Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Seventeen
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Seventeen
Authors: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Do not attempt to operate Holmes and Watson while intoxicated. Also, these are not ours.
Summary: The doctor and the detective do their best to understand one another, now that the case is ended.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: (Mention of) drug use. Angst? Does that need a warning? How about excessive angst?
Word Count: 3375
Author's Notes: In case this chapter is too serious for you, here is a recap of Letters, chapter 16:
Holmes: Imma solve this one by flirting with some whore. also kissing her while contemplating kissing inanimate objects being more exciting.
Watson: ok I'll beat some guy up WAIT WHAT
Holmes: done now I was jk with her.
Watson: RAWR
Holmes: sorry :(
Watson: your ribs r broken again for the love of god.
Holmes: I lost my jacket. :(
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen
~~~~~
An hour or so later, Watson straightens from examining Mr. Yaxley's wound, relieved. "Well, sir, I believe you are out of the woods. You are a very lucky young man," he says calmly, trying to be reassuring. Yaxley, currently under the influence of morphine, smiles dazedly at him before glancing over at his fiancee, currently senseless in her own bed and quite drugged, although she's slowly returning to a normal temperature, which is an enormous relief. For a brief time, Watson had worried... well.
His fears had been unfounded, which is all that matters. These three young people should be all right, and with luck his memories of Lucy will return to rest now that Miss Winstone (the younger Miss Winstone, that is) is no longer entirely destitute and desperate. He thinks of his sister for a moment and bites back a sigh, replacing his stethoscope in his small travel kit and nodding to the resident physician, who takes his place to re-bandage Mr. Yaxley.
"Sir," the younger Miss Winstone calls after him, looking up with wide eyes. "I... no one has told me how much my bill to Mr. Holmes will be."
Watson glances over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "I believe he's taken your case pro bono, as it were. Don't worry about payment, Miss Winstone."
She gapes, and he leaves them thusly, off to find the aforementioned detective, who'd been having his many injuries checked and treated... again, although he'd insisted Watson be the one to deal with his ribs. As he walks slowly down the hall, Watson can already hear the (loud) complaints echoing from the small room Holmes had been given for a few hours. He needs his doctor, this old duck is an utter imbecile, his Watson knows how to do a correct stitch, Holmes should know--
"I thought I told you not to cause any trouble," Watson says dryly, stepping into the room and beginning to take out the bandages he'll need, plus enough to wrap Holmes' ribs again in a few days.
"This is hardly causing trouble," Holmes points out, although his eyes do not move from the doctor to his side, who he has been glaring at for the entirety of his time in this room. He doesn't know what Watson means; after all, if Holmes were causing trouble he would undoubtedly be nowhere to be found.
Granted, Holmes is quite aware that he and Watson do not share a definition when it comes to the word "trouble." But by now, Watson should know that this is quite mild.
Of course he's complaining- not only is this doctor useless, but despite his guilt from earlier (or maybe because of it), Holmes still has to test, every time, that enough complaining and shouting will still get Watson's attention. Some tests worry him more than others. He's very good at hiding his relief, but it's there.
But aside from that, this doctor is quite useless. He has a good excuse... reason.
"How is Miss Winstone?" he asks, finally turning to look at Watson. He already knows that she hasn't died; Watson had been there for an hour, which means he was worried, but returning here and making dry remarks about his causing trouble indicates that she has not shuffled off her mortal coil.
"Recovering," Watson replies, washing his own hands in the basin and scrubbing them thoroughly, albeit carefully. They are his most important tools as a doctor, and he constantly cares for them perhaps better than any other portion of his anatomy. "Her fever is much improved. I believe she is out of the woods for tonight. Her cousin is with her."
Picking up his long bandage roll, he waits patiently for the resident doctor to finish his stitches; when he does, he sends Watson an exasperated look and promptly disappears with a mutter about needing to see to his other patients. Watson, by this point, is quite accustomed to most everyone's reactions to Holmes, though, and thus doesn't seem bothered as he takes the other man's place.
