mustbethetruth | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

doctor, doctor, gimme the news

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject