Fic for worldincoffee: The Scent of Valor
Title:The Scent of Valor
Author: alone_dreaming
Recipient:worldincoffee
Characters/Pairings:Watson, Holmes, Mrs. Watson, a mention of Mary
Rating:PG (for angst and a mild (but icky) hallucination)
Warnings:Present tense narration along with (despite the best attempts of my beta reader) my flawed understanding of the English language. Set in Canon Universe with some liberties taken.
Summary:He should understand that sometimes sacrifices do not necessarily entail every facet of valor. Sometimes they entail abandonment and lies and betrayal; sometimes they require tiny misdeeds to achieve the greater good.
They will not talk about it.
He already knows this when they slip into their familiar seats at Baker Street as though nothing has changed. Holmes will never broach the subject and he, in his turn, cannot bear to touch it. Even in his hurt and anger over both being deserted and not being trusted, he cannot find it in himself to ask the ultimate why. Holmes has already claimed that he did it for Watson's safety and that should be enough for Watson; or so he keeps telling himself as Holmes picks up his old pipe, still there, still the same, not even dusty, and packs it. He should understand that sometimes sacrifices do not necessarily entail every facet of valor. Sometimes they entail abandonment and lies and betrayal; sometimes they require tiny misdeeds to achieve the greater good.
If he was better adjusted, hadn't suffered so much tragedy of late, he would, at some point, ask that question. Maybe the situation will be like this one, with Holmes puffing away on his pipe, staring into the flames, and he in his chair, with his hands folded on his stomach, studying the fire as well. Maybe it will happen in a manner so casual that Holmes will answer honestly, with as much nonchalance as Watson addresses it with. But he knows that he will never find the strength to do that, just as Holmes will never find the emotional maturity to give him the answer.
No, the pair of them will continue as they always have. He will have his things moved back to Baker Street and Holmes will air out his room upstairs. He will rid himself of his practice and house, selling what he can, taking what he must and giving away whatever is left. Together, they'll slip into familiar routines with Holmes spending days on miscellaneous experiments and Watson traveling about London to tend to patients. In the evening, Holmes will play his violin or smoke his pipe or, perhaps, simply lounge on their couch while Watson sits at his writing desk and scribbles out their latest adventure.
Maybe, the smallest amount of tension will hover between the pair of them, the hint of unspoken words straining to flow from their lips. Maybe, they will both open their mouths to say something but find the irresistible urge to hold back. He knows that this will happen, that it will be like tonight, and they will trade nary a word on the topic. It will fade away, like his years with Mary, his years in silence since her death. It will fade away like Holmes's time in Europe, his years alone, traveling the world. And they will grow old together in that heaviness, that oppressive familiarity that requires, beyond all else, peace.
Or not.
The next week, they don't have a case to pursue and he has started his plans to rejoin his friend in their old abode. It takes far more planning than he expects it to. He has patients to give over to colleagues, paperwork to organize, debts to settle and items to transport. Selling the house proves easy, while selling his business turns out to be difficult. He finally offers it for half of its worth to an old friend who offers to pay more once he's established himself. Watson tells him, with a small measure of truth, not to concern himself over such trivial matters; he is pleased to have someone he trusts watching over his charges.
It turns into one of his more exhausting weeks, days filled with sorting and disposing and heartache. His stomach churns every time he moves one of Mary's things and threatens to initiate complete rebellion when he gives away some of the less precious items to charity. He had not realized it, but he hasn't moved her possessions since her death. They've sat in the same places that she left them in for the long years, awaiting a mistress who would never return, gathering dust as it became apparent that they'd been forgotten. The maid has known better than to touch them and has cleaned around them, leaving small margins of grime at their edges when she dared not venture any closer. He ends up purging most of those items, turning away as they are either sold or bequeathed into the arms of a thankful pastor.
Saturday evening, he returns to Baker Street with the letters she wrote him and a bottle of her perfume. Even after all this time, two fingers worth lingers at the bottom and he cannot not bring himself to give it away or throw it out. Every time it drifts into the air, he remembers an afternoon when they walked together in the park and laughed over nothing and everything. Every lingering drop is a moment in their lives together, a quiet dinner on the floor in front of the fire, roasting toast on the poker like a pair of school children, her head on his shoulder.