He carefully unwinds the old bandages, requesting that Holmes lift his arms (he does, albeit painfully) and walking in a slow circle around him, gathering the discarded material as he goes. When he finishes, the used cloth is disposed of and he asks Holmes to lift his arms again. This doesn't look pleasant, and after a beat he steps to the detective's side, taking his hands and lifting them to rest on the tall table at the foot of the bed.
"That should be easier," he says quietly. His hands rest on top of Holmes' for no more than half a beat too long, but Watson doesn't say anything, reaching for the bandages again after a moment. Of course, this position means he has to stand behind the other man and reach around him in order to bandage the ribs, but that won't be a hardship, and in fact will be one of the few times he can touch Holmes in public like this when it's not illegal.
They're quiet for a few minutes as he begins winding the bandages snugly around Holmes' torso, his fingers brushing against warm skin, and finally he shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, quietly enough that no one but the detective will hear him. "It wasn't fair for me to throw a fit. I was jealous; it's my failing, not yours."
He hadn't been blind to Holmes' uncharacteristic quiet on the way to the hospital, had been too absorbed in his own temper to care, but hadn't been blind to it. And now he's guilty for that, knows it means he'd probably hurt the other man. Well done, old boy. Well done.
It's a struggle to sit still through all of this, but Holmes manages because he knows from experience that if he moves and ruins it, he'll have to sit through the same thing again and Watson will be much less gentle the second time. Especially since Watson knows very well that Holmes is quite capable of sitting still... when it suits him.
Holmes has been trying to concentrate on sitting very still and behaving, rather than anything else, because they're in public (sort of) and Watson is angry with him. So when Watson finally speaks, Holmes is startled; he can't help but turn to look up at the doctor, eyes widening a little. He hadn't been expecting an apology, or an admission of jealousy. He doesn't know what he'd been expecting.
Jealousy. Holmes... certainly knows how that feels. Much as he tried to ignore it, to hide it or snuff it out, to logic his way around it or through it, for months it was all Holmes could do to keep from screaming about it. He'd felt pangs of it before, through the years, but never quite to that degree so that when he finally did realize what it must have been, Holmes was half fascinated (more than half) to be feeling it at all. And even now, he can't help but be fascinated that Watson should feel it. If it truly is Watson's failing that he was jealous, what does that mean about Holmes? Well, Holmes is well aware that he has quite a collection of failings. He supposes one more is nothing terrible.
But he has no idea what in the world he is supposed to say to all of this. He's not used to anyone apologizing to him at all; typically, he's expected to apologize, and also typically Holmes doesn't bother. Normally he would brush it off, but Holmes is nervously aware that he should not do that this time. But just because he has managed that realization (practically a miracle in itself) does not mean he has any idea what he should say. Finally, he twists his head, trying to see Watson half behind him but unable without moving too far and being chastised (hit).
He wants to ask why Watson is jealous, to demand to know what that means, but hasn't the courage for that sort of thing, not here and now. Maybe not ever. Not until he recovers from the wound left by Watson's departure and subsequent marriage. Holmes is now painfully aware of Watson's ability to leave, and horribly afraid that he will and that this time, he won't return.
"It was an act," he finally decides on, voice uncharacteristically subdued. Watson knows that. Doesn't he? He does, Holmes decides, on a theoretical level. Yet Holmes isn't certain he has a full understanding, isn't certain he grasps the extent to which Holmes dissociates when he is disguised, or when he is simply working a case and determines that it is required.
“I know,” Watson says, sounding just as subdued and vaguely guilty, although he’s at least trying to hide that part, for reasons he can’t discern even in relation to himself. But he confirms Holmes’ supposition that he does know; it’s true. It had been an act, and he’d been able to handle the entirely of it with no problem (barring the woman’s disrobing that morning, that is) until his brain had simply… stopped thinking logically, overcome by an unreasonable anger.
Now, Watson is typically an extremely reasonable, sensible man. He would not say that he affords logic the same religious devotion as does Holmes (if Holmes affords anything any religious devotion at all, logic would be it), but he prides himself on his common sense and his ability to reason intelligently. As a doctor and as a military man, it was necessary to forge the ability to distance himself from his emotions. Normally on a case or with a patient, he has no difficulty in doing so.
