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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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?"

"I think I'm desperately in love with a beautiful man," Holmes returns, smoothing his hand down Watson's front. He regrets that Watson is about to pull away, but he could use some space too, to breathe, to let his mind wrap around all of this.

"Soup would be good." He grips Watson's arm to help pull himself up to a sitting position, and he hisses through his teeth as his leg twinges in pain. "And tea, I see. We'll have to share a cup," he says, a twist to his lips.

Watson gave Holmes a sheepish little smile over his shoulder as he crossed the room to the tray of soup. There were many things he thought of himself as; 'beautiful' was not one of them. To say he was flattered was an understatement.

"Somehow I think we can manage to share," he said, returning. He settled back into the bed, balancing the tray across his lap, and he offered Holmes some of the soup. "By the way," he said, as casually as he could manage, "Mrs. Hudson appears to have brought down my nightclothes so that I may stay down here. Do you think we ought to be concerned?"

Even while sick, several reasons why they needn't be concerned sprang to mind almost instantly. He takes the soup and has a bite as he considers a reason why they ought to be concerned that she might know.

"A good doctor would sleep near his patient," he points out. "And if she found anything troublesome with that, she wouldn't have provided you with your nightclothes without prompting." He has another bite of soup, mentally rifling through his files on Mrs. Hudson.

"Mycroft is the one that recommended these rooms to me; he wouldn't have recommended someone who -- " He stops, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Mycroft. He informed me that she would be an adequate housekeeper; I suspect he spoke to her. She may be a better actor than you, my dear boy."

It was somewhat irriating to think that his life was being orchestrated to a certain extent by Holmes's brother in this way, although if this were true, it wasn't a bad thing.

"Well," he said, feeling a bit at sea about this development, not sure whether he ought to feel happier about it. "I suppose that's... promising. I hope you're right. She did suggest the couch, although admitted it would be 'rubbish to sleep on.'" He raised an eyebrow, but took a mouthful of soup himself. He could not deny it was good, though his appetite was still rather scanty.

Holmes raises an eyebrow and has another bite of soup. He isn't sure he's quite eager to thank his brother for setting him up with a permissive housekeeper; of course this is ideal, but it is a bit odd. And a bit... perfect. Not to have to worry overmuch about hiding from their housekeeper, beyond keeping up propriety?

"I believe that was her giving you permission to sleep in here," he points out. "My dear Watson, I believe our housekeeper suspects that we're homosexuals."

"Wonderful," Watson said with a roll of his eyes. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope you're right, and that she doesn't mind. Good Lord." He laughed a little, shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm saying that I hope someone does know about us, but there you go."

He reached over to test Holmes's fever with a few fingers on his forehead, and returned his attention to his soup. "I'm not sure I needed the permission to sleep in here, either. I would never think so, seeing the two of you together, but... your brother really does care for you, doesn't he?"

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