doctor, doctor, gimme the news

[mustbethetruth]

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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[lightconductor]

"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."

[mustbethetruth]

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."

[lightconductor]

"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."

[mustbethetruth]

"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.