But this day… this bloody day has been completely mad, his normal iron control on himself bent into a peculiar shape by the events of the night before, he’s certain. Everything seems rather upside-down. First he’d reacted so strongly to Miss Winstone (the younger)’s plight, and then twice he’d nearly lost his composure because of that horrible actress. If this keeps up, he’s no idea what will happen next. When will he be able to think calmly and rationally again? He desperately wishes that ability would return to him; to be honest, it’s been missing for several weeks, now.
“I know, and I should not have become angry. It was unfair of me.” Now his guilt is audible. “I do apologize, old boy. I’ll endeavor not to allow my mind to become so clouded in the future. I could have cost us our cover.” He doesn’t think it had been a problem, is fairly certain he’d done a satisfactory job in his acting despite his feelings, but he can’t be sure what will happen next time if his emotions suddenly stand in his way once again.
Holmes is at least very glad that Watson had realized it might have cost them their cover, interfering completely with the case and the discovery of Miss Winstone. But very notably, he does not chastise Watson with regards to losing his head during a case and possibly costing them dearly (in terms of safety, and worse, data). Normally, Watson would receive a rebuke, admonishing him for losing his head amidst a case.
Tonight, Holmes simply nods. He nods and wonders what he would have done in Watson's place, wonders if his own emotions, so easily cast aside for the duration of a case, would have reared their ugly, illogical (and figurative) head and done the same. Or worse. The fact that he doesn't know for certain that he would have been able to handle it the way he handles everything else is astounding to Holmes.
He does not share that conclusion with Watson, nor the thoughts he'd had earlier when he'd been in the hallway with Miss Baker. He doesn't dare admit any of his thoughts or conclusions with the doctor. He tells himself, logically, that it would be unwise to thrust anything else upon Watson right now, that he has not reached any firm conclusions and as such there is no reason to share any of it with him. But very illogically, something else keeps him from telling the other man how different it is with him, how very nearly normal and human and real Watson makes him. And that something is certainly fear. A lot of it.
"But you did not," Holmes points out, forcing himself back to the present and likewise forcing his voice to take on a more normal tone. "Dwelling on ifs and might have beens is an exercise in futility. Couldn't this be done at home?" Meaning: can we leave the hospital now please?
"It could be, but you'll injure your ribs again getting there if it isn't done before we go," Watson replies immediately, not hurrying his movements or increasing the pace in any way. This is a good exercise for Holmes and Watson knows it, however much the detective might disagree.
That and it's nice to just have a moment or two of quiet, where Holmes isn't rushing off to work on some experiment as soon as he gets in the door, where there is no alcohol, no seven percent solution to be found, no case to investigate. Just a quiet moment, the sort they rarely have.
Holmes' brain might not be quiet, but Watson's is (for once), and he finishes with the wrappings as carefully as he does everything, making certain it's perfect. He does take an extra moment with all of his work relating to Holmes, to make sure there are no flaws in it; he knows it's favoritism, but he can't help it, and doesn't want to change it.
But he's satisfied, now, and he retrieves his own jacket and coat from where he'd left them on an empty chair, slipping them back on and collecting his possessions. Holmes, meanwhile, can't hide his wince entirely when he starts to dress again, and Watson immediately moves over to help him, holding the shirt as the other man slips into it. He looks around, meaning to grab Holmes' coat--
"Where's your overcoat?" he asks, brow furrowed in confusion. And then furthermore, "You weren't wearing it on the way here."
Holmes nearly winces again at the question. His coat, left at Baker's home, casualty of his devious plan to keep the actress locked away and quiet. He'd thought he would remember to return and retrieve it, but he hadn't planned on being waylaid by Watson's anger, and now he doesn't want to bring the other man's attention back to that subject.
"I left it at the scene," he admits, buttoning his shirt. He'd realized as they were on their way to the hospital that he was lacking it entirely. This is not an uncommon occurrence for Holmes- forgetting or losing pieces of his clothing entirely- but it is slightly annoying, because he knows he's going to have to go back there to retrieve it.
