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 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?"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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?"
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"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.
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"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.
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"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."
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"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."
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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.
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"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.
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"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.
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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?"
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"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.
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"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?"
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"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."
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"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.
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"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."
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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?"