Holmes fic: Awareness
Title: Awareness
Universe: ACD canon (Retribution/Spencer-verse)
Rating: PG?
Wordcount: 520
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: Though not fully awake, Watson is aware of some things. (An inset for Rescued.)
A/N: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #19: While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but he can hear everything everyone says at his bedside.
(I took liberties with the prompt; Watson doesn't hear *everything*.)
I was first aware of distant pain, and a deep ache with every breath I took. I tried to recall what had happened, but those parts of my mind still slumbered. I did not attempt to move; an instinct told me that to do so would bring the pain far closer than I'd like. I did attempt to open my eyes, but they remained stubbornly unmoved. Then I became aware of voices, very near.
"How is he?"
"As you know, his injuries are severe. We have done what we can to tend them, but only time will tell."
"When might he wake?"
"We don't know, but sleep is the best thing for him at this stage."
~~~
Stabbing, throbbing pain brought me back to the edge of awareness. I could just make out the sound of someone talking, and I opened my mouth to complain of the pain, but that small movement was agony and I could only groan instead. The groan ended in a coughing fit, and one of the voices from earlier said soothingly, "Just breathe, old boy. Help is on the way." Dizzy, I tried to comply, but the pain was so intense that I was swallowed up into it.
~~~
It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time I woke that I recognized the ever-present voice as belonging to my friend Holmes. The same flash of insight revealed that he was worried, very worried, and trying not to let it show. His constant presence, the fact that he was reading aloud newspaper articles that were of absolutely no interest to him . . . he finished the newspaper and set it aside, then said in a low voice, "You really must wake soon, dear boy. I am running out of things to say."
Touched, I tried to say his name. "Holmes." It came out as barely a whisper, the movement of lips and little else, but he saw it, as I knew he would.
"Watson?" he said eagerly, gently touching my arm.
"Hm," I managed in reply, then drifted off again.
~~~
My flirtations with awareness continued for some time, the length of which I could not even guess. All attempts to speak save that one resulted in coughing and pain, and despite my best efforts I could not rouse myself enough to open my eyes or move my limbs in any meaningful way.
In the brief snatches of consciousness, I managed to remember how I had come to be in such poor condition--the whipping was particularly vivid in my memory--and I had an appreciation for the pain, as it meant I yet lived.
The origin of my hurts also seemed a point of frequent contemplation for Holmes, who repeatedly apologized for taking too long to find me. In darker moments he lamented that Henry was dead, as he would have delighted in killing him again, slowly this time. Such talk alarmed me, and I wished I could assure him that I would be all right.
Finally, finally, I opened my eyes and could see the wreck that worry and guilt had made of my friend. "You look awful, Holmes."
Universe: ACD canon (Retribution/Spencer-verse)
Rating: PG?
Wordcount: 520
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: Though not fully awake, Watson is aware of some things. (An inset for Rescued.)
A/N: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #19: While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but he can hear everything everyone says at his bedside.
(I took liberties with the prompt; Watson doesn't hear *everything*.)
I was first aware of distant pain, and a deep ache with every breath I took. I tried to recall what had happened, but those parts of my mind still slumbered. I did not attempt to move; an instinct told me that to do so would bring the pain far closer than I'd like. I did attempt to open my eyes, but they remained stubbornly unmoved. Then I became aware of voices, very near.
"How is he?"
"As you know, his injuries are severe. We have done what we can to tend them, but only time will tell."
"When might he wake?"
"We don't know, but sleep is the best thing for him at this stage."
~~~
Stabbing, throbbing pain brought me back to the edge of awareness. I could just make out the sound of someone talking, and I opened my mouth to complain of the pain, but that small movement was agony and I could only groan instead. The groan ended in a coughing fit, and one of the voices from earlier said soothingly, "Just breathe, old boy. Help is on the way." Dizzy, I tried to comply, but the pain was so intense that I was swallowed up into it.
~~~
It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time I woke that I recognized the ever-present voice as belonging to my friend Holmes. The same flash of insight revealed that he was worried, very worried, and trying not to let it show. His constant presence, the fact that he was reading aloud newspaper articles that were of absolutely no interest to him . . . he finished the newspaper and set it aside, then said in a low voice, "You really must wake soon, dear boy. I am running out of things to say."
Touched, I tried to say his name. "Holmes." It came out as barely a whisper, the movement of lips and little else, but he saw it, as I knew he would.
"Watson?" he said eagerly, gently touching my arm.
"Hm," I managed in reply, then drifted off again.
~~~
My flirtations with awareness continued for some time, the length of which I could not even guess. All attempts to speak save that one resulted in coughing and pain, and despite my best efforts I could not rouse myself enough to open my eyes or move my limbs in any meaningful way.
In the brief snatches of consciousness, I managed to remember how I had come to be in such poor condition--the whipping was particularly vivid in my memory--and I had an appreciation for the pain, as it meant I yet lived.
The origin of my hurts also seemed a point of frequent contemplation for Holmes, who repeatedly apologized for taking too long to find me. In darker moments he lamented that Henry was dead, as he would have delighted in killing him again, slowly this time. Such talk alarmed me, and I wished I could assure him that I would be all right.
Finally, finally, I opened my eyes and could see the wreck that worry and guilt had made of my friend. "You look awful, Holmes."