Just... hopefully not tonight. "I'll return for it tomorrow." Or the day after. Or maybe never.
Refusing to allow the situation to become (even more) awkward, Watson nods, leading the way out of the room. "It's warm enough, you shouldn't need it anyway," he says over his shoulder. He'd already left a message with the attending physician to please contact him if Miss Winstone took any sort of turn for the worse, as well as Mr. Yaxley, and so they should go home and rest. Holmes undoubtedly needs it, and Watson certainly does as well.
They hire a cab to return to Baker Street, and on the way into the house and up the stairs he's careful to make certain that Holmes leads the way so he can watch him and make sure he's not injured further. But finally they've made it back to the rooms, and it's an enormous relief to simply... set his things aside and collapse into his chair, seriously considering simply sleeping just there.
"Do you need pain relief?" he asks, still wakeful despite his eyes being closed. If he can find oblivion and just rest, perhaps his mind will make more sense in the morning.
Does he need pain relief? Likewise having collapsed into his own chair next to Watson, Holmes opens one eye to look over at the doctor. Is that a trick question? If Watson is offering, Holmes is in no position to decline and in fact will rarely do so even if he is in a position to decline.
And, as further inspection reveals, his chest does hurt. Breathing has been difficult for some time, now, and Holmes is quickly becoming tired of it. He had hardly noticed all day today, as he was working, but now his attention is drawn back to it and it is beginning to annoy him. Perhaps that is a good way to keep other matters from his mind, but it isn't really blocking any other thoughts so much as severely annoying him.
"If I answer yes, are you going to shout at me?" A legitimate worry, since occasionally Watson does shout at him for matters involving pain relief. Although Holmes doesn't quite seem able to tell the difference between "justifiable" uses of medication and other, less permissible uses, such as pilfering all of Watson's laudanum, distilling it carefully to separate the opium and morphine from the rest of the mixture, mixing it with scotch and proceeding to test it out on himself and the first person he can convince that that particular vintage is supposed to taste that bitter.
Watson had been very displeased, but not until he'd woken up from a dreadful hangover, thus proving that it would not be a cure for the headaches produced by excessive consumption of alcohol. It had taken Watson twelve hours before he'd regained his ability to shout at Holmes.
Watson sighs. "No," he says simply, hoisting himself out of his chair and stumbling into his office, not particularly wanting to open his eyes. There is the sound of a cupboard opening and then a curse as his already half-asleep mind realizes that what he has of his supplies is upstairs, as the rest of it is still at Cavendish Place.
That thought wakes him, and the image of Mary's face returns. He'd managed to block it all day, had kept it at bay throughout, but now... now it's returned, and he feels suddenly as though he's going to burst into horribly weak tears. His jaw tightens, and he forces himself to take in a slow breath and let it out. That returns his control, and he starts up the stairs and retrieves the laudanum, pouring the appropriate dose for Holmes and handing it to him before falling onto the settee this time.
"I'm sleeping," he announces gruffly, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. And perhaps, if he's lucky, he'll be able to forget it all again.
"All right," Holmes says, when he realizes that nodding isn't going to be noticed. He considers mentioning that Watson has a bed he might try that in, but quickly decides against it. He'd seen the look on the other man's face, and has the feeling that any discussion of anything right now would not be appreciated.
So in the interest of not causing any more stir than he already managed today, Holmes accepts the laudanum from him, immediately swallows all of it, and then proceeds... to sit there, silently, in his chair for he has no idea how long. The case is over, Watson is still upset no matter what he says, his ribs hurt, and Holmes... has no idea what to do with himself, has no idea why he should be both frightened and hopeful after having witnessed Watson's bout of jealousy.
At least when the laudanum begins to do its work, tiredness finally creeps in, and slowly Holmes begins to allow himself to sink into exhaustion. Sleep finally does claim him, sprawled in his chair, and the last thing his slightly-dazed mind conjures is the image of Watson's face in the cellar, when they'd discussed the actress and Holmes'... activities with her, strangely lit and almost malevolent as he stared back at Holmes.
