SH - One-Shot: A Friend in Need
Am cutting it rather fine... Still four fics to go...
Title: A Friend in Need
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG
Warnings: possibly triggering topic, mention of drug use
Prompt: nervous breakdown
Characters: Dr Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson, Mary Morstan/Watson
Summary: Shortly after his marriage, Watson calls on Holmes to find him departed for an important case on the continent. A few weeks later, Watson receives a worrying telegram from Lyons...
Author's Note: Written for hc_bingo . First classic!Holmes fic in ages. Hope I still got it.
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I had not heard of my dear friend Mr Sherlock Holmes in several month, due to being engaged in setting up my own household. We had hardly spoken since Miss Mary Morstan had done me the honour of becoming my wife, which, to my very great regret, led to harsh words between us. With such an individual like Sherlock Holmes, it is not always easy to entertain a friendship, not as long as he seemed to be unable to congratulate me on my happiness. While I, as a doctor, and as such, a scientist myself, could understand why he abhorred feelings as a danger to his judgement, but as a friend, I had been deeply hurt by his behaviour. His reassurance that in Mary I had chosen a worthy woman did little to appease me.
Still, Holmes had done me the honour of being a guest at our wedding, even though we hardly spoke one word to one another at that time. I read of his doings in the paper just as the general public, and sometimes I felt that I should have enjoyed being at Holmes's side during his engagement in those cases, but my marital duty and the all-too-vivid memory of our frequent arguments before my departure from Baker Street kept me away from those old haunts.
However, it was in March of that year that the excitement of entertaining one's own household and, in addition, own practice, had died down and I found myself without occupation for the weekend. Mary had left London to visit her old landlady, now living in the countryside near Nottingham, and I was free to do as I liked. I don't know the precise reason why I chose to go to Baker Street, other than perhaps the constant worry for my dear friend, who had, by is own admission, indulged rather too freely in his vices.
Our landlady, Mrs Hudson, had, upon my departure, allowed me to retain a set of keys for house and flat, much to my relief and Holmes's chagrin, in case the detective should one day be in need of urgent medical assistance, as it is not unusual in his chosen profession. It showed great wisdom on Mrs Hudson's part, for which I was grateful, but as I approached Baker Street, I found the curtains of our flat drawn and no light shining within. Assuming that Holmes had gone out, I made no use of my keys but rather knocked at the front door, hoping for Mrs Hudson to be in.
Soon, she ushered me inside, greeting me warmly. “It's good to see you again, Dr Watson. Oh, marriage suits you. I trust all is well with Mrs Watson?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson, all is well. Mary is visiting some friends in the country for the weekend. I take it Holmes has gone out?”
“Oh, I am sorry, Dr Watson. I should have told you - Mr Holmes has left the country on a case some weeks ago - a political matter, I take it, but it is not for me to intrude into Mr Holmes's affairs. I assumed he had sent you word, or I would have done so.”
“No, I hadn't heard from Holmes. A political matter, you say?”
“Mr Holmes received two very well dressed gentleman, and as soon as they had departed, he was making preparations to leave. He didn't tell me how long he'd be gone, or anything more of the matter.”
I sighed, somewhat worried that Holmes seemed to hold such little regard for our friendship that he did not even see fit to inform me when he left England for several weeks, but perhaps it was selfishness on my part to assume him to be available when I decided to call on him on a whim. I could not think of any matter in the daily papers that would call for his presence on the continent, however, I had learned that the cases in which Holmes was involved often called for utter secrecy, and so I was not unduly worried. “Well, then I should be on my way, Mrs Hudson. I don't want to keep you any longer.”
“It's always a pleasure seeing you, Dr Watson. I hope you and Mr Holmes will stay in contact in the future - to tell the truth, I have been a little worried about him, Doctor. He works too hard.”
“As long as there is work, Mrs Hudson, I believe you shouldn't worry too much. Rather dread the periods when Holmes is without work.”
“Oh, I know what you mean, Doctor.”
However, I had been mistaken in my judgement, which came as much of a surprise to me as to my wife, who was rather startled by my intention of leaving for the continent post haste mere minutes after receiving a telegram from Lyons. I will not talk of the case leading up to these events which I am about to reveal for the first time, although I have alluded to them in the past, since it is still very much in the public mind, and all involved are still bound to a certain degree of secrecy. For the purpose of this narrative, it will suffice to inform my readers that this had been the same case Holmes had departed on even before I had last been to Baker Street, which was at the time of which I will now speak was almost a month ago.
As I received the telegram, I knew nothing of this, as the details were only given into the hands of the press in those hours, but the tense tone of the telegram left no doubt in my mind of what must have happened.
Holmes was never known to write when a telegram would suffice, therefore I assumed immediately that he was indeed the sender, maybe having finally returned to Baker Street and learned from Mrs Hudson of my visit. However, the telegram was not from my friend, if very much about him.
Mr Holmes severely ill. Hotel Dulong, Lyons. Come at once.
It was signed by the hotel director, and despatched on the very same day it had arrived, showing me the urgency of the request. Needless to say that despite our quarrel I was eager to depart and hurry to Holmes's side, dreading what that 'severe illness' might be.
Within the hour I was on a train to the continent, and forced to while away my journey in worry for my friend. I had formulated several theories as to the cause of his illness, which had apparently rendered him incapable of sending for me himself, none of which bode well for Holmes. However, as I had to assume that he had been engaged in a case until the very hour of his collapse, I assumed it to be reasonable to rule out any grave injury he might have caused himself by using cocaine, which was a comfort to me, if, admittedly, a small one. I only hoped that the hotel director had been wise enough to make certain that Holmes was in no immediate danger in sending for me, or had engaged another physician to care for the detective until I arrived. Holmes can be very adamant in matters of his own health, and I have known him to refuse to see any doctor but myself even in times of grave illness.
Needless to say that upon my arrival in Lyons, I wasted no time. Thankfully, the hotel staff seemed to have been informed of my coming, and were quick in ushering me to the very door of Holmes's room, where I was left alone to catch my breath. It was precisely twenty-four hours since I had received the telegram, and my experience as a doctor had taught me that a patient's condition could deteriorate towards deadly in even shorter periods of time.
It appeared to be absolutely silent on the other side of the door, and I did not perceive even a glimmer of light. With trepidation, I raise my hand to knock. “Holmes, it's me. The director sent for me. May I enter?”
It took Holmes some time to answer, all the while my worry was mounting, but when he finally did, I was relieved that his voice sounded much more annoyed than actually sick. “If you must.”
Upon turning the handle, I found the door to be open and stepped into the room beyond. The curtains were drawn but for a small gap in-between, bathing the room in a gloomy light. As it is usual for hotels such as these, there was a small arrangement of seats near the door, separated from the bed merely by a small sidetable. On the far wall near the window, there was a writing table, upon which were scattered several papers and files, which I assumed to be connected to Holmes's most recent case. However, the most noticeable feature of the room was its floor, which was covered ankle deep in telegrams and half opened letters, some of them torn.
“Holmes?” I asked, uncertain of what to make of this mess, which, even for Mr Sherlock Holmes, was somewhat out of the ordinary. The man himself was curled up on top of the bed, prone and unmoving. If I had not seen the light from the hallway reflecting in his eyes, I would have thought him asleep. Carefully, I closed the door behind me and turned up the gas of the lamp within my reach.
“Ignore them. They are of no importance,” Holmes said, his voice in the same impassive, if slightly vexed tone as before.
“What are they?” I picked up several of the telegrams, finding that they all contained congratulations towards my friend, written in several languages. “A successful case?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Holmes, what is the matter? You don't seem to be injured, or ill.”
“I'm not. I can't think why the director saw fit to call you here from England, yanking you out of your marital harmony.”
“Holmes, we've been over this time and time again - must we argue again? I came here to help you, I was concerned.”
Holmes sat up slowly, moving towards the window and peering through the gap in the curtain out at the street. “No, of course. I am sorry, Watson, I believe I owe you an apology.”
My worry returned with a pang as I perceived that his voice had slightly risen in pitch, almost breaking. “Holmes?”
He did not turn back to face me. “I don't know what is the matter with me, Watson. I have just completed a case where some of the finest officials have failed, hence the telegrams, but...”
“I see,” I said, making my way towards him. “You worked hard then?”
He waved his hand at me, imperiously. “Yes, of course. Baron Maupertuis is a formidable opponent - or rather, he was. Tell me, Watson, is it not the nature of the human body to demand rest after such an exertion?”
“It is.”
“Tell me then, Doctor, why sleep eludes me.” For the first time, Holmes turned to face me, and I could see how pale he was. His eyes were dull and framed by dark circles, and even as I watched, I perceived his trembling. Holmes has always been a proud man, and I could not believe that he should be so weak that he failed to be able to hide it from me.
“My dear fellow!”
“Now, before you asked, I have not laid hands on my syringe since I left Baker Street two month ago.”
“I didn't think so - Holmes, you have overexerted yourself, you are in desperate need of rest.”
“Don't you think I have been attempting to rest, Doctor,” he spat, with some venom. “What is this sickness that denies a man what he desires most?” Holmes returned to the bed and sunk down on it like a puppet with its strings cut. “Can you do anything?” he asked, sounding almost as desperate as before.
Even though I knew there was little I could do but ensure that Holmes would rest for some time to recovery his strength and energy, I hurried to ensure him, knowing that the breakdown had caused his carefully controlled façade to slip. “I will do what is in my power to help you. Now, try to get some sleep while I tidy up this mess.”
Rather to my joy and relief, a small smile tugged at the corners of Holmes's mouth as he settled deeper into the cushions. “As you say, Watson.”
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