of bringing Watson with him. They could not risk Watson reacting to the scene Holmes needed to create. Whether a flinch or a frown, if Holmes had to pretend Watson had died, Watson could not react.
Which meant they needed to use the compound. A deep breath steadied his hand, and he carefully stirred a third of the vial into a quarter glass of water.
“Have to be awake to take that.”
Only when the cloudy liquid had fully dissolved did he turn to his friend, but shaking Watson’s shoulder only moved him against the pillow.
“Watson.”
No reaction.
“Come, Watson. Wake up.”
Still nothing. His friend remained limp against the cushion, deeply even breathing confirming him soundly asleep. Holmes had known on some level that this same illness had left him exhausted, but he had not realized just how exhausted. Watson did not even try to push him away. Maybe he could skip the dose and rely on Watson’s fatigue?
That nearly guaranteed Watson would wake at exactly the wrong moment. Holmes kept trying. Shaking him, talking in his ear, even purposely sending pain through his shoulder and leg, all fought to rouse his friend enough to drink. Carver’s warning meant they needed to leave tonight. Now. The rising sun would also bring an inferno they would never escape with Watson bedridden.
“Wake up.”
Watson’s mouth finally twitched in a frown, and another hard shake earned a clumsy swat. Minutes of effort slowly, gradually roused his friend. Bleary eyes needed two more minutes to look at Holmes.
Or through Holmes. Fatigue made his friend focus more on the far wall than where Holmes stood beside the settee, but weary curiosity tried to form a question.
“Wha—?”
That Holmes could not hear, naturally. Watson’s voice had not yet returned after hours of coughing, but Holmes did not need sound to read the failed word. One hand displayed the cup he had prepared.
“We need to leave. Carver discovered a plan to set the flat on fire at dawn. Can you sit up enough to drink?”
Watson merely stared at him in confusion. One second passed. Then two. Understanding bloomed just before Holmes would have tried again.
“Now?”
“Yes. Can you sit up?”
Not alone, by the weak grasp trying to brace against the pillows. Holmes threaded one arm behind Watson’s shoulders, but Watson managed to drink by himself.
Until he fell asleep sitting up. Heavy exhaustion returned to sleep nearly mid swallow, and only Holmes’ quick reaction prevented the cup from shattering on the floor. He carefully settled Watson back against the cushions and noted the time. Ten minutes, Watson had said. Watson’s breathing and pulse would slow in about ten minutes, then Holmes could make a scene to get them out of the flat. He turned away to pocket his notes, the rest of that compound, and Watson’s wallet. Did they need anything else?
No, but impatient worry made him pace in front of the settee. Two days of illness had seen Watson’s fever spike far too many times, and each one drained his friend further. Especially when every spike followed the same pattern. Hours had fought Holmes’ pleas to sleep, to hold still, to stop searching for Holmes then grieving his loss, to believe Holmes’ promises of safety, and more than one flinch had announced Watson’s current fear. Something in the last few days had made Watson believe that Holmes intended to leave soon. Possibly as soon as Watson recovered.
But Mrs. Hudson’s account of Holmes’ fevered ramblings accounted for only part of the problem. What else could—
Holmes’ thoughts derailed as Watson’s breathing hitched. Just once, but while the mantle clock announced barely two minutes since that dose, each subsequent inhale grew more and more shallow. Worry turned into a shot of fear. Watson had said his breathing would slow. Slow did not equate shallow.
“Watson?”
Or stopped. Watson’s breathing should not stop, but increasingly shallow inhales soon stopped altogether. Holmes lunged to reach his friend.
“Watson!”
Nothing. No reaction. No breathing. No movement. Frantic searching tried to find a pulse in Watson’s wrist, then his neck, but even pressing his hand against Watson’s chest found only silent death.
“Watson, no!”
Watson’s many medical lessons provided one way to restart breathing, but the compound evidently doubled as a paralytic. His lungs remained empty. Frozen. If that did not work, compressions would not either. What else?
Nothing. He had nothing. No way to help. No one to send. No doctor could arrive fast enough to do anything. Automatic movements from Watson’s medical lessons soon degraded into anything that might earn a reaction. Shaking his shoulders, screaming in his ear, even slapping his cheek and palms did nothing. Watson remained limp. Unmoving. Dead.
