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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Watson let himself be led away, though he glanced anxiously in the direction of Holmes's bedroom. He should have closed that door.

He sat down, looking up at Mrs. Hudson helplessly. It would, he realised dimly, be far too easy to betray something suspicious about their relationship, but it was hard to care overmuch for that at the moment. That was probably unwise.

"It came on him while I was out," he admitted. "He is... quite seriously ill."

She doesn't have to be a consulting detective either to see that Holmes and Watson are rather close. Like brothers, she tells herself, but 'brothers' isn't exactly a safe topic, either. Not when her brother was close to his flatmate, and not when Mr. Holmes's brother has made her swear not to comment on any close attachments Mr. Holmes might make. She doesn't find it unappealing, nor any particular hardship; her brother was a good, kindhearted man who didn't deserve to die in war, and Holmes and Watson are good, kindhearted men who deserve all the happiness they can get. All that her brother lost, surely.

So she doesn't pay any mind to how upset Watson is, beyond the immediate need for concern.

"What is it, Doctor?" Now, as for things she doesn't normally approve of, it seems as good an occasion as any to make an exception, and she crosses to the sideboard to get Watson a brandy.

"An infection." Watson was wringing his hands, he found, and he stopped himself. Now he hadn't any clue what to do with his hands; he took the offered brandy gladly. "He was injured, and it's become infected. He's sleeping now, thankfully."

Better that Holmes sleep through the worst of this than suffer awake, surely. Watson took a swallow of brandy, staring at his feet, his hands, his glass, anywhere but at Mrs. Hudson.

"His fever is quite high," he confessed.

"Oh," she says softly, her eyes falling on the door to Holmes's room again. There's not much room for hope in the set of Watson's shoulders just now, and that is worrisome; that is worrisome indeed. She wrings her own hands, just once, clenching them in front of her, and she allows herself ten seconds to seriously consider what she would do if Holmes winked out of existence. It hardly seems possible that that man could fade away like this, waste away in a sickbed, and suddenly just be no more.

"Oh, Dr. Watson." She closes her eyes and steels herself, drawing on all the brusque necessity she can muster to get herself through this. "What can I do? Have you eaten?"

"No, I haven't eaten," Watson sighed. "I've barely thought of it, to be truthful."

He rubbed his forehead, sighing heavily, and drained the last of his brandy in another too-quick gulp before setting the glass aside. He wasn't entirely sure what to ask Mrs. Hudson for, if anything. Food seemed like a distant thing, an alien thing, and he wasn't even sure he could have got it down. That Holmes might seemed even more unlikely. And truly, what else could he ask her?

"Starving yourself won't help either of you," she points out, not too gently, but not unkindly either. Her attempt at a strong facade is failing, and she settles on the couch next to him, reaching out a hand to pat his shoulder. It pains her to see him stricken like this, as much as it pains her to think of Holmes in there, wasting away, and there really aren't any words that would make this any better.

"There, now," she murmurs. "I've some broth; I'll just heat it up, add a little to it. That ought to do for you and Mr. Holmes both, should he wake and have an appetite." That's hardly adequate; she presses her lips together and tries again, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

"I can be a good nursemaid, when it comes down to it. Let me shoulder some of this burden too, Dr. Watson. Lord knows I already am, to think of him so ill."

This was dangerous, letting Mrs. Hudson too close in a time like this. There was too much to potentially let her see, too much to potentially let her conclude. He knew this. At the same time... Watson didn't think it was in him to keep her entirely away, and she was right.

"Yes," he said heavily, "yes, thank you. Broth would be... excellent." He wasn't sure he had the appetite even for that, and he was even more doubtful about whether Holmes might, but he certainly couldn't refuse that offer entirely. Watson gave her a smile, a very tired one. "You're a good woman, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm a match for the two of you then," she says, giving Watson's shoulder another small squeeze before the stands. "Fifteen minutes, dear. Be right back. You start thinking about working up an appetite, alright?"

It's possibly the quickest soup preparation she's ever embarked on in her life, but it's easy enough to transfer some of the chicken she'd been planning for supper anyway. She chops it into smaller bits and adds it to the soup, along with some vegetables, and she lets it all warm up together. She puts a kettle on too and lets everything do its business while she heads upstairs, to Watson's room.

Maybe there's nothing "funny" going on between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, and maybe there is -- honestly, she leans toward the latter, and sometimes when she catches one of them looking at the other, she hopes it's the latter -- but either way, it's clear that Watson's not taking this well, not at all. She's half a mind to call in another doctor, to give Watson the rest, but she knows her tenants too well. She picks up a few things -- Watson's pajamas, a fresh change of clothes for the morning -- and leaves them near the door.

The next time she mounts the stairs, she has a tray with soup and tea -- two spoons, but one cup, and one bowl, because she really only hopes Holmes will eat, but she doubts it -- and Watson's clothes in a bundle. It's all rather precariously balanced, but she is a housekeeper.