~~~~~
Epilogue
Authors: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Do not attempt to operate Holmes and Watson while intoxicated. Also, these are not ours.
Summary: The doctor and the detective do their best to understand one another, now that the case is ended.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: (Mention of) drug use. Angst? Does that need a warning? How about excessive angst?
Word Count: 3375
Author's Notes: In case this chapter is too serious for you, here is a recap of Letters, chapter 16:
Holmes: Imma solve this one by flirting with some whore. also kissing her while contemplating kissing inanimate objects being more exciting.
Watson: ok I'll beat some guy up WAIT WHAT
Holmes: done now I was jk with her.
Watson: RAWR
Holmes: sorry :(
Watson: your ribs r broken again for the love of god.
Holmes: I lost my jacket. :(
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen
~~~~~
An hour or so later, Watson straightens from examining Mr. Yaxley's wound, relieved. "Well, sir, I believe you are out of the woods. You are a very lucky young man," he says calmly, trying to be reassuring. Yaxley, currently under the influence of morphine, smiles dazedly at him before glancing over at his fiancee, currently senseless in her own bed and quite drugged, although she's slowly returning to a normal temperature, which is an enormous relief. For a brief time, Watson had worried... well.
His fears had been unfounded, which is all that matters. These three young people should be all right, and with luck his memories of Lucy will return to rest now that Miss Winstone (the younger Miss Winstone, that is) is no longer entirely destitute and desperate. He thinks of his sister for a moment and bites back a sigh, replacing his stethoscope in his small travel kit and nodding to the resident physician, who takes his place to re-bandage Mr. Yaxley.
"Sir," the younger Miss Winstone calls after him, looking up with wide eyes. "I... no one has told me how much my bill to Mr. Holmes will be."
Watson glances over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "I believe he's taken your case pro bono, as it were. Don't worry about payment, Miss Winstone."
She gapes, and he leaves them thusly, off to find the aforementioned detective, who'd been having his many injuries checked and treated... again, although he'd insisted Watson be the one to deal with his ribs. As he walks slowly down the hall, Watson can already hear the (loud) complaints echoing from the small room Holmes had been given for a few hours. He needs his doctor, this old duck is an utter imbecile, his Watson knows how to do a correct stitch, Holmes should know--
"I thought I told you not to cause any trouble," Watson says dryly, stepping into the room and beginning to take out the bandages he'll need, plus enough to wrap Holmes' ribs again in a few days.
"This is hardly causing trouble," Holmes points out, although his eyes do not move from the doctor to his side, who he has been glaring at for the entirety of his time in this room. He doesn't know what Watson means; after all, if Holmes were causing trouble he would undoubtedly be nowhere to be found.
Granted, Holmes is quite aware that he and Watson do not share a definition when it comes to the word "trouble." But by now, Watson should know that this is quite mild.
Of course he's complaining- not only is this doctor useless, but despite his guilt from earlier (or maybe because of it), Holmes still has to test, every time, that enough complaining and shouting will still get Watson's attention. Some tests worry him more than others. He's very good at hiding his relief, but it's there.
But aside from that, this doctor is quite useless. He has a good excuse... reason.
"How is Miss Winstone?" he asks, finally turning to look at Watson. He already knows that she hasn't died; Watson had been there for an hour, which means he was worried, but returning here and making dry remarks about his causing trouble indicates that she has not shuffled off her mortal coil.
"Recovering," Watson replies, washing his own hands in the basin and scrubbing them thoroughly, albeit carefully. They are his most important tools as a doctor, and he constantly cares for them perhaps better than any other portion of his anatomy. "Her fever is much improved. I believe she is out of the woods for tonight. Her cousin is with her."
Picking up his long bandage roll, he waits patiently for the resident doctor to finish his stitches; when he does, he sends Watson an exasperated look and promptly disappears with a mutter about needing to see to his other patients. Watson, by this point, is quite accustomed to most everyone's reactions to Holmes, though, and thus doesn't seem bothered as he takes the other man's place.
