mustbethetruth: (Angsty. Sick.)
Sherlock Holmes ([personal profile] mustbethetruth) wrote2012-01-02 02:01 am

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.
lightconductor: (oh dear god)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-09 05:28 pm (UTC)(link)
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."
lightconductor: (light)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-09 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
"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.
lightconductor: (let me tell you this)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-09 11:52 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
lightconductor: (concerned)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-10 01:20 am (UTC)(link)
"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?"
lightconductor: (calm)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-10 01:45 am (UTC)(link)
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?"
lightconductor: (oh)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-10 02:47 am (UTC)(link)
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.
lightconductor: (my pleasure)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-10 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
"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?"