"Here we are," she says as she enters the room and deposits the tray on the table. "Tea and soup. And I've brought you something to sleep in, fresh clothes for the morning. And you should try to get some sleep, Doctor," she says gently, handing him his clothes. She presses her lips together a moment, and adds, "Though the sofa is a bit rubbish to sleep on, I suspect."

Watson wasn't sure exactly how to respond to this. He certainly wasn't sure how to interpret this. He looked down at his pyjamas, feeling oddly guilty. For the first time, he wondered how fair it might be to Mrs. Hudson to get up to illegal improprieties under her roof. He was still left to wonder if he was making a very stupid error by allowing her to have as much insight as she did.

"Well, I expect I shall manage somehow," he said, uncertainly. "If the sofa doesn't work, then I will manage to work out some alternative. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Truly."

He twisted his fingers into his pyjamas, not knowing what else to say.

Oh. Oh. She's sure coming out and saying, dear, it doesn't bother me one way or the other if you two are homosexuals, is really going to do any good, and anyway, she doesn't think she's that bohemian so as to say it right out loud. Instead, she gathers Watson into her arms and hugs him to her, firmly. It's not a brief hug; they aren't strangers, not in her book, and she doesn't want him to think for one second that they aren't friends.

"I expect you will," she says softly as she pulls away, and she squeezes his upper arms. "I'll be downstairs if you've need of me. No matter what time of night." He knows that, she expects, but it feels good to say it anyway, because the idea of having to sit downstairs while all of this transpires is a little... nerve wracking. At least Watson can tend to him; she can only futz around and make tea and knit.

Watson couldn't speak, although he hugged her back readily enough. He watched her go, feeling suddenly more alone than ever. He was, he thought, quite lucky to have such a landlady as Mrs. Hudson, and he hoped he was even luckier than he suspected, though that would have been too much to ask for.

He draped his pyjamas over his shoulder, and picked up the tray to carry it back into Holmes's bedroom. He laid the soup down on the first available surface and shut the door behind him. It certainly smelled good, though he still had little appetite himself.

Turning to look at Holmes, watching him sleep through the fever. He loved this man far too much, and he was far too close to losing him, and there wasn't much he could do about it besides wait and watch. That was damnably frustrating, both as a doctor and as a lover. This was the sort of situation where he had to place his trust in God, a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore, and a God he wasn't sure approved of him in the first place.

Watson sat down on the edge of the bed. Very delicately, he brushed a stray strand of hair from Holmes's face, entranced by the lines of his face, the angles of his bone structure. This man was absolutely unique. Probably the world had never known such a man as Sherlock Holmes, and Watson could not entirely credit the idea that he was lucky enough to be truly loved by such an incredible creature. To think that he might have to sit and watch Holmes die, and be such a failure of a doctor that he could do nothing...

Abruptly, something in Watson's chest simply broke. He was not a man who often broke down -- he had seen and lived through far too much tragedy and horror, and had to stay in control during it, for him to be entirely at the mercy of his emotions -- and had there been anyone to see he would have managed to hold himself together. Now, though, Holmes was asleep, and Mrs. Hudson was safely downstairs, and there was nobody to witness if he was less than a perfect specimen of masculinity. Unable and unwilling to hold himself together any longer, Watson turned away, and wept. His weeping was soft, muffled by his hand, and bitterly heartbroken, frightened.

Holmes drifts into consciousness similarly to how he drifted away from it; the biggest difference is that when he opens his eyes and sees Watson, there isn't anything wrong with him. He's Watson, whole and safe, without any hallucinations clinging to his shoulders. There aren't any voices, either, though there's something, faint and faraway. He closes his eyes to focus on it, and then picks it out; it's crying, quiet and muffled.

He opens his eyes again and the sounds connect with the visual, and he frowns. Watson crying? Another hallucination?

"Watson?" he murmurs, and he reaches out, his fingertips grazing Watson's leg. "Are you real?"

Oh, no. No, he didn't want a witness for this, not for this ridiculous emotional scene. Watson wiped at his eyes with his handkerchief hastily, and put his hand over Holmes's fingers almost at once. "Yes. Yes, I am real."

Hastily trying to sort himself out, to look presentable and not like he had been crying, he placed his hand on Holmes's forehead, trying to gauge if his fever had improved any.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was rough and hoarse from his tears, but he cleared his throat and tried to carry on.

It isn't really a triumph that he can see through Watson's lie. He's not a good liar even when his hands aren't still slightly wet from his tears. Just to be sure, though, he reaches up and lightly touches Watson's cheek, thumb brushing over the cheekbone.

Watson was crying. That cuts through Holmes's still feverish mind like the knife all over again; his leg hums in pain at the thought, but the pain of seeing Watson like this is actually worse. Even when he's fully possessed of himself, he isn't sure he'd know what to say, how to make this better.

"I'm not hallucinating anymore," he says instead, softly.

"I'm glad to hear it," Watson murmured. "You seem cooler."