He carefully unwinds the old bandages, requesting that Holmes lift his arms (he does, albeit painfully) and walking in a slow circle around him, gathering the discarded material as he goes. When he finishes, the used cloth is disposed of and he asks Holmes to lift his arms again. This doesn't look pleasant, and after a beat he steps to the detective's side, taking his hands and lifting them to rest on the tall table at the foot of the bed.
"That should be easier," he says quietly. His hands rest on top of Holmes' for no more than half a beat too long, but Watson doesn't say anything, reaching for the bandages again after a moment. Of course, this position means he has to stand behind the other man and reach around him in order to bandage the ribs, but that won't be a hardship, and in fact will be one of the few times he can touch Holmes in public like this when it's not illegal.
They're quiet for a few minutes as he begins winding the bandages snugly around Holmes' torso, his fingers brushing against warm skin, and finally he shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, quietly enough that no one but the detective will hear him. "It wasn't fair for me to throw a fit. I was jealous; it's my failing, not yours."
He hadn't been blind to Holmes' uncharacteristic quiet on the way to the hospital, had been too absorbed in his own temper to care, but hadn't been blind to it. And now he's guilty for that, knows it means he'd probably hurt the other man. Well done, old boy. Well done.
It's a struggle to sit still through all of this, but Holmes manages because he knows from experience that if he moves and ruins it, he'll have to sit through the same thing again and Watson will be much less gentle the second time. Especially since Watson knows very well that Holmes is quite capable of sitting still... when it suits him.
Holmes has been trying to concentrate on sitting very still and behaving, rather than anything else, because they're in public (sort of) and Watson is angry with him. So when Watson finally speaks, Holmes is startled; he can't help but turn to look up at the doctor, eyes widening a little. He hadn't been expecting an apology, or an admission of jealousy. He doesn't know what he'd been expecting.
Jealousy. Holmes... certainly knows how that feels. Much as he tried to ignore it, to hide it or snuff it out, to logic his way around it or through it, for months it was all Holmes could do to keep from screaming about it. He'd felt pangs of it before, through the years, but never quite to that degree so that when he finally did realize what it must have been, Holmes was half fascinated (more than half) to be feeling it at all. And even now, he can't help but be fascinated that Watson should feel it. If it truly is Watson's failing that he was jealous, what does that mean about Holmes? Well, Holmes is well aware that he has quite a collection of failings. He supposes one more is nothing terrible.
But he has no idea what in the world he is supposed to say to all of this. He's not used to anyone apologizing to him at all; typically, he's expected to apologize, and also typically Holmes doesn't bother. Normally he would brush it off, but Holmes is nervously aware that he should not do that this time. But just because he has managed that realization (practically a miracle in itself) does not mean he has any idea what he should say. Finally, he twists his head, trying to see Watson half behind him but unable without moving too far and being chastised (hit).
He wants to ask why Watson is jealous, to demand to know what that means, but hasn't the courage for that sort of thing, not here and now. Maybe not ever. Not until he recovers from the wound left by Watson's departure and subsequent marriage. Holmes is now painfully aware of Watson's ability to leave, and horribly afraid that he will and that this time, he won't return.
"It was an act," he finally decides on, voice uncharacteristically subdued. Watson knows that. Doesn't he? He does, Holmes decides, on a theoretical level. Yet Holmes isn't certain he has a full understanding, isn't certain he grasps the extent to which Holmes dissociates when he is disguised, or when he is simply working a case and determines that it is required.
“I know,” Watson says, sounding just as subdued and vaguely guilty, although he’s at least trying to hide that part, for reasons he can’t discern even in relation to himself. But he confirms Holmes’ supposition that he does know; it’s true. It had been an act, and he’d been able to handle the entirely of it with no problem (barring the woman’s disrobing that morning, that is) until his brain had simply… stopped thinking logically, overcome by an unreasonable anger.
Now, Watson is typically an extremely reasonable, sensible man. He would not say that he affords logic the same religious devotion as does Holmes (if Holmes affords anything any religious devotion at all, logic would be it), but he prides himself on his common sense and his ability to reason intelligently. As a doctor and as a military man, it was necessary to forge the ability to distance himself from his emotions. Normally on a case or with a patient, he has no difficulty in doing so.
