Watson couldn't speak, although he hugged her back readily enough. He watched her go, feeling suddenly more alone than ever. He was, he thought, quite lucky to have such a landlady as Mrs. Hudson, and he hoped he was even luckier than he suspected, though that would have been too much to ask for.
He draped his pyjamas over his shoulder, and picked up the tray to carry it back into Holmes's bedroom. He laid the soup down on the first available surface and shut the door behind him. It certainly smelled good, though he still had little appetite himself.
Turning to look at Holmes, watching him sleep through the fever. He loved this man far too much, and he was far too close to losing him, and there wasn't much he could do about it besides wait and watch. That was damnably frustrating, both as a doctor and as a lover. This was the sort of situation where he had to place his trust in God, a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore, and a God he wasn't sure approved of him in the first place.
Watson sat down on the edge of the bed. Very delicately, he brushed a stray strand of hair from Holmes's face, entranced by the lines of his face, the angles of his bone structure. This man was absolutely unique. Probably the world had never known such a man as Sherlock Holmes, and Watson could not entirely credit the idea that he was lucky enough to be truly loved by such an incredible creature. To think that he might have to sit and watch Holmes die, and be such a failure of a doctor that he could do nothing...
Abruptly, something in Watson's chest simply broke. He was not a man who often broke down -- he had seen and lived through far too much tragedy and horror, and had to stay in control during it, for him to be entirely at the mercy of his emotions -- and had there been anyone to see he would have managed to hold himself together. Now, though, Holmes was asleep, and Mrs. Hudson was safely downstairs, and there was nobody to witness if he was less than a perfect specimen of masculinity. Unable and unwilling to hold himself together any longer, Watson turned away, and wept. His weeping was soft, muffled by his hand, and bitterly heartbroken, frightened.
no subject
He draped his pyjamas over his shoulder, and picked up the tray to carry it back into Holmes's bedroom. He laid the soup down on the first available surface and shut the door behind him. It certainly smelled good, though he still had little appetite himself.
Turning to look at Holmes, watching him sleep through the fever. He loved this man far too much, and he was far too close to losing him, and there wasn't much he could do about it besides wait and watch. That was damnably frustrating, both as a doctor and as a lover. This was the sort of situation where he had to place his trust in God, a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore, and a God he wasn't sure approved of him in the first place.
Watson sat down on the edge of the bed. Very delicately, he brushed a stray strand of hair from Holmes's face, entranced by the lines of his face, the angles of his bone structure. This man was absolutely unique. Probably the world had never known such a man as Sherlock Holmes, and Watson could not entirely credit the idea that he was lucky enough to be truly loved by such an incredible creature. To think that he might have to sit and watch Holmes die, and be such a failure of a doctor that he could do nothing...
Abruptly, something in Watson's chest simply broke. He was not a man who often broke down -- he had seen and lived through far too much tragedy and horror, and had to stay in control during it, for him to be entirely at the mercy of his emotions -- and had there been anyone to see he would have managed to hold himself together. Now, though, Holmes was asleep, and Mrs. Hudson was safely downstairs, and there was nobody to witness if he was less than a perfect specimen of masculinity. Unable and unwilling to hold himself together any longer, Watson turned away, and wept. His weeping was soft, muffled by his hand, and bitterly heartbroken, frightened.