The seventeen stairs to the sitting room are insurmountable when he finally enters his old-- and new-- dwelling. He takes his time removing his coat and hat, placing the box containing his precious memories at the base of the mountain he soon must conquer. Every part of him aches with some sort of phantom pain. His shoulder, never properly healed, revolts in this weather, as does his leg, while his chest aches deep and heavy with the barely healed wound of isolation. With this, his head pulsates with a strange misery of returning to this place, of playacting his part as though nothing has changed, of pretending that it doesn't hurt him to know that Holmes did not trust him enough to tell him the truth.
He knows that, in another week or so, the weather will lighten up and his war wounds will twinge only distantly. Her possessions will sit in his wardrobe, acquiring dust again, and he will only think of her once a day instead of every waking second. Holmes's behavior, like any other insensitive action his friend (or not friend? Certainly, friends trust each other more?) has taken in their long acquaintance, will pass over him like water. His new-old routine will placate him until he barely remembers the stomach churning anxiety of this moment.
He pats down his pockets, searching for anything he might have forgotten, as though it will not remain for him to fetch in the morning. Part of him realizes he's avoiding that sitting room, avoiding his chair, avoiding the inertia that will take this away from him. His friends outside of Holmes have allowed him to linger in his black suits, have not questioned him when he declined invitations, and have ignored his frequent visits to the graveyard to speak with his wife and long gone friend. Returning to the beginning will require him to let go of what has essentially kept him from the grave and he isn't sure he is prepared for it. He pauses in his ministrations, realizing that he has fumbled through the same pockets three times and is starting on a fourth.
The box has gained weight since he set it down and the stairs have gained height since he ascended them last. The top may be unattainable from where he is right now, three stairs up and struggling to lift his foot to the next. He has never felt so exhausted as he does at this moment, not even upon his return from the Falls, with Holmes's death lingering over his head. Those first few weeks after he'd lost the detective hurt nearly as much (perhaps, even more) than Mary's eventual departure. He'd wept openly at night, woken in cold sweats with the faintest hint of nightmare in his consciousness and flitted about in the daylight like a ghost. Every time he ventured out into the streets he would think that a particularly hunched and awkward looking man was Holmes in disguise; he spent hours following these people, only to discover that they were simple denizens of London. Accepting that Holmes had perished, that he would not return, took far more time and far more pain than Mary's death ever did, and, by the time he finally accepted it, he was a mere shadow of his former self.
It is strange that the detective's reappearance has brought a resurgence of that old illness as opposed to a new spark of life. He is overjoyed that the detective is alive, that much is certain, but so many other issues have appeared with Holmes that he is torn. He stops, halfway up, attempting to catch his breath. His arm presses against the banister while his fingers strain to keep the box from tumbling back down. He may need to leave it here and rest before he continues. It seems ridiculous that he cannot carry something so light another nine steps but, as he lifts his foot to conquer the next, his leg starts to buckle underneath him.
A hand catches him at the elbow, stopping the threat of a potentially deadly fall, while another sweeps the box from his arms. Even as it does, the bottle of perfume, displaced by the near fall, tumbles from the box and hits the stairs with a soft tinkle of shattered glass. The smell sweeps the room, dragging him away from the present and into the past before he can stop it, and he's barely aware of someone leading him up the stairs. The hands that guide him seem to?belong to a ghost as his mind entertains his first memories of her, her gentle composure and the strange frown on the detective's lips as he watched his friend's gaze upon her person. It takes him deeper, to their conversation in the carriage, his friend's silence, her carefully placed words, the whole world spinning about him as though a twister has come to tear him apart.
And then a new smell cuts through it, just as familiar though less strong. It drifts over him, far gentler, far smoother, and nowhere near as overpowering, composed of tobacco, brandy, and aftershave. It cuts through those memories that hurt like salty food on a split lip, and offers him a sitting room, adequately cared for, with two chairs before the fire and two desks on either side. There's the soft lilt of violin strings being plucked, the slight haziness in the air from the chemicals burning in the corner of the room, and the strangest feeling of quiet. He blinks against it, uncertain, and it changes only slightly. No music, no haziness, but still the crackle of logs turning to ash and that scent nearby, hovering.
He has been placed in his chair, his head leaning against one of the sides awkwardly, his collar opened, his fingers curled about a tumbler of alcohol. Before him, almost as a week earlier, crouches Holmes, his features blank and his fingers entwined about Watson's sleeve. His lips purse slightly as though he has come to some conclusion that causes him a great deal of displeasure.
