Take a Breath, Watson/Holmes, 'Sherlock Holmes'
Title: Take a Breath
Summary: He took a breath and let it out; it was the only way to get through it.
Characters: Watson, Holmes, Mary, Gladstone
Pairing: Watson/Holmes, Watson/Mary
Rating: PG-15 [drug use]
Words: 1555
“No, Holmes!” Watson protested, pushing himself up from the armchair and towards the door. “You have never loved anyone - not even yourself! For all your ego and impressions of self-love, you still insist on slowly killing yourself with your ridiculous vices,” he spat, his eyes flicking to the syringe dangling from Holmes’ fingers. He closed his eyes and took a breath before slowly opening them again to stare at Holmes’ listless eyes. “You used to have the decency to wait until I was gone.”
He turned but caught the smirk spreading across Holmes’ face.
“And you, my dear Watson, used to have the decency to stay.”
Watson left, taking the stairs entirely too fast and tripped over the last one. Gladstone followed behind him and as the door shut, trapping the dog inside, Watson felt momentarily guilty for leaving the dog in a situation in which he himself could not stay.
--
Three weeks passed and then a month and Watson wondered which of them had died first: the dog, or the man? He had considered dropping by and seeing to Mrs Hudson but whenever he tried to walk up to 221b Baker Street, his legs carried him in a completely different direction.
His distance from Holmes pleased Mary, at least, and Watson was thankful for small favours.
--
Another week passed and he scoured the pages of the morning newspaper but there was no word on Holmes. No evidence that he had taken up another case. Resigned - and determined not to worry about how many of the five bottles of seven per cent solution Holmes had gone through - he folded the broadsheet over and set it on the table. Mary met his eye and he caught the lingering expression of her knowing stare.
He fixed his attention on his slightly burnt toast and the process of spreading butter across it.
--
Another month later, he was at work in the hospital covering the late evening shift for an old friend when the first murmurs started. He was too busy to listen and brushed them aside, finished up with his last patient of the night before heading home.
In the morning, he scanned the papers. He dropped his toast and scattered his tea and Mary was by his side in an instant but he could not speak. He could barely breathe.
--
One hour later, he was back at the hospital listening to the word on the ward as he hovered at the end of Holmes’ bed.
He was found in a pool of his own vomit. There was blood coming out of his nose. His heart wasn’t beating. They don’t think he’s gowna wake up. Pupils barely responsive. He is very lucky she found him when she did. He’s very lucky to be alive.
Watson shed his white coat and pulled up a chair.
--
Another three days passed in which Watson stayed at the hospital. Mary had come and tried to coax him home. Then she left only to return with a small bag with a change of underwear and shirt and he thanked her with his eyes because his voice still wasn’t working properly. She hadn’t been back since and the bag lay forgotten where she had laid it at the side of Holmes’ bed.
--
Sometime during the fourth night, Watson woke to the feel of fingers in his hair and for a moment he wondered how he had gotten back to Cavendish Place. But then he took in his uncomfortable position, the aches in his leg and back and he turned his head feeling the starched sheets of Holmes’ hospital bed scratch against his face. Then he felt Holmes’ fingers drag against the shell of his ear and he opened his eyes. In the gloom, he could only see the pale reflection of the half moon glinting back at him from Holmes’ black eyes.
He sat upright and Holmes’ hand fell first to his neck then his shoulder and skimmed his wrist on the way to the bed. Neither of them spoke, caught up in staring at one another and Watson felt his throat constrict tightly, his lungs begging for air while his lower lashes soaked up whatever tears leaked out. He waited for his medical training to kick in but it didn’t. He waited for Holmes to speak but he didn’t.
But there was touch and breathing and Holmes’ fingers clenching around his own and when he let out a shaky breath, his lungs were not the only things rejoicing.
“I would ask how long I have been in this bed but from the length of the growth on your chin and the... less than fresh scent of your person, I would wager it has been close to five days.”
“Then you are a more successful betting man than myself,” Watson replied quietly, relief evident in his tone. Through the murky darkness, he saw Holmes’ lips turn up in a tired attempt at a smile.
“Just observant, old boy.”
Watson shifted forward slightly, fussing with the covers over Holmes’ chest, fluffing the pillows around his exhausted friend’s head. Holmes’ eyes drifted closed for a moment and Watson stilled, hands dangerously close to Holmes’ face. As his eyes adjusted more to the darkness, he could make out the deep lines around Holmes’ eyes that not even rest could erase; he could feel his friend’s slow breaths gust over his wrist and forearm and he felt his own settle to match the rhythmic staccato.
Holmes’ eyes fluttered open, blinking twice against the darkness before he turned his head slightly to catch Watson’s eye again. Again, neither said anything and Watson found that he was slowly getting further and further out of his seat, his face inching closer and closer to Holmes’. He stopped and lowered his eyes to where his hands rested against Holmes’ pillow. He shifted, lifting one to slide against Holmes’ neck and down his jaw.
“You should rest,” he murmured as he drew back slightly, his hand lingering in contact with Holmes’ skin.
“Will you...” Holmes questioned lethargically, his eyes slipping shut as he slid into unconsciousness again.
Watson smiled and nodded anyway, lifting from his seat again to hover over Holmes. He could his breath on his chin and neck and he watched the lines of tension around Holmes’ eyes and lips recede before he bent the last inch and pressed a kiss to the bridge of Holmes’ nose.
“I’ll be here,” he murmured, lingering for a moment over Holmes’ face before sliding back into his chair.
He took a breath and let it out slowly, letting the guilt finally recede back to a quiet burn.
His eyes found the raised indents on the inside of Holmes’ arm and he creased his lips together, watching the markers of almost death bathe in the pool of opaque moonlight.
He took a breath and let it out. It was the only way to get through it.