doctor, doctor, gimme the news

[mustbethetruth]

It's been four days since the criminal responsible for the theft of a lady's necklace -- by means of disguise, distraction, and a stuffed dodo bird -- and Holmes hasn't moved from his chair except to obtain more tobacco (and then he moved his Persian slipper nearer to him, and he wouldn't have gotten up at all except it was four in the morning and Watson was asleep). He hasn't eaten anything of consequence, nor had he a few days leading up to the utter failure that was the end of that case.

The criminal had gotten away. The fact that he'd stabbed Holmes in the thigh during the fight doesn't really even mean anything to Holmes; the bleeding's stopped, he bandaged the wound, and he doesn't really feel it -- not over the feelings of loss and defeat, anyway. He hasn't mentioned it to Watson, but honestly the thought hasn't even crossed his mind. His mind is too dark a place, at present, to entertain such thoughts about what his lover would like to know, or what his doctor might like to know.

When Holmes starts to turn ill, he barely notices. It's only when he starts to shiver does he notice that he's broken into a sweat; even still, he barely pays it any mind. The dizziness is almost welcome. He leans into his fever and leans his head back against his chair, letting his eyes fall shut.

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[lightconductor]

Though aware that Holmes had been involved in some case recently, Watson wasn't sure what it had been or what it had involved. He was aware, too that things had not gone well, for Holmes was now in this sulk on the sofa. There was no sense in rushing him out of it, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

Coming inside from the weather, Watson ascended the stairs, and hung his coat and hat on the rack just in the door. A quick glance confirmed that Holmes was -- distressingly, depressingly, unsurprisingly -- still lounging lethargically about their rooms. He was torn between annoyance and grief at this; he wasn't quite sure how much longer he was supposed to put up with it.

Sighing, he wandered over to Holmes, trying to judge if he was truly asleep, and wondering if he ought to wake him up anyway. "Have you eaten at all?" he asked, loudly, with a bit of a sigh in his voice. As he drew near he observed the sheen of sweat, the flush of his skin, and that alarmed all his professional instincts. He laid his hand alongside Holmes's face, and his heart seized in his chest at the feel of fever burning there.

"Holmes, talk to me."

[mustbethetruth]

He wonders dimly if he's sick, deduces that he probably is, and decides he doesn't really care, though he knows that Watson will care; he can hear it already in Watson's voice, all that caring, and Holmes isn't in the mood for it. He sighs impatiently through his nose and tugs the blanket tighter around him; he keeps his eyes shut, but doesn't flinch away from Watson's touch.

"No. Is that sufficient talking?" he says, and his teeth chatter traitorously as he finishes; he clenches his jaw tightly and burrows further into his chair, and he turns his head away from Watson.

[lightconductor]

"It will do." It told Watson a fair bit, in fact. Though deducing a man's history from his coatsleeve and shoes was beyond him, this was his field of expertise. He could hear the shiver in Holmes's voice, the discomfort and seriousness, and most reassuringly the fact that he wasn't so gone so as to be delirious.

"Come on, get up. I want you in bed." He slipped his arm in behind Holmes, pulling at him to follow him to his feet; his manner was brisk, and forceful, but not ungentle either. "This is no place for a sick man. When did this come on?"

[mustbethetruth]

"Recently," he answers sourly, "and I'm not really in the mood for sex right now, Watson. Can't you see that I'm sick?"

He isn't particularly interested in fighting Watson off, as his bed does sound good; he does feel like he could actually sleep sometime soon, and this blanket is hardly doing a proper job of keeping him warm. He goes easily with Watson, except when it comes time to support his weight on his leg. Pain jolts up to his hip, and he gives a small yelp of pain, mostly out of surprise, as he loses his balance and falls back into his chair.

[lightconductor]

"What have you done?" Watson demanded at once. "What have you done to yourself?"

He was angry, furiously angry, but that was more than half a cover for how very terrified he was. Holmes had been injured, and he hadn't known about it, and now he was seriously ill. He dropped to his knees in front of Holmes, and the first thing he did was run his hands over the leg he had seen waver under the pain of injury. Finding what he suspected, the feel of a wound, he began tugging at Holmes's trousers to reveal it.

[mustbethetruth]

"I wrapped the wound and stopped the bleeding," he returns testily, and he looks away darkly; he's already in a bad mood, over being sick and hurt and a failure, and remembering how a criminal not only got away from him, but got a stab in too, doesn't help. "It isn't as if I stabbed myself."

He helps Watson with his trousers, still not particularly interested in fighting Watson, just as he isn't particularly interested in being sick, or in getting better.

[lightconductor]

Watson gave a hiss through his teeth as he saw the state of the wound. "Next time leave the doctoring to me," he said sternly. He laid his fingers over the bandage, feeling the heat of it, even past the heat of fever. Infection. No doubt that was it, no doubt that was why Holmes had a fever. That frightened him more than anything; he had seen too many men die of such infections, had come to close to being such a one himself. To see Holmes in this state, to possibly lose him because of this... he couldn't le thimself think it. It was too horrifying, and dwelling on that now would help nothing.

