writers_muses Challenge 83.1.G.
“I don’t want any more sleep and I definitely don’t want any more dreams.”
I was woken last night, or should I say quite early this morning, by the sound of a book being dropped on the floor and a harshly whispered expletive. The voice was Watson's but it was quite obscenely early for him to be awake. It is a habit for me to be up until all hours of the night for whatever reason and it used to be a habit of his when he was late from Afghanistan and his nerves were all shaken. When his health returned so did the sleeping patterns of a typical human being. In retrospect I am shocked that I was not awake. It has been four days since I completed the case the O'Brian forgeries and I should have a black mood upon me by now. I suppose the three weeks dedicated to that problem were more taxing on my person than I suspected.
At any rate I was asleep and the doctor was not. Quite an unusual state of affairs. In fact, once I had put my dressing gown on and ventured into the sitting room I found that my friend had been there for quite some time. I had retired at eleven o'clock precisely and Watson had done the same ten minutes after I had, I had heard his footfalls on the steps as I had settled into bed. Judging by the atmosphere of the room, and the pile of cigarette ends in the ashtray, he had been there since shortly after midnight. I had not heard him come down nor had smelt the cigarettes. He had been there some three hours. I am usually a light sleeper, I find it troubling that I missed these signs for many practical and professional reasons.
I will admit, however, that I was more concerned for personal reasons. Watson is not the most subtle of beings when he is in his own home and the fact that he managed to conceal his presence from me meant he really did not want to bother me. The question was whether that was because he was concerned by my well being or wanted to be alone. When I announced my presence the twitch in his shoulder spoke of shock but the look in his eyes were of thankfulness. He was concerned for my welfare then.
"Do not concern yourself with me," I told him. "What brings you to the realm of consciousness at this hour?"
He took several long moments, holding the cigarette in his mouth much longer than usual. He was in deep thought but, considering how best to tell me instead of outright refusing me.
"Dreams," he said simply. "Or rather the fear of them."
Dreams. No stranger to either of us. Watson as I first knew him would often scream in the night, reliving the horrors of Maiwand. I did much the same after the Moriarty business. Thankfully I rarely remember my dreams. Watson, always, remembers every moment of his. Usually for days.
We have never spoken of our dreams. I have nothing to tell him, and I am not sure I would be able to if I did, and Watson's are usually easy to deduce. Maiwand was obvious at the time but it would not be Maiwand he fears dreams of tonight.
The O'Brian case had many points that were similar to the circumstances in which his brother met his end. In fact I am fairly sure that the public houses we had visited had been ones that the elder Watson had visited. The landlords had looked twice, and sometimes more than that, at Watson at each establishment we'd entered. We'd also had to question three ladies of the night and their pimp. Watson had been gripping his brother's watch and trying his best to maintain his professional, kind demeanor whilst trying not to be ill. His brother was found dead with the smell of alcohol on him in an establishment of that type.
His brother's end was shrouded in mystery and even I cannot put a figure on precisely caused his end. Whether it was murder or simply drink that ended his life. The latter was named as the official cause and no one has found anything to thing any other way. Watson, however, has always had a vivid imagination and so much of his brother's life after he vanished is unknown that there is little to be done but wonder.
We do not speak of these things. Some part of me hopes we will one day be capable of it but until that day I will simply be present. It is now nearly breakfast and neither of us has moved. Watson has started a second novel and I have amused myself with an experiment I had abandoned in favour of the O'Brian case. Perhaps after breakfast I will attempt to get Watson to come for a walk. Fresh air would do us both good. The air was foul with one man smoking and now, with the both of smoking the heaviest tobacco we possess, it is positively poisonous.
I was woken last night, or should I say quite early this morning, by the sound of a book being dropped on the floor and a harshly whispered expletive. The voice was Watson's but it was quite obscenely early for him to be awake. It is a habit for me to be up until all hours of the night for whatever reason and it used to be a habit of his when he was late from Afghanistan and his nerves were all shaken. When his health returned so did the sleeping patterns of a typical human being. In retrospect I am shocked that I was not awake. It has been four days since I completed the case the O'Brian forgeries and I should have a black mood upon me by now. I suppose the three weeks dedicated to that problem were more taxing on my person than I suspected.
At any rate I was asleep and the doctor was not. Quite an unusual state of affairs. In fact, once I had put my dressing gown on and ventured into the sitting room I found that my friend had been there for quite some time. I had retired at eleven o'clock precisely and Watson had done the same ten minutes after I had, I had heard his footfalls on the steps as I had settled into bed. Judging by the atmosphere of the room, and the pile of cigarette ends in the ashtray, he had been there since shortly after midnight. I had not heard him come down nor had smelt the cigarettes. He had been there some three hours. I am usually a light sleeper, I find it troubling that I missed these signs for many practical and professional reasons.
I will admit, however, that I was more concerned for personal reasons. Watson is not the most subtle of beings when he is in his own home and the fact that he managed to conceal his presence from me meant he really did not want to bother me. The question was whether that was because he was concerned by my well being or wanted to be alone. When I announced my presence the twitch in his shoulder spoke of shock but the look in his eyes were of thankfulness. He was concerned for my welfare then.
"Do not concern yourself with me," I told him. "What brings you to the realm of consciousness at this hour?"
He took several long moments, holding the cigarette in his mouth much longer than usual. He was in deep thought but, considering how best to tell me instead of outright refusing me.
"Dreams," he said simply. "Or rather the fear of them."
Dreams. No stranger to either of us. Watson as I first knew him would often scream in the night, reliving the horrors of Maiwand. I did much the same after the Moriarty business. Thankfully I rarely remember my dreams. Watson, always, remembers every moment of his. Usually for days.
We have never spoken of our dreams. I have nothing to tell him, and I am not sure I would be able to if I did, and Watson's are usually easy to deduce. Maiwand was obvious at the time but it would not be Maiwand he fears dreams of tonight.
The O'Brian case had many points that were similar to the circumstances in which his brother met his end. In fact I am fairly sure that the public houses we had visited had been ones that the elder Watson had visited. The landlords had looked twice, and sometimes more than that, at Watson at each establishment we'd entered. We'd also had to question three ladies of the night and their pimp. Watson had been gripping his brother's watch and trying his best to maintain his professional, kind demeanor whilst trying not to be ill. His brother was found dead with the smell of alcohol on him in an establishment of that type.
His brother's end was shrouded in mystery and even I cannot put a figure on precisely caused his end. Whether it was murder or simply drink that ended his life. The latter was named as the official cause and no one has found anything to thing any other way. Watson, however, has always had a vivid imagination and so much of his brother's life after he vanished is unknown that there is little to be done but wonder.
We do not speak of these things. Some part of me hopes we will one day be capable of it but until that day I will simply be present. It is now nearly breakfast and neither of us has moved. Watson has started a second novel and I have amused myself with an experiment I had abandoned in favour of the O'Brian case. Perhaps after breakfast I will attempt to get Watson to come for a walk. Fresh air would do us both good. The air was foul with one man smoking and now, with the both of smoking the heaviest tobacco we possess, it is positively poisonous.