But this day… this bloody day has been completely mad, his normal iron control on himself bent into a peculiar shape by the events of the night before, he’s certain. Everything seems rather upside-down. First he’d reacted so strongly to Miss Winstone (the younger)’s plight, and then twice he’d nearly lost his composure because of that horrible actress. If this keeps up, he’s no idea what will happen next. When will he be able to think calmly and rationally again? He desperately wishes that ability would return to him; to be honest, it’s been missing for several weeks, now.
“I know, and I should not have become angry. It was unfair of me.” Now his guilt is audible. “I do apologize, old boy. I’ll endeavor not to allow my mind to become so clouded in the future. I could have cost us our cover.” He doesn’t think it had been a problem, is fairly certain he’d done a satisfactory job in his acting despite his feelings, but he can’t be sure what will happen next time if his emotions suddenly stand in his way once again.
Holmes is at least very glad that Watson had realized it might have cost them their cover, interfering completely with the case and the discovery of Miss Winstone. But very notably, he does not chastise Watson with regards to losing his head during a case and possibly costing them dearly (in terms of safety, and worse, data). Normally, Watson would receive a rebuke, admonishing him for losing his head amidst a case.
Tonight, Holmes simply nods. He nods and wonders what he would have done in Watson's place, wonders if his own emotions, so easily cast aside for the duration of a case, would have reared their ugly, illogical (and figurative) head and done the same. Or worse. The fact that he doesn't know for certain that he would have been able to handle it the way he handles everything else is astounding to Holmes.
He does not share that conclusion with Watson, nor the thoughts he'd had earlier when he'd been in the hallway with Miss Baker. He doesn't dare admit any of his thoughts or conclusions with the doctor. He tells himself, logically, that it would be unwise to thrust anything else upon Watson right now, that he has not reached any firm conclusions and as such there is no reason to share any of it with him. But very illogically, something else keeps him from telling the other man how different it is with him, how very nearly normal and human and real Watson makes him. And that something is certainly fear. A lot of it.
"But you did not," Holmes points out, forcing himself back to the present and likewise forcing his voice to take on a more normal tone. "Dwelling on ifs and might have beens is an exercise in futility. Couldn't this be done at home?" Meaning: can we leave the hospital now please?
"It could be, but you'll injure your ribs again getting there if it isn't done before we go," Watson replies immediately, not hurrying his movements or increasing the pace in any way. This is a good exercise for Holmes and Watson knows it, however much the detective might disagree.
That and it's nice to just have a moment or two of quiet, where Holmes isn't rushing off to work on some experiment as soon as he gets in the door, where there is no alcohol, no seven percent solution to be found, no case to investigate. Just a quiet moment, the sort they rarely have.
Holmes' brain might not be quiet, but Watson's is (for once), and he finishes with the wrappings as carefully as he does everything, making certain it's perfect. He does take an extra moment with all of his work relating to Holmes, to make sure there are no flaws in it; he knows it's favoritism, but he can't help it, and doesn't want to change it.
But he's satisfied, now, and he retrieves his own jacket and coat from where he'd left them on an empty chair, slipping them back on and collecting his possessions. Holmes, meanwhile, can't hide his wince entirely when he starts to dress again, and Watson immediately moves over to help him, holding the shirt as the other man slips into it. He looks around, meaning to grab Holmes' coat--
"Where's your overcoat?" he asks, brow furrowed in confusion. And then furthermore, "You weren't wearing it on the way here."
Holmes nearly winces again at the question. His coat, left at Baker's home, casualty of his devious plan to keep the actress locked away and quiet. He'd thought he would remember to return and retrieve it, but he hadn't planned on being waylaid by Watson's anger, and now he doesn't want to bring the other man's attention back to that subject.
"I left it at the scene," he admits, buttoning his shirt. He'd realized as they were on their way to the hospital that he was lacking it entirely. This is not an uncommon occurrence for Holmes- forgetting or losing pieces of his clothing entirely- but it is slightly annoying, because he knows he's going to have to go back there to retrieve it.