He peeled the bandage off, and could not really hide his wince. "Oh, you've done a fine job on yourself, certainly," he snapped. It was terrible bedside manner, but most patients were not... were not his friend, his partner, his lover, his almost spouse, all the very many things Holmes was to him.

Watson rose again, and slipped his arm under Holmes's shoulders, supporting him as much as he could. "Bed. Come on."

[lightconductor]

"No, not because it will make me quiet," Watson protested, though he rose. "Because just perhaps, I might know better than you on this one subject. Just perhaps. At the very least it might cool you down. Don't go anywhere."

He slipped out into the sitting room, and down the hall to the washroom to fill a basin with cool water. As soon as he was out of Holmes's sight, he sagged a little, let his anxiety and fear wash over him, his exhaustion. By the time he returned to the bedroom, he had schooled himself back into calm.

He didn't know what to say; for lack of anything else, Watson stepped up to Holmes and kissed him on the forehead, basin and cloth balanced in one hand.

[mustbethetruth]

He's a little disappointed Watson only kisses his forehead and doesn't hang around for a proper kiss. Though he's still irritated, he finds comfort in Watson's presence, particularly touches to parts of his body that currently aren't crawling with pain. Watson could use some comfort too, he sees, but he currently isn't quite sure how to offer that. He lifts an eyebrow imperiously and draws from his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

"Very well, then. Have at me," he teases, and he only wishes he was feeling well enough for this to be a much different endeavor.

[lightconductor]

"I think you do seem in slightly better spirits," Watson observed, smiling a little. He set the basin on the bedside table and knelt on the bed. He wrung out the washcloth, and began to sponge Holmes down, starting at his chest.

It was a bit strange; this was an act he had done many times before, but never for someone he loved, and it was a strange mix of professionalism and tenderness. He ran his fingers over Holmes's abdomen, sighing.

"Does it help?" he asked.

[mustbethetruth]

He shivers when the sponge first touches him, but soon calms down, and he nods at Watson by way of his answer.

"Even sick, it seems I can't deny the appeal of being bathed by you for very long at all." He smirks faintly and lets his eyes close, for his eyelids are too heavy at present to keep them open for very long. He takes a long drag and tries to focus on Watson's presence rather than the pain in his leg.

"Is the fever very bad?" he asks, voice soft.

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed a little, trying to choose his words carefully. He didn't cease sponging Holmes gently, not even slow down. "It's enough to be worrisome," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I plan on seeing that you get no worse."

Truthfully, he knew that he had little control over such things, but that didn't mean, either, that he could not try. Holmes's chance for recover were good, assuming the infection spread no further.

[mustbethetruth]

He sighs through his nose and stills, smoking while Watson works, and he absorbs this information. He has no doubt he'll recover, but the length of time he'll be sick like this, he can't exactly estimate. His leg twinges, and he grits his teeth before he reaches for Watson's free hand and brings it to his lips.

"Anything else I ought to know about my prognosis?" he asks, trying to sound cavalier, but that black mood is creeping back over him; he wills it away as best he can and fixes his gaze on Watson, being attentive and sweet, and he holds onto it to keep him steady.

[thelandlady]

She knows that Mr. Holmes hasn't been eating for days; she knows perfectly well that it isn't likely at all he'll be eating today, despite Dr. Watson's best efforts. It's trying to plan meals around Mr. Holmes's temperamental appetite, and more food gets wasted than she likes to think about. She tries to save it, she does, but when he gets into his spells, she doesn't want to subject the doctor to days and days of leftovers. It's trying, it is. Mostly because it's so painful to see someone so vibrant as Mr. Holmes, so alive and intelligent, reduced to such defeated depression. When he leaves his meals untouched, when it seems unwise to keep them, she gives them to his Irregulars. She makes them swear not to tell, and also to wipe their feet the next time.

It's possible that Dr. Watson has managed to coax Mr. Holmes into an appetite, so she decides to check upstairs before she starts her plans for the next day's meals. She knocks at their sitting room door and calls out, folding her hands in front of her.

"Dr. Watson? Might I have a word?"

[lightconductor]

Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Were it not for Holmes sleeping alongside him, he would have been tempted to bark out that now was not a good time -- tempted, but almost certainly would not have. He couldn't be that ungentlemanly, not really.

He detangled himself, gently, and went out into the sitting room. He was well aware he must look a mess, rumpled clothing and his hair all askew; he felt haggard, for what it was worth. Still, Watson straightened his collar before opening the door. He was glad, at least, that she hadn't let herself in today.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Watson tried to smile for her, but he didn't feel it. "What can I do for you?"

[thelandlady]

"I -- " Her eyes sweep over him, and then flick past him to Holmes's empty chair, to the otherwise empty sitting room, and then to the partially door of Holmes's room. She may not be a consulting detective, but she knows her tenants, and she pushes past Dr. Watson into the sitting room.

