Sherlock Holmes (
mustbethetruth) wrote2012-01-02 02:01 am
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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.
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 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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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"It isn't gangrene," he says, just to confirm, just in case his hazy observations of Watson had steered him to the incorrect conclusion.
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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.
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"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?"
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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."
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"You'd have to wait your turn," he says, cranky, and sighs through his nose. "He's surely lost himself in the Continent by now." Discussing this doesn't really seem like the best path to him feeling better, and he pushes the blankets further off him, feeling ready to suffocate from how hot he is.
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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.
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"I'll take a cigarette," he says, managing to sound imperial even through the fever.
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"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.
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"A bath requires movement. Having no fever would make me more comfortable," he snaps, and he turns his head away from Watson.
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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?"
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"Fine," he relents after a moment, sighing heavily, and he takes a long drag. "If it will make you be quiet." He gives Watson a very small, teasing smile.