"Do not get up," he says when Watson sits straighter in the chair. "I'm afraid you've almost fainted once again, old chap. I do hope it shall not become a habit whenever I enter a room with you."
He has no witty rejoinder to deliver, the smell pressing against him like a blanket; it will smother him if he doesn't leave. His vision dims slightly as he recalls the pair of them howling with laughter over some old joke and Mrs. Hudson peering in at them to make sure they had not fully lost their senses. He blinks again, realizing that the brandy has left his hand and, now, perches on the side table between their chairs. Holmes has gained his feet, his fingers pressing painfully against Watson's wrist.
"I think you should call him, Mrs. Hudson," the detective says. "While I believe the Doctor's simply overdone himself, I would prefer a medical confirmation."
"There's no need," he croaks around his tightening throat. "I am well."
Holmes leans over him, all harsh angles and marble expressions. "Please do not take offense if I second guess you, Watson, as the evidence of the past twenty minutes appears to contradict you."
"I am only tired," and this much is true. He feels the ache of it in his eyes and tightening his stomach. "Do not trouble someone over it."
Holmes's hand moves until it's crushing grip rests upon his upper arm. When he speaks, his words hold an edge, "You're well-being is not a trouble, Watson. I will not finally have you back at my side only to lose you again."
Watson swallows so loudly that Holmes looks down at him in sudden alarm, perhaps thinking he has fallen into some sort of fit. His free hand latches upon Watson's shoulder to stop him from curling up, his other hand moving to his forehead as though to gauge a fever. All the while, his face changes from the familiar stoney control to almost frantic anxiety.
"I am sorry, my friend," Holmes whispers under his breath, so quiet that it's barely audible and Watson doubts it's actually addressed to him. He has closed his eyes, after all, trying to gain some semblance of control, and Holmes may think him unconscious.
He has plenty of time to consider these words. The doctor arrives, per Holmes's request, diagnosing him with exhaustion and recommending bed rest. He and Holmes shuffle Watson to bed like a child. A tincture, recommended to ward off any complications, sits on his bedside table but it takes coercion for him to choke it down. He is not ill, has no need for medication that may or may not prevent the inevitable, but he eventually consumes it merely to relieve some of the fear marring Holmes's features. Having not peered into a mirror for many a day, he has no way of knowing what Holmes sees, and he's left to conclude that he looks like the devil himself if his face provokes such a reaction.
He sleeps fitfully, woken by pleasant dreams and horrific nightmares, the shuffling of Mrs. Hudson about the room, and the light touch of Holmes's hand upon his arm. Whenever he awakens with a gasp. his fingers clutching at the bedsheets that had been Mary's hand or the great cliffside just seconds before, he finds one or the other of them about. Mrs. Hudson fusses at him, encourages him to drink, offers him mild foods to eat, forces the medicine down his throat while Holmes sits in the singular chair in the room, often not acknowledging his return to consciousness, his mind enveloped in some perplexity.
The medicine muddies him but does not prevent him from considering those words. 'I am sorry, my friend.' He can barely recall when he heard the last two words come from Holmes's lips, so great their rarity. The first three, far rarer, he cannot remember hearing at all. The voice delivering them had sounded achingly concerned as though it delivered them in true contrition. He doesn't believe Holmes meant for him to hear them, meant for anyone to hear that small break, but that does not change their frankness or meaning.
He awakens from another dream, sweat beading on his brow, arms trembling as they boost him up. All the energy he's ever possessed has drained from him, leaving him limp and all the more exhausted. A chill has settled into his bones, untouched by the fire, sending tremors down his to his core. Shakily, he attempts to take his own pulse but has difficulty locating it, and he cannot tell if he is feverish or still wrapped up in the twisting, hellish search for Holmes's body. He sinks heavily against his headboard and pillows, giving his arms necessary respite.
"Mrs. Hudson insists that you should eat." The voice, while familiar, startles him. The room hides in twilight, fire out, and he had thought himself alone. "Seeing as it is Monday evening and you've been abed for nearly two days. Would you like me to call her?"
He does not answer immediately, studying Holmes's shadow from his place in the bed, his heart speeding too fast in his chest. The shadow unfolds itself gracefully, long legs pulling away from its chest, torso turning towards him. He can just barely see Holmes's face, now, and cannot make out an expression.
"Watson?" Holmes prompts again, his tone changing so slightly that he, long out of this man's company, just barely recognizes it. Swift and agile, Holmes gains his feet and crosses the room. He pauses at the bedside, leaving a foot of space between he and the bed. "Watson?"
"Yes, Holmes?" he whispers, his throat oddly dry and his lips chapped. Perhaps, he has been ill despite what he thought.
"Should I tell her to bring us supper?" Holmes queries. Watson shivers, the effect of the light and his own hazy consciousness playing tricks on him. For a moment, he thinks he sees something skeletal about Holmes's features, something like decaying flesh falling from his shirt. It is probably the light on his face, he reasons, he has grown thinner, and ash on his shirt from his smoking. No more than that, no more, certainly, no more. Just an afterimage of a dream now passed and a future he fears to accept.
His voice rasps in his throat. "If it will sooth her nerves, I will attempt something."
"I will let her know then." Without warning, Holmes stoops, his fingers lightly brushing Watson's forehead. "And, perhaps, have her send the boy for a doctor again. You're feverish, my dear."
He doesn't comment and Holmes glides out the door, leaving him to sink further down, further back to whatever thoughts linger on the edges of Morpheus. It will be far easier to fall into melancholy and to not fight whatever illness attempts to take hold of him. He can drift back to sleep before sustenance arrives and drift through whatever check-up he receives from Doctor Purcell without care. He can keep sinking down, down, down until he hits whatever bottom waits in the darkest regions of despair and self-pity.
The scent hits his nose again, not as intense, as Holmes re-enters. He watches the man crouch over the fireplace and rebuild the embers into a fire. The smell with the fire and the room itself create a soothing effect, one he does not expect. It combines with the scuffle of the chair being dragged across the floor and settled at his side. Holmes folds into it with nary a word, his pipe resting on top of his folded knees, his arms wrapped about his ankles.
"She's fixed more food than either of us are capable of disposing of," Holmes comments morosely. "We shall never fit through the door if she has her way."
Like bubbles in water, something rises within him and escapes him before the sadness can stop it. Laughter, he realizes with some surprise, even as he sits there chuckling.
"Laugh all you wish," Holmes says, almost petulantly but the mirth reflects on his face. "I will remind you of this moment when you are lamenting the necessity of purchasing new waistcoats."
"And I should be very happy to have you around to do so," he manages around the near hysterical giggles.
Holmes's features soften. "Not more than I am to be here to do it."
Author: alone_dreaming
Recipient:worldincoffee
Characters/Pairings:Watson, Holmes, Mrs. Watson, a mention of Mary
Rating:PG (for angst and a mild (but icky) hallucination)
Warnings:Present tense narration along with (despite the best attempts of my beta reader) my flawed understanding of the English language. Set in Canon Universe with some liberties taken.
Summary:He should understand that sometimes sacrifices do not necessarily entail every facet of valor. Sometimes they entail abandonment and lies and betrayal; sometimes they require tiny misdeeds to achieve the greater good.
They will not talk about it.
He already knows this when they slip into their familiar seats at Baker Street as though nothing has changed. Holmes will never broach the subject and he, in his turn, cannot bear to touch it. Even in his hurt and anger over both being deserted and not being trusted, he cannot find it in himself to ask the ultimate why. Holmes has already claimed that he did it for Watson's safety and that should be enough for Watson; or so he keeps telling himself as Holmes picks up his old pipe, still there, still the same, not even dusty, and packs it. He should understand that sometimes sacrifices do not necessarily entail every facet of valor. Sometimes they entail abandonment and lies and betrayal; sometimes they require tiny misdeeds to achieve the greater good.
If he was better adjusted, hadn't suffered so much tragedy of late, he would, at some point, ask that question. Maybe the situation will be like this one, with Holmes puffing away on his pipe, staring into the flames, and he in his chair, with his hands folded on his stomach, studying the fire as well. Maybe it will happen in a manner so casual that Holmes will answer honestly, with as much nonchalance as Watson addresses it with. But he knows that he will never find the strength to do that, just as Holmes will never find the emotional maturity to give him the answer.
No, the pair of them will continue as they always have. He will have his things moved back to Baker Street and Holmes will air out his room upstairs. He will rid himself of his practice and house, selling what he can, taking what he must and giving away whatever is left. Together, they'll slip into familiar routines with Holmes spending days on miscellaneous experiments and Watson traveling about London to tend to patients. In the evening, Holmes will play his violin or smoke his pipe or, perhaps, simply lounge on their couch while Watson sits at his writing desk and scribbles out their latest adventure.
Maybe, the smallest amount of tension will hover between the pair of them, the hint of unspoken words straining to flow from their lips. Maybe, they will both open their mouths to say something but find the irresistible urge to hold back. He knows that this will happen, that it will be like tonight, and they will trade nary a word on the topic. It will fade away, like his years with Mary, his years in silence since her death. It will fade away like Holmes's time in Europe, his years alone, traveling the world. And they will grow old together in that heaviness, that oppressive familiarity that requires, beyond all else, peace.
Or not.
The next week, they don't have a case to pursue and he has started his plans to rejoin his friend in their old abode. It takes far more planning than he expects it to. He has patients to give over to colleagues, paperwork to organize, debts to settle and items to transport. Selling the house proves easy, while selling his business turns out to be difficult. He finally offers it for half of its worth to an old friend who offers to pay more once he's established himself. Watson tells him, with a small measure of truth, not to concern himself over such trivial matters; he is pleased to have someone he trusts watching over his charges.
It turns into one of his more exhausting weeks, days filled with sorting and disposing and heartache. His stomach churns every time he moves one of Mary's things and threatens to initiate complete rebellion when he gives away some of the less precious items to charity. He had not realized it, but he hasn't moved her possessions since her death. They've sat in the same places that she left them in for the long years, awaiting a mistress who would never return, gathering dust as it became apparent that they'd been forgotten. The maid has known better than to touch them and has cleaned around them, leaving small margins of grime at their edges when she dared not venture any closer. He ends up purging most of those items, turning away as they are either sold or bequeathed into the arms of a thankful pastor.
Saturday evening, he returns to Baker Street with the letters she wrote him and a bottle of her perfume. Even after all this time, two fingers worth lingers at the bottom and he cannot not bring himself to give it away or throw it out. Every time it drifts into the air, he remembers an afternoon when they walked together in the park and laughed over nothing and everything. Every lingering drop is a moment in their lives together, a quiet dinner on the floor in front of the fire, roasting toast on the poker like a pair of school children, her head on his shoulder.
The seventeen stairs to the sitting room are insurmountable when he finally enters his old-- and new-- dwelling. He takes his time removing his coat and hat, placing the box containing his precious memories at the base of the mountain he soon must conquer. Every part of him aches with some sort of phantom pain. His shoulder, never properly healed, revolts in this weather, as does his leg, while his chest aches deep and heavy with the barely healed wound of isolation. With this, his head pulsates with a strange misery of returning to this place, of playacting his part as though nothing has changed, of pretending that it doesn't hurt him to know that Holmes did not trust him enough to tell him the truth.
He knows that, in another week or so, the weather will lighten up and his war wounds will twinge only distantly. Her possessions will sit in his wardrobe, acquiring dust again, and he will only think of her once a day instead of every waking second. Holmes's behavior, like any other insensitive action his friend (or not friend? Certainly, friends trust each other more?) has taken in their long acquaintance, will pass over him like water. His new-old routine will placate him until he barely remembers the stomach churning anxiety of this moment.
He pats down his pockets, searching for anything he might have forgotten, as though it will not remain for him to fetch in the morning. Part of him realizes he's avoiding that sitting room, avoiding his chair, avoiding the inertia that will take this away from him. His friends outside of Holmes have allowed him to linger in his black suits, have not questioned him when he declined invitations, and have ignored his frequent visits to the graveyard to speak with his wife and long gone friend. Returning to the beginning will require him to let go of what has essentially kept him from the grave and he isn't sure he is prepared for it. He pauses in his ministrations, realizing that he has fumbled through the same pockets three times and is starting on a fourth.
The box has gained weight since he set it down and the stairs have gained height since he ascended them last. The top may be unattainable from where he is right now, three stairs up and struggling to lift his foot to the next. He has never felt so exhausted as he does at this moment, not even upon his return from the Falls, with Holmes's death lingering over his head. Those first few weeks after he'd lost the detective hurt nearly as much (perhaps, even more) than Mary's eventual departure. He'd wept openly at night, woken in cold sweats with the faintest hint of nightmare in his consciousness and flitted about in the daylight like a ghost. Every time he ventured out into the streets he would think that a particularly hunched and awkward looking man was Holmes in disguise; he spent hours following these people, only to discover that they were simple denizens of London. Accepting that Holmes had perished, that he would not return, took far more time and far more pain than Mary's death ever did, and, by the time he finally accepted it, he was a mere shadow of his former self.
It is strange that the detective's reappearance has brought a resurgence of that old illness as opposed to a new spark of life. He is overjoyed that the detective is alive, that much is certain, but so many other issues have appeared with Holmes that he is torn. He stops, halfway up, attempting to catch his breath. His arm presses against the banister while his fingers strain to keep the box from tumbling back down. He may need to leave it here and rest before he continues. It seems ridiculous that he cannot carry something so light another nine steps but, as he lifts his foot to conquer the next, his leg starts to buckle underneath him.
A hand catches him at the elbow, stopping the threat of a potentially deadly fall, while another sweeps the box from his arms. Even as it does, the bottle of perfume, displaced by the near fall, tumbles from the box and hits the stairs with a soft tinkle of shattered glass. The smell sweeps the room, dragging him away from the present and into the past before he can stop it, and he's barely aware of someone leading him up the stairs. The hands that guide him seem to?belong to a ghost as his mind entertains his first memories of her, her gentle composure and the strange frown on the detective's lips as he watched his friend's gaze upon her person. It takes him deeper, to their conversation in the carriage, his friend's silence, her carefully placed words, the whole world spinning about him as though a twister has come to tear him apart.
And then a new smell cuts through it, just as familiar though less strong. It drifts over him, far gentler, far smoother, and nowhere near as overpowering, composed of tobacco, brandy, and aftershave. It cuts through those memories that hurt like salty food on a split lip, and offers him a sitting room, adequately cared for, with two chairs before the fire and two desks on either side. There's the soft lilt of violin strings being plucked, the slight haziness in the air from the chemicals burning in the corner of the room, and the strangest feeling of quiet. He blinks against it, uncertain, and it changes only slightly. No music, no haziness, but still the crackle of logs turning to ash and that scent nearby, hovering.
He has been placed in his chair, his head leaning against one of the sides awkwardly, his collar opened, his fingers curled about a tumbler of alcohol. Before him, almost as a week earlier, crouches Holmes, his features blank and his fingers entwined about Watson's sleeve. His lips purse slightly as though he has come to some conclusion that causes him a great deal of displeasure.
"Do not get up," he says when Watson sits straighter in the chair. "I'm afraid you've almost fainted once again, old chap. I do hope it shall not become a habit whenever I enter a room with you."
He has no witty rejoinder to deliver, the smell pressing against him like a blanket; it will smother him if he doesn't leave. His vision dims slightly as he recalls the pair of them howling with laughter over some old joke and Mrs. Hudson peering in at them to make sure they had not fully lost their senses. He blinks again, realizing that the brandy has left his hand and, now, perches on the side table between their chairs. Holmes has gained his feet, his fingers pressing painfully against Watson's wrist.
"I think you should call him, Mrs. Hudson," the detective says. "While I believe the Doctor's simply overdone himself, I would prefer a medical confirmation."
"There's no need," he croaks around his tightening throat. "I am well."
Holmes leans over him, all harsh angles and marble expressions. "Please do not take offense if I second guess you, Watson, as the evidence of the past twenty minutes appears to contradict you."
"I am only tired," and this much is true. He feels the ache of it in his eyes and tightening his stomach. "Do not trouble someone over it."
Holmes's hand moves until it's crushing grip rests upon his upper arm. When he speaks, his words hold an edge, "You're well-being is not a trouble, Watson. I will not finally have you back at my side only to lose you again."
Watson swallows so loudly that Holmes looks down at him in sudden alarm, perhaps thinking he has fallen into some sort of fit. His free hand latches upon Watson's shoulder to stop him from curling up, his other hand moving to his forehead as though to gauge a fever. All the while, his face changes from the familiar stoney control to almost frantic anxiety.
"I am sorry, my friend," Holmes whispers under his breath, so quiet that it's barely audible and Watson doubts it's actually addressed to him. He has closed his eyes, after all, trying to gain some semblance of control, and Holmes may think him unconscious.
He has plenty of time to consider these words. The doctor arrives, per Holmes's request, diagnosing him with exhaustion and recommending bed rest. He and Holmes shuffle Watson to bed like a child. A tincture, recommended to ward off any complications, sits on his bedside table but it takes coercion for him to choke it down. He is not ill, has no need for medication that may or may not prevent the inevitable, but he eventually consumes it merely to relieve some of the fear marring Holmes's features. Having not peered into a mirror for many a day, he has no way of knowing what Holmes sees, and he's left to conclude that he looks like the devil himself if his face provokes such a reaction.