Just... hopefully not tonight. "I'll return for it tomorrow." Or the day after. Or maybe never.
Refusing to allow the situation to become (even more) awkward, Watson nods, leading the way out of the room. "It's warm enough, you shouldn't need it anyway," he says over his shoulder. He'd already left a message with the attending physician to please contact him if Miss Winstone took any sort of turn for the worse, as well as Mr. Yaxley, and so they should go home and rest. Holmes undoubtedly needs it, and Watson certainly does as well.
They hire a cab to return to Baker Street, and on the way into the house and up the stairs he's careful to make certain that Holmes leads the way so he can watch him and make sure he's not injured further. But finally they've made it back to the rooms, and it's an enormous relief to simply... set his things aside and collapse into his chair, seriously considering simply sleeping just there.
"Do you need pain relief?" he asks, still wakeful despite his eyes being closed. If he can find oblivion and just rest, perhaps his mind will make more sense in the morning.
Does he need pain relief? Likewise having collapsed into his own chair next to Watson, Holmes opens one eye to look over at the doctor. Is that a trick question? If Watson is offering, Holmes is in no position to decline and in fact will rarely do so even if he is in a position to decline.
And, as further inspection reveals, his chest does hurt. Breathing has been difficult for some time, now, and Holmes is quickly becoming tired of it. He had hardly noticed all day today, as he was working, but now his attention is drawn back to it and it is beginning to annoy him. Perhaps that is a good way to keep other matters from his mind, but it isn't really blocking any other thoughts so much as severely annoying him.
"If I answer yes, are you going to shout at me?" A legitimate worry, since occasionally Watson does shout at him for matters involving pain relief. Although Holmes doesn't quite seem able to tell the difference between "justifiable" uses of medication and other, less permissible uses, such as pilfering all of Watson's laudanum, distilling it carefully to separate the opium and morphine from the rest of the mixture, mixing it with scotch and proceeding to test it out on himself and the first person he can convince that that particular vintage is supposed to taste that bitter.
Watson had been very displeased, but not until he'd woken up from a dreadful hangover, thus proving that it would not be a cure for the headaches produced by excessive consumption of alcohol. It had taken Watson twelve hours before he'd regained his ability to shout at Holmes.
Watson sighs. "No," he says simply, hoisting himself out of his chair and stumbling into his office, not particularly wanting to open his eyes. There is the sound of a cupboard opening and then a curse as his already half-asleep mind realizes that what he has of his supplies is upstairs, as the rest of it is still at Cavendish Place.
That thought wakes him, and the image of Mary's face returns. He'd managed to block it all day, had kept it at bay throughout, but now... now it's returned, and he feels suddenly as though he's going to burst into horribly weak tears. His jaw tightens, and he forces himself to take in a slow breath and let it out. That returns his control, and he starts up the stairs and retrieves the laudanum, pouring the appropriate dose for Holmes and handing it to him before falling onto the settee this time.
"I'm sleeping," he announces gruffly, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. And perhaps, if he's lucky, he'll be able to forget it all again.
"All right," Holmes says, when he realizes that nodding isn't going to be noticed. He considers mentioning that Watson has a bed he might try that in, but quickly decides against it. He'd seen the look on the other man's face, and has the feeling that any discussion of anything right now would not be appreciated.
So in the interest of not causing any more stir than he already managed today, Holmes accepts the laudanum from him, immediately swallows all of it, and then proceeds... to sit there, silently, in his chair for he has no idea how long. The case is over, Watson is still upset no matter what he says, his ribs hurt, and Holmes... has no idea what to do with himself, has no idea why he should be both frightened and hopeful after having witnessed Watson's bout of jealousy.
At least when the laudanum begins to do its work, tiredness finally creeps in, and slowly Holmes begins to allow himself to sink into exhaustion. Sleep finally does claim him, sprawled in his chair, and the last thing his slightly-dazed mind conjures is the image of Watson's face in the cellar, when they'd discussed the actress and Holmes'... activities with her, strangely lit and almost malevolent as he stared back at Holmes.
~~~~~
Epilogue