"How long has he been like this, Doctor? Has it been all day? Sit." She reaches for him and takes him by the arm, leading him over to a chair.

[lightconductor]

Watson let himself be led away, though he glanced anxiously in the direction of Holmes's bedroom. He should have closed that door.

He sat down, looking up at Mrs. Hudson helplessly. It would, he realised dimly, be far too easy to betray something suspicious about their relationship, but it was hard to care overmuch for that at the moment. That was probably unwise.

"It came on him while I was out," he admitted. "He is... quite seriously ill."

[thelandlady]

She doesn't have to be a consulting detective either to see that Holmes and Watson are rather close. Like brothers, she tells herself, but 'brothers' isn't exactly a safe topic, either. Not when her brother was close to his flatmate, and not when Mr. Holmes's brother has made her swear not to comment on any close attachments Mr. Holmes might make. She doesn't find it unappealing, nor any particular hardship; her brother was a good, kindhearted man who didn't deserve to die in war, and Holmes and Watson are good, kindhearted men who deserve all the happiness they can get. All that her brother lost, surely.

So she doesn't pay any mind to how upset Watson is, beyond the immediate need for concern.

"What is it, Doctor?" Now, as for things she doesn't normally approve of, it seems as good an occasion as any to make an exception, and she crosses to the sideboard to get Watson a brandy.

[lightconductor]

"An infection." Watson was wringing his hands, he found, and he stopped himself. Now he hadn't any clue what to do with his hands; he took the offered brandy gladly. "He was injured, and it's become infected. He's sleeping now, thankfully."

Better that Holmes sleep through the worst of this than suffer awake, surely. Watson took a swallow of brandy, staring at his feet, his hands, his glass, anywhere but at Mrs. Hudson.

"His fever is quite high," he confessed.

[mustbethetruth]

"It would be terribly convenient if that wasn't a problem for her." He eats obediently; he isn't actively hungry, but he can taste the soup, and it is good. He's aware that he hasn't eaten in some time, and he needs his strength, especially after his and Watson's powerful moment, there. He goes for pieces of chicken, though he tries to leave enough for Watson, too.

Watson's question gives him pause; were his face not already flushed with fever, he'd probably color. He ducks his head and has another spoonful of soup, hiding his expression, though he isn't sure what exactly his expression is.

"He must. He's the only family member who still enjoys speaking with me." He sighs and looks away, a smile chasing the corners of his mouth. "He has his favorite things. His favorite chair, his favorite club, favorite tobacco. I must rank in there somewhere as his favorite brother, the fact that I'm his only brother notwithstanding. I owe him quite a lot," he murmurs, more seriously. "I'm not sure what I give back to him."

[lightconductor]

Watson thought of his own brother, and his strained relationship with him, drunkard that he was. They had never seen eye to eye, not ever, less so now, not after everything that had come to pass between them. Even were they to somehow reconcile, there was no chance of his approving of Watson's... inclinations.

"Possibly," he said, "he just prefers to have a queer brother than no brother at all. You're very lucky for that, you know." He picked up the tea and took a sip, casting a slightly mischevious glance in Holmes's direction. "If nothing else, what family I have now I am very reluctant to lose."

To make his point, he reached over and squeezed Holmes's thigh.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes does feel sympathy for Watson's lack of family, particularly the brother he's no doubt thinking of right now; he wishes Mycroft could be the kind of person that one bonded with, but he's fairly certain you need to be a Holmes to begin to understand how to interact with Mycroft. Then again, Watson understands him well enough; maybe there's hope for them, if Holmes ever got them together for long enough.

"As am I," he returns, laying his hand over Watson's and squeezing gently. "I have but you and Mycroft. It'd be wise for us to keep the Lestrades close at hand," he adds with a wry twist to his mouth. "And perhaps now Mrs. Hudson. How our family grows."

[lightconductor]

"There's something to be said for the family one chooses."

Watson sighed a little, exhaling from both his worry and the strange sense of contentment there was in this moment, as terrible as it was. He knew full well the way illnesses could stretch out, knew far too well that it was foolish to conclude Holmes was already getting better for good, but this moment of better spirits was... encouraging.

"You seem to be feeling a little better," he observed.

[mustbethetruth]

"Yes," he says, nodding, and he reaches for the cup of tea. "A bit. I'm still warm; my leg hurts, quite a bit, but at the very least I no longer hear two people arguing." His eyes drift over Watson and away again; the hallucination hadn't been troubling when his mind had been complicit in it, but now it's difficult to imagine Watson like that.

"And you are whole again," he murmurs before he takes a drink of tea.

[lightconductor]

Watson looked at Holmes, wondering at the details of this particular delusion, and wondering if he really wanted to know. It probably wasn't hard to guess. "I'm glad to hear it," he murmured. "I prefer being whole, generally."

He leaned sideways, resting his head on Holmes's shoulder, although not too heavily. "Remember it isn't real, if that helps. My dear," Watson sighed, searching for words. "My dear, I don't think I shall leave your side for a moment longer than is necessary."