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 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.

Squeezing Holmes's hand closely, Watson did pause for a moment. He bent down to kiss Holmes, rather chastely; the idea that he might somehow lose Holmes to this was far too real, and far too horrifying to consider.

"Rest would be advisable," he said. "Plenty of it." He sighed again, shifting on the bed. Lying by omission was not something he was good at, not with Holmes. "I won't lie," he confessed. "This has the potential to be serious. If it gets no worse you should recover. You absolutely must tell me if you begin to worsen in any way."

Is that a partial rebuke for his silence up until now? He frowns to himself; he'd barely even given that any passing thought whatsoever, had barely registered as important, because he'd seen to it and was rather lost to himself. He ignores it though, not wanting to fight, not sure if he has the energy for it.

"Very well. I hurt," he puffs again instead, and he reaches for Watson to pull him down into a more substantial kiss. "My thigh seems to be throbbing with my heartbeat. I'm miserable. Shall I remind you every hour or so?"

Though the kiss was pleasant, Watson wasn't at all sure he should be encouraging that sort of thing. After all, it might lead to things that Holmes wouldn't be physically up for, in the category of excessive exertion.

"I was thinking," he said, rather wryly, "more along the vein that if you begin to slip into delirium and start hearing voices, you ought to inform me." He smoothed his hand over Holmes's brow, and kissed him again, gently. He hated seeing anyone suffer -- he knew suffering too intimately for that -- but seeing Holmes suffer was far more difficult. "Or if you begin losing feeling in your leg, for that matter."

He snorts and closes his eyes, and he strains to tap the ashes out in the ashtray; he hisses slightly when the movement has repercussions in his leg, and he settles back with a sigh. "I wouldn't mind losing feeling in it, just now."

He can feel sleep pulling at him again, and he takes a last drag of his cigarette before he strains to put it out, steadfastly doing his best to ignore his leg. Relaxing again, he closes his eyes.

"I may fall asleep," he murmurs, his breathing already slowing.

Watson put cloth and basin to one side, and he resettled himself alongside Holmes, curling protectively around him. "Go ahead and sleep, then," he answered in a whisper. He stroked his fingers over Holmes's skin. "I shall be right here."

He pressed a kiss into Holmes's hair, resisting the urge to pull Holmes against him like an overprotective and smothery mother.

"You'll be fine," Watson murmured, admittedly half to himself. "At least if I have anything to do with it."

If he had to get horribly sick, he's glad it's after he and Watson have reached the point where Watson cuddles him like this without needing to be asked. Doubtless it's to do with Watson's desire to smother Holmes to him and somehow keep him from being ill, but he enjoys being held, regardless. It makes drifting into sleep a little easier.

The next thing Holmes is aware of are dreams -- terrifying, dark dreams, full of policemen and thieves in the night, men in masks with knives, and then guns, distant screaming, and soldiers falling, being torn to pieces. Somehow they're both in Afghanistan and on the Holmes property, and Holmes has a toy gun in his hand; he can't tell if he's a child or an adult or somewhere in between, but it doesn't matter. There's heat, unending and incredible heat, and Holmes starts to look for the source of the fire.

His drift back to semiconsciousness is confirmed when he settles on the source as himself. He's hot, uncomfortable; he seems to be burning a hole beneath him in the bed, and he feels smothered, suffocated. There's a roaring in his ears and a pounding in his temples as blood pulses; maybe it's trying to escape, maybe that's why his head is throbbing unpleasantly too, but he thinks that's because of the voices, chattering back and forth.

He asks them to stop, but his words only come out as a garbled moan, and he doesn't have the energy to try again.

Though he had dozed off a little, Watson was too light a sleeper to continue long with Holmes moaning. As he woke, he fixed his gaze on Holmes, and he felt the blood drain from his face. No, no, no. He knew this too well, both from living it and treating it, and seeing Holmes like this now was horrifying behond all words. It wasn't fair, not nearly; he loved this man, and he wasn't ashamed of it -- not really, not honestly -- and to lose him now would be the worst sort of sin against the natura of love.

He pressed his hand lightly against Holmes's chest, feeling the fresh flush of fever. "Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?" He didn't hold out much hope for that, but he had to ask. He felt positively ill with terror, wished vaguely that he could take himself off somewhere and vomit away the fear.

He didn't know what to say. "I love you" ad infinitum seemed woefully inaccurate.

One of the soldiers seems to be talking to him; his voice is thick and difficult to make out, probably because, as Holmes watches, his shoulder becomes bloodier, seems to explode in slow motion. It's fairly horrifying, and Holmes ought to recoil in terror, but he doesn't feel afraid, only exceedingly sad. There's a name rolling around in his brain, and it's difficult to hold onto it, but it finally breaks through.

Watson.

He struggles for the clarity that Watson's name tries to bring with it. Watson isn't really hurt, but that fact spins away from him before he can really grab onto it. He groans again and tries for Watson's name; that he manages, but beyond that he can't really say anything else.