The relief of that went beyond all words. It wasn't conclusive, he knew that far too well, but it was encouraging. At this moment, Watson would take any hope he could get. He bent his head to kiss Holmes, very gently, with his eyes closed. He was still desperately trying to pretend he hadn't been crying, though he doubted it was all that convincing.

"Mrs. Hudson has brought us some soup," he offered, though he was still not very interested in it.

"Mm," he murmurs, and he pulls Watson back down to him, kisses him softly, but mostly just rests his hand on the back of Watson's neck and keeps their foreheads together for a few moments. He releases him only because he isn't sure how comfortable the position is for Watson.

"I love you," he says, still far more interested in Watson's tears than he is in any kind of food. "Are you going to make me eat soup?"

"I love you too," Watson murmured back, feeling dangerously on the edge of tears again, but he could not break down like that again, not in front of Holmes. It was humiliating enough as it was.

"I won't make you eat soup," he said, softly, and finding himself already settling down beside Holmes. "It would be good if you did. We both ought to, really." Watson tucked his head against Holmes's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.

Watson's hair smells good -- certainly better than his own sickness, and he nuzzles until he buries his nose in it. He breathes in deep and slides an arm around Watson, wanting him warm and comforting and pressed close to him. The moment seems very fragile, far too fragile for him to comprehend fully right now, and he holds Watson tighter until it seems safe to speak again, or safer, anyway.

"I'll eat with you," he says quietly, because the thought of doing anything without Watson right now is wholly unappealing. And that includes more than simply eating.

Perhaps it's the illness; perhaps it's seeing Watson crying beside him, but right now Holmes feels his love for Watson so intensely that he fears his chest will collapse under the pressure. It's probably the sickness, he tells himself, but he presses closer anyway, aware that he's more or less clinging to Watson.

Watson curled his fingers into the hair on the back of Holmes's head, holding him near. Holmes was still alive, he had to remember that fact and hold onto it. He inhaled deeply, smelling illness, but also smelling everything that was intrinsically Holmes: his tobacco, his soap, the underlying scent that was simply himself. While there was life, there was hope.

"I should hold you to that," he said softly, "but that involves both of us letting each other go so I can go fetch it." He ran his thumb along the curve of Holmes's ear. "You must fight this. You must not ever give in to it. Promise me."

He clutches Watson tighter to him, though he's not sure how he manages to do that because he's already holding onto him fairly tightly. The intensity of what's going on between them is a little startling, seems to go beyond words and toward something far more desperate, far more... intense. He closes his eyes at the touch to his ear, so gentle and intimate and ridiculous but just now it seems to define their whole relationship because he's more metaphorical when he's ill, apparently.

"I promise," he manages, breathless from it all, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "Letting go of each other seems very -- very -- ill-advised. Worst idea I've ever heard."

"I agree," Watson said, hardly above a whisper. "I agree completely. Don't you dare go anywhere."

What he meant was don't die on me, but he couldn't say that, couldn't admit aloud it was even a possibility. With his eyes closed, he let his fingers roam over the back of Holmes's neck. He choked back a sob -- he would not cry, would not -- and buried his face against Holmes.

"Oh, my dear -- " He threads his fingers into Watson's hair and holds him close, and his mind touches on the irony of him being the sick one comforting Watson, but it isn't really a hardship. "Ssh," he murmurs, and he buries his nose in Watson's hair, he tugs Watson over him, tangling their limbs together. "Ssh, my dear John. I won't. I won't go anywhere. I love you."

Watson didn't speak at first. He couldn't speak, and he certainly didn't trust his voice. He pulled himself close, into the heat of Holmes's fever, the firmness of his body, the familiarity of it.

"I am sorry for my doubts," he whispered, hoarsely. "I am sorry for every fear that's ever afflicted me. It's wrong of me. It's all wrong, because I belong with you, we are meant to be together, in every sense. You cannot... you cannot..."

Inhaling shakily, Watson concluded, "If you ever do anything this damnfool stupid again, I'll kill you myself." It was simpler to channel his terror into a small burst of anger, though there was very little real fury in his voice. He was still mostly just frustrated, afraid.

"How contradictory." He laughs, a small broken sound, because he needs a way to release some of the emotion that's building up in him and that's the most convenient, like Watson's burst of anger is for him. He strokes through Watson's hair, onto the back of his neck, and he pulls him up for a kiss, tender and seeking.

"Hush, my darling. My John. God, but we are meant to be together," he says, breathless from the intensity of it all, and he fists a hand in Watson's sleeve. "You -- you are..." He touches Watson's face lightly and closes his eyes as a wave of dizziness hits him. "I'll make it through this," he promises.

"You had better," Watson breathed. He sighed against him, thinking vaguely that Holmes was in no state to be doing any kissing, and it was unfair of him to cling in such a needy way. He was supposed to be the strong one, he was supposed to be taking care of Holmes.

He pulled back a little, smoothing Holmes's hair back under his palm. "I love you. I'm sorry, I'm better now, what you must think..." Watson shook his head, and let out a small, humourless laugh. "Shall we have soup now?"

doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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