No. Please, no. Watson could not be dead. Not like this. Not at Holmes’ hand.
But nothing he did worked. Watson remained limp against the cushion. His chest did not rise. A piece of glass in front of his face remained horribly clear. Multiple pulse points all found nothing.
And Holmes failed to silence the screams that tried to deny the truth. Whether Holmes had mistaken the dose or this qualified as a sedative after all, the result had taken his friend. He had delivered the dose that killed Watson.
He had killed his friend.
“WATSON!”
Limp. Silent. Dead, heavy silence. Nothing he tried earned the slightest response, and screams faded to wordless grief as familiar footsteps hurried up the stairs. The next moment recalled the case that had started this process. Staying here would only put Mrs. Hudson in danger. He could finish grieving in a bolthole.
And he refused to leave Watson behind. Not again. Firm resolve scooped Watson’s body off the settee, but he relied on muscle memory more than cloudy sight to avoid taking the fast route down the stairs and out the door.
Watson would want him to finish the case. He could decide what he wanted to do later, but he had to finish the case first. For Watson.
Chilly night air slapped his face and ran cold tracks down his cheeks. Several sudden cries suggested others on the street, but he dodged between buildings and through alleys without answering. Only the last hours’ planning directed his steps toward the Covent Garden bolthole. He did not care where he went, and the case did not dictate which concealed hideaway they used. He had chosen Covent Garden for its extra space, more supplies, and a larger sofa. If Watson had to recover in a bolthole, Holmes would ensure he recovered in the most comfortable bolthole available.
Watson would never recover. Not after Holmes had killed him, and the bolthole served as a painful reminder now, but Holmes had no time to find a better hideaway. He could grieve there. Finish the case. Decide what to do next. The Covent Garden bolthole would hide them for a while. Narrow alleys finally dead-ended against a semi-hidden door.
Dead. No breathing. No pulse. Dead. Because of Holmes.
Unless—
Sudden realization halted him just outside the hideaway, one hand still reaching for the key. He had skipped a step. Watson’s every resuscitation lesson had started with removing the shirt, but Holmes had only nudged the buttons aside. He had skipped a step.
Could that thin bit of fabric make a difference?
Unlikely, but the thought refused to leave him alone long enough to retrieve that hidden key. With a glance ensuring the alley remained empty, he ignored the hard cobblestones bruising his knees to set Watson down just outside the bolthole, where shaking hands carefully unfastened just enough buttons to lay his palm flat against the middle of Watson’s chest. Firm pressure held his hand in place, but every beat he thought he felt disappeared the next moment, lost to imagination.
Until he held his own breath to eliminate all movement. His shaking hand braced against his knee. His other hand added more pressure. One deep breath prevented his own rhythm from concealing Watson’s.
And revealed a slow, faint pulse. Far too slow, for Holmes’ comfort, but present. Holmes had not killed his friend. Watson’s heart still beat, however slowly.
Utter relief tried to keep him on the ground. Watson was not dead. Holmes could see no sign of breathing, but Watson had a heartbeat. He could not be dead with a heartbeat, and long seconds passed just tabbing that pulse before he pulled himself to his feet. Unsteady strides nearly staggered across the bolthole to lay his friend on the sofa, where Holmes tabbed that pulse yet again.
Still there. Incredibly faint. But there. Watson still lived.
He locked the door in a daze and returned to count beats. Pulled Watson’s medical supplies from their corner and returned to measure rhythm. Retrieved a container to use as a chair and returned to confirm the heartbeat continued. Pulled a blanket over his friend and settled beside the sofa with one hand on Watson’s chest.
Unmoving chest. The breaths he undoubtedly needed remained too shallow to see. His wrist had no pulse, nor did his neck, but firm pressure on Watson’s chest kept finding a slowly steady rhythm. Holmes kept the grief and fear and loss at bay by pressing his palm against Watson’s sternum. He cared only that he had not killed his friend. Watson’s heart still beat.
The case could wait. Grieving could wait. Everything could wait. Watson still lived. Holmes need only wait for his friend to wake.
He would sit here all day, provided that heartbeat never stopped.