mustbethetruth: (Angsty. Sick.)
Sherlock Holmes ([personal profile] mustbethetruth) wrote2012-01-02 02:01 am

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.
lightconductor: (oh)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 02:49 am (UTC)(link)
"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.

lightconductor: (calm)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 04:08 am (UTC)(link)
"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.
lightconductor: (alone)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 05:15 am (UTC)(link)
"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.
lightconductor: (crestfallen)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 06:46 am (UTC)(link)
"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.
lightconductor: (light)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 07:15 am (UTC)(link)
"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.
lightconductor: (I see)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-03 04:22 pm (UTC)(link)
"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?"
lightconductor: (what's that)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 02:55 am (UTC)(link)
"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."
lightconductor: (tell me all about it)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 03:48 am (UTC)(link)
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.
lightconductor: (oh)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 06:37 am (UTC)(link)
Not quite so tired himself, Watson had been trying to distract himself -- mostly unsuccessfully -- with a novel, but he had laid it down in a moment to roll after Holmes, restraining himself from immediately catching him up in his arms and holding him close again. Instead, he sought out the cloth, and held it out for him to take.

What he wanted to say was to demand to know why Holmes hadn't told him, before things got to this state, but he knew all too well that this was not the time nor place to have that conversation.

"Should I meet the chap who did this to you?" he asked, casually. "I'd almost like to do him a similar turn."
lightconductor: (tell me all about it)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 07:22 am (UTC)(link)
A failure? That explained... well, a good deal, actually. Watson dropped the subject. Not a good time. "I don't mind only being second," he said mildly.

He ran a hand over Holmes's shoulder, part reassuring, part a caress, part a test to see how hot or dry his skin might be.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked. It would be good for Holmes to stay hydrated, to be certain.
lightconductor: (o rly)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 08:04 am (UTC)(link)
Watson considered for a moment, debating the wisdom of this. "You ought to have a drink," he advised, but he reached over to the bedside table, lit a cigarette, and passed it to Holmes. He didn't much feel like one himself, not now.

"Did the paracetamol help any?" he asked, hardly daring to hope that it had. "Perhaps a cool bath might make you more comfortable."

He was fussing, just a little. He knew he was. He couldn't help it. He was frightened -- and he was not a coward, very little in the world honestly frightened John Watson -- and he would have given his own right arm, his own life to ensure Holmes's well-being, just now.
lightconductor: (concerned)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-04 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)
"I am trying to help," Watson said crossly. "You may feel free to snap at me for my stupidity when I'm not following the mad flights of your brain, but this particular subject is my specialty."

He sat up, and lit himself a second cigarette, feeling all to pieces and exhausted, not to mention guilty for losing his temper with a sick man.

"I could," he said, calmer, "bring the bath to you. A tub of water and a washcloth. Would it help?"