Watson stared a moment, feeling lost and torn. His own name had never sound so beautiful and so sad, he thought. How lucid Holmes was was hard to tell.

"I'm here, old boy," he said, breathless. "Hold on for me." Reluctantly, he rose and all but ran to his medical bag, where he retrived a powder. His hands were still, miraculously not shaking, as he mixed it with a glass of water. Anything to bring the fever down, provided he could get some of it into Holmes.

At Holmes's side again, Watson slid his arm behind him. "I need you to drink this," he said, trying not to beg. "If you can."

Watson seems to be speaking to him at the end of a tunnel, and Holmes struggles to comprehend. Drink something. It's concerning to be propped near Watson's shoulder, and now Holmes can see his leg, in the same shape. He wants to drink this thing, whatever it is, for Watson's sake; he shouldn't be too troubled when he's hurt like this.

He parts his lips and lifts a hand, but his arm is heavy; he swallows down the drink when Watson tips it into his mouth, and he's disconcerted when some of it dribbles out. He coughs, tries lifting his arm again, and manages to wipe at his face.

"Sorry," he mumbles, but his head's throbbing now from the coughing, and he groans again, reaching for a kind of oblivion to fall into.

"Easy, easy," Watson soothed. He put the glass aside, and stroked a hand over Holmes's hair. "Just stay with me. I'm right here, stay with me."

He held onto that idea; so long as Holmes could stay lucid enough, perhaps everything would be okay. He had to cool him down, he knew that. This fever was becoming too worrisome to let it run its course. He wanted to weep, didn't dare to.

One-handed, he reached for the washcloth in the basin, wrung it out one-handed, placed it carefully on Holmes's forehead, watching closely.

It's difficult to concentrate, to focus on Watson being there, but slipping away again seems increasingly impossible. Probably that's good, except he'd like to relax, like to shut out these confusing sensations that only make his head hurt worse. The cloth is cool, refreshing, and he needs it all over his body, it seems like. It makes it a little easier to ground himself, and he licks his lips, a little inexpertly, licking away the excess liquid.

"Watson," he tries, and he furrows his brow, rallying himself together. This is important; he needs to verify this, and he struggles to find the words as he brings his hand up again to touch lightly at his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"What?" To say that Watson was surprised by this was an understatement, and he looked at the hand on his shoulder. His brow furrowed; it wasn't hard for him to make the connection. What sort of confusion, what sort of fever dream was Holmes having? Fever could bring on all sorts of delusions, he knew this, and to see Holmes struggling against them was... painful. "No, I'm not hurt. I'm perfectly well, I promise you."

He put his hand over Holmes's and squeezed gently. "We are safe, you and I."

"Oh," he breathes, and that should be comforting, but it isn't, not really. He narrows his eyes at Watson's shoulder and tries to force it into proper focus. He might get there; he isn't sure, and he shuts his eyes again, taking a deep breath.

"I'm hallucinating," he says on an exhale. "Not very safe."

"It will pass," Watson promised. "It isn't real. I'm real, and I'm safe, and I will keep you safe. I promise you."

He dipped the cloth in the basin again, and began sponging off Holmes's chest, his touch very slow and gentle and reassuring as he possibly could manage.

"Put your head in my lap," he suggested, "and I will help in the best way I can."

Holmes steadies himself and shifts, though it's difficult to move, and his head throbs unpleasantly. He manages it, and immediately closes his eyes again. He tries to still himself, to find some kind of comfort or peace, and he doesn't really achieve it. He huffs a breath, his cheeks blowing out, and he sighs, breathing in Watson's comforting smell. It helps, too, that he blocks out the sight of Watson with his hurt-but-not shoulder and leg; still, with his eyes closed, he can see the blood, can almost smell it, and he doesn't really have the mental faculties to argue with himself.

"Perhaps -- perhaps if you speak." He can feel himself drifting, but he doesn't want to go too far away from Watson. "There are voices -- perhaps if you talk over them."

"All right." Watson smoothed his hand over Holmes's hair, his touch tender, his voice hushed. "What shall I speak to you about, then? Shall I just tell you how much I love you? Because I do, you know."

It felt important beyond belief to make this clear, especially now, especially when things were so fragile and so dangerous. The idea that Holmes might die without that being explicitly clear was horrendous.

"I could read to you. Anything at all."

"Save the poetry for when I'm better," he manages, though it's becoming more difficult to speak as sleep is starting to take him, and he draws a slow breath, feeling some tension leak out as he exhales. The heaviness of his eyelids is pressing in on him again.

"Read," he murmurs, more of a mumble, and he doesn't really care what Watson says so long as he keeps talking. As he slips into sleep, the dreams are still there, are still twisted, full of soldiers and foggy streets and snakes, slithering around alleys. But Watson's voice is solid, through it all, and Holmes isn't alone through the dreams.

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doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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