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.

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Watson looked at Holmes, wondering at the details of this particular delusion, and wondering if he really wanted to know. It probably wasn't hard to guess. "I'm glad to hear it," he murmured. "I prefer being whole, generally."

He leaned sideways, resting his head on Holmes's shoulder, although not too heavily. "Remember it isn't real, if that helps. My dear," Watson sighed, searching for words. "My dear, I don't think I shall leave your side for a moment longer than is necessary."

He curls his arm around Watson's waist to pull him closer. He doesn't really know how to admit it, but the thought of being separated from Watson right now is deeply upsetting. He's glad that all the times he's fallen asleep and woken up have been with Watson at his side; if he were to wake up without Watson next to him, he isn't sure how much panic would flare up inside him, but he fears it would be a shameful amount.

"See that you don't," he says and hopes he maintains some of his dignity, despite the sudden roughness of his voice.

"Noted," Watson said, amiably, and kissed him. "Watch the soup, do try not to spill, there's a good fellow."

Still, he put his arm about Holmes in return, stroking his fingers along his skin. "Would it help at all if you told me what had happened to bring all this on?" he asked, rather hesitantly. "Or would you prefer not to discuss it?"

He sighs, irritated, and glares at the soup instead of at Watson. "You recall the case I was working on? I solved it, but I lost to the blackguard in the scuffle, and he escaped before I could repay him the favor of the present he gave me." He viciously takes a spoonful of soup. "He's gone now, with the necklace, and more, actually." He huffs a breath and prods at the soup before he sets his spoon down and looks away.

"That's really all I'd like to say on the matter."

"I'm sorry I brought it up." Watson sought out Holmes's hand and squeezed it. "If it helps, I think no less of you."

He didn't, either. It was a genuine sentiment. He pressed a kiss against the side of Holmes's neck. "You are not infallible, remember that. You are not God. You are not the Pope. I love you."

"That's a very curious collection of statements," he points out with an amused smile. "Are you suggesting the Pope is infallible? Would you hold it against me that I'm inclined to disagree, or would that simply add to my list of infallible qualities, thus making you love me more?"

His faculties are definitely adjusting to being ill; his wit is returning to him, which is always a good sign, and maybe the food's doing a little to help restore some of his strength.

"Oh, one cannot truly love a perfect being. Worship, yes, but not love."

Watson's smile was very warm, very affectionate, faintly amused. He meant what he said; he could not imagine loving Holmes any other way than the way he was, either. "I don't believe the Pope is infallible, but I'm not Catholic, am I? I believe in you."

Perhaps he was being overly sentimental. He couldn't quite care, either. "I'm not sure I could love you more. It would not be possible."

It occurs to him that he's fortunate he's so near death, as Watson likely wouldn't be so romantic just now, and would probably be chewing Holmes out for his decision to tend to his leg himself. He'll take what he can get, however, and he leans over and kisses Watson soundly, quite unable to do anything else just then.

"How fortunate that I've fallen in love with a man who's eager and willing to stroke my ego so lovingly."

"Fortunate for you, indeed," Watson said wryly. He rubbed his fingers over the back of Holmes's neck. "Eat your soup."

doctor, doctor, gimme the news

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