mustbethetruth | doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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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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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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.

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."

"I can see why you decided not to pursue a medical practice. You'd chase all your clients away," he manages, though his mind swirls uncomfortably when he stands up. The pain jolts through him again, but he's better prepared for it this time. He does try not to lean on Watson, but he winds up relying on Watson's strength more than he'd like. He really feels quite ill, now that he's aware of it, and dimly he worries that he might not recover from this. That is a possibility, isn't it?

He dismisses that almost immediately. Watson won't let that happen.

"You're not a client," Watson said, and for the first time his voice broke a little. "You're... you're... damn you, you're..." He wasn't sure how to finish that sentence. Feeling choked, feeling frightened, he unloaded Holmes into the bed. "Stay put," he ordered, and fled out into the sitting room for his bag, for supplies.

He had to pause, breathing, his eyes shut and his hand against his forehead. He knew it was paramount that he kept a clear head, absolutely essential, but he felt about ready to fly to pieces. He wanted to scream, to weep, to pray. He scarcely believed in God anymore, not after Afghanistan, not after what he'd seen and what he'd done there, but he was willing to pray now on the off-chance that there was someone to hear, to beg that this was not some horrid punishment for a sin against a God he doubted. Holmes was everything. He wanted some other doctor to take over so he could fall apart; he didn't trust anyone else with Holmes's life.

When he returned, he was attempting to be calm again, though there was a pucker of worry in the middle of his forehead. "Let's get this properly cleaned out, first things first," he murmured, his voice steely (he had to be steely, the alternative was hysterics) but quieter. He sat down on the bed, taking Holmes's leg in his hands, and began dabbing at the inflamed skin. At least he saw no signs of gangrene, not yet, no signs that would suggest the quickest and surest cure was amputation.

Holmes doesn't know where Watson thinks he's going to go; he's still only moderately interested in any of the goings-on -- in his leg or his illness or even, at this point, the criminal, and that's when he recognizes the seriousness of his sickness. He attempts to rouse himself out of his fog, but the problem is that now there's a thick fog of fever in his mind, even if he forces aside the black mood.

He detests feeling sick. It's all coming to him now, where he'd been effectively blocking it out before. There's a pounding in his head from the movement, and his skin prickles with a sick ache. He's cold without his trousers, and he wants to throw a blanket over them only he doesn't quite want to lift an arm to tug his blankets out from under him.

He opens his eyes when Watson returns, and he isn't too sick that he can't see how affected Watson is. Expending the effort to reassure Watson seems very necessary, and he brushes his fingertips through Watson's hair. But then Watson starts to treat his leg and he hisses in pain, snatching his hand back to grip the covers.

"I shudder to think what's second," he says, through somewhat chattery teeth.

"If it's unpleasant," Watson muttered, "you almost deserve it." As soon as he'd said it, he hated it, hated himself, but there was no sense in wishing it back. He was lashing out, that was all. God forgive him.

He was infinitely grateful for that touch in his hair.

"This will be some of the worst of it, I expect," he added, more gently. He hoped so. If they were very lucky, he could hope so without impunity. Somewhere past his anger and his fear was now a feeling of hurt, a resentment that Holmes had not told him this, that he had had no idea his lover had been stabbed in the leg, and some days ago by the look of it. He was a fool, possibly, for not realising sooner.

Watson's words sting, particularly when that's precisely what he's been telling himself since the criminal got away. This illness, though -- he can't even wish this on himself, and it hurts that Watson apparently does. His head throbs again from the pain, and his leg involuntarily moves away from Watson's touch, and he doesn't even try to keep it still. It's his small, sickly form of rebellion.

"Is that your professional opinion?" he murmurs, aware it isn't the best comeback, but his mind is dull, and his pain and guilt are real. He doesn't need Watson to remind him of them.

"That this will be the worst or that you deserve it?" Watson sighed. "Yes to the former, no to the latter. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

If it were any other patient, he would not be sitting here considering the worst case scenarios that might result, but this wasn't any other patient. He stilled Holmes's leg with a firm hand, dabbing at the wound with antiseptic. He paused, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to sort himself out, calm himself down. Holmes was, he told himself, going to be fine. He would not consider any other outcome.

Finishing, he reached for his bag and began to redress the wound.

"How reassuring. It is troubling when one's doctor thinks you ought to be in pain." A chill runs through him and he attempts to fight it, clamping his jaw shut, but the reality is that the room is quite cold on his exposed legs and there isn't much he can do to combat that without outside help. His interest in his leg is actually rising; he has to take a breath before he speaks, and he wets his lips.

"It isn't gangrene," he says, just to confirm, just in case his hazy observations of Watson had steered him to the incorrect conclusion.

"No." Watson looked up from his bandaging, a clouded expression on his face. "It isn't. You're quite lucky, there. Good God, Holmes--" He broke off, for his voice had cracked, and he hadn't any notion of what to say in any case.

He looked away for a moment, feeling awkward, feeling like he'd shown too much of his heart. At last he turned back to Holmes, and moved to take off Holmes's nightshirt. He had brought in a carafe of water, a glass, and a cloth, and his plan was to cool Holmes down a little that way. He didn't say anything else; he felt far too anxious and self-conscious by now.

His head protests moving, but he goes along with Watson, far too disturbed by the emotion in his voice to do anything else. He's frustrated that he can't be more aware of himself to make Watson feel better, but then if he was, Watson wouldn't be upset at all. He reaches for him, takes his hand, and stills him, needing his attention.

"I'll be alright," he promises, because he's sure of it, because Watson will see him through this until he's better. "How is it that I'm the one sick and I have a better poker face than you?"

"Because I'm only myself," Watson sighed. With his damp, cool cloth in hand, he shed some of his own clothes and climbed into bed beside Holmes. This was definitely not appropriate physician's conduct, but these were extenuating circumstances, and there was, after all, no chance of contagion. He pressed the cool cloth against Holmes's forehead, even as he drew the blanket over the two of them.

This made things slightly better at least, slightly more bearable. Irrationally, he had the notion that this position would somehow help, as if he could draw Holmes's fever out of him by proximity, and bear it himself. He'd survived such things before, and worse.

"Most of my patients aren't so dear," he said softly.

"I should hope not. I'd be very jealous indeed." He squirms closer to Watson and pulled the blanket in tighter around himself; a chill steals over him suddenly and he wills it away, burrowing closer still. The only change from how miserable Holmes felt before is that now he's physically miserable; internally he's just as frustrated with himself, and -- well, no, he's more guilty. He's just as cranky, however.

"I hurt, John," he says, petulant, and reaches up to take the cloth off his forehead so he can instead turn his head and tuck it against Watson's neck.

"Shh. I know," Watson said, soothing. He cradled Holmes's head against his shoulder, running his fingers over his hair and neck. The feverish heat he could feel against his own skin worried him terribly. It just felt wrong, more than anything, to have him so hot and sick against him. When he was better, Watson might very well demand answers as to what had happened and why Holmes had been so... so... so stupid as to hide it, but for now, he wanted to treasure him, to keep him safe.

All the same, he moved the damp cloth to Holmes's chest. His other hand moved, seeking, from Holmes's neck, under his arms, over his clavicle, feeling for swollen, tender lymph nodes. His eyes were closed; he worked by feel.

"Is that necessary?" he complains, writhing under Watson's hands. "That isn't actually helping the pain. They're swollen; take my word for it." His eyelids feel hot and heavy, and it's good to close them; he wishes he could smell Watson better, but mostly all he can smell through his nose is the same smell of sickness that he tastes, that he feels crawling over his skin.

"On the bright side, I feel able to sleep," he mumbles, and he sighs, laying his hand on Watson's arm, which seems somehow cold, so horribly wrong, against his palm. He whines in his throat because he's sick and his Watson shouldn't feel wrong, and he should smell like Watson, and it's not fair that he doesn't.

"It isn't supposed to help," Watson pointed out, gently, with the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. "It's diagnostic. And yes, it's necessary."

He tucked Holmes against him, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Go ahead and sleep, then. It will do you good." He stroked his fingers over Holmes's skin, moving them in soothing circles. He himself felt sick with worry, and there was a miserable pit of fear in his stomach. "Shall I get you a drink of water first?"

What he'd like is some cocaine, but he isn't going to ask for that, and even he recognizes that may not be the best idea. He does hurt, though, and he purses his lips, considering.

"And some paracetamol?" he asks, and he braces himself as a spasm of pain runs up his leg to his hip and across his pelvis. His head throbs again, and he doesn't really want Watson to get up at all, even if he would really like some pain medicine. This infection, he finds, and his absolute faith that Watson will get him through this, is helping him to get over the escaped criminal and the fact he got stabbed in the first place. It's a sufficient enough distraction, or at least it does a good job of scrambling his thoughts.

"Of course," Watson said, quietly cursing himself for not thinking of that in the first place. He was feeling more than a little scattered, with everything that was going on. He pressed a quick kiss against Holmes's too-hot forehead, and detangled himself to rise from the bed.

He poured out a glass of water, and fetched a few pills from his bag. When he climbed into the bed, being cautious not to spill, he put an arm around Holmes to lift him into a somewhat more upright position. "Here, love."

He grits his teeth against the pain from his leg as he sits, and he swallows the pills down gratefully. His mind is catching up to the proceedings slowly, sluggish from both the sickness and his rather black mood; now that he's settling down from the treatment of his leg, resentment is stirring in him, hot and annoyed, at the blackguard that did this. At the very least he isn't beating himself up as much anymore, as he's getting his punishment now.

Sighing, he turns his face against Watson's neck again, nuzzling against him.

"Stay with me," he murmurs, and he winds his arm around Watson's middle.

Watson set the glass aside, and settled down in the bed again. He put his arms around Holmes, drawing him close, almost protectively.

"I wouldn't dream of going anywhere," he promised. He meant that; the risk that this could all go quite tragically wrong was far too real for him to waste any more time apart from him.

Holmes nods, aware he's being a little bit of a child, but he's been in a fog for so long now, and now the fog physically hurts, and he doesn't really care. He falls asleep for the first time in days, and though it's a good sleep, he drifts closer to awareness at times and finds himself hot or shivery or in such pain from his wound that it's difficult to fall back into a hard sleep. Watson's comforting beside him the whole time, though, which helps.

His nap ends, however, when he moves in his sleep and his leg jolts in pain and he starts awake. He's still hot, still miserable, and still dizzy, especially now that his body's flushed with energy after he jerked in reaction to the pain in his leg. He groans and pushes away from Watson, heat radiating off him, and he shoves at the blankets.

"Damn -- infection, damn fever. Damn blackguard. Damn everything," he declares darkly, and he gropes around for that cloth so he can put it over his eyes.

doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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