He sleeps fitfully, woken by pleasant dreams and horrific nightmares, the shuffling of Mrs. Hudson about the room, and the light touch of Holmes's hand upon his arm. Whenever he awakens with a gasp. his fingers clutching at the bedsheets that had been Mary's hand or the great cliffside just seconds before, he finds one or the other of them about. Mrs. Hudson fusses at him, encourages him to drink, offers him mild foods to eat, forces the medicine down his throat while Holmes sits in the singular chair in the room, often not acknowledging his return to consciousness, his mind enveloped in some perplexity.
The medicine muddies him but does not prevent him from considering those words. 'I am sorry, my friend.' He can barely recall when he heard the last two words come from Holmes's lips, so great their rarity. The first three, far rarer, he cannot remember hearing at all. The voice delivering them had sounded achingly concerned as though it delivered them in true contrition. He doesn't believe Holmes meant for him to hear them, meant for anyone to hear that small break, but that does not change their frankness or meaning.
He awakens from another dream, sweat beading on his brow, arms trembling as they boost him up. All the energy he's ever possessed has drained from him, leaving him limp and all the more exhausted. A chill has settled into his bones, untouched by the fire, sending tremors down his to his core. Shakily, he attempts to take his own pulse but has difficulty locating it, and he cannot tell if he is feverish or still wrapped up in the twisting, hellish search for Holmes's body. He sinks heavily against his headboard and pillows, giving his arms necessary respite.
"Mrs. Hudson insists that you should eat." The voice, while familiar, startles him. The room hides in twilight, fire out, and he had thought himself alone. "Seeing as it is Monday evening and you've been abed for nearly two days. Would you like me to call her?"
He does not answer immediately, studying Holmes's shadow from his place in the bed, his heart speeding too fast in his chest. The shadow unfolds itself gracefully, long legs pulling away from its chest, torso turning towards him. He can just barely see Holmes's face, now, and cannot make out an expression.
"Watson?" Holmes prompts again, his tone changing so slightly that he, long out of this man's company, just barely recognizes it. Swift and agile, Holmes gains his feet and crosses the room. He pauses at the bedside, leaving a foot of space between he and the bed. "Watson?"
"Yes, Holmes?" he whispers, his throat oddly dry and his lips chapped. Perhaps, he has been ill despite what he thought.
"Should I tell her to bring us supper?" Holmes queries. Watson shivers, the effect of the light and his own hazy consciousness playing tricks on him. For a moment, he thinks he sees something skeletal about Holmes's features, something like decaying flesh falling from his shirt. It is probably the light on his face, he reasons, he has grown thinner, and ash on his shirt from his smoking. No more than that, no more, certainly, no more. Just an afterimage of a dream now passed and a future he fears to accept.
His voice rasps in his throat. "If it will sooth her nerves, I will attempt something."
"I will let her know then." Without warning, Holmes stoops, his fingers lightly brushing Watson's forehead. "And, perhaps, have her send the boy for a doctor again. You're feverish, my dear."
He doesn't comment and Holmes glides out the door, leaving him to sink further down, further back to whatever thoughts linger on the edges of Morpheus. It will be far easier to fall into melancholy and to not fight whatever illness attempts to take hold of him. He can drift back to sleep before sustenance arrives and drift through whatever check-up he receives from Doctor Purcell without care. He can keep sinking down, down, down until he hits whatever bottom waits in the darkest regions of despair and self-pity.
The scent hits his nose again, not as intense, as Holmes re-enters. He watches the man crouch over the fireplace and rebuild the embers into a fire. The smell with the fire and the room itself create a soothing effect, one he does not expect. It combines with the scuffle of the chair being dragged across the floor and settled at his side. Holmes folds into it with nary a word, his pipe resting on top of his folded knees, his arms wrapped about his ankles.
"She's fixed more food than either of us are capable of disposing of," Holmes comments morosely. "We shall never fit through the door if she has her way."
Like bubbles in water, something rises within him and escapes him before the sadness can stop it. Laughter, he realizes with some surprise, even as he sits there chuckling.
"Laugh all you wish," Holmes says, almost petulantly but the mirth reflects on his face. "I will remind you of this moment when you are lamenting the necessity of purchasing new waistcoats."
"And I should be very happy to have you around to do so," he manages around the near hysterical giggles.
Holmes's features soften. "Not more than I am to be here to do it."