[fic]: all he could do (to keep breathing) [Holmes/Watson] [pg-13]
[mood| 
writing]
Title: All he could do (to keep breathing).
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: - and suddenly the sharp, hidden secret of Holmes’s teeth, closing on the soft patch of skin just below the corner of Watson’s jaw, half possessive, half hungry.
A/N: This story belongs to tearful_eye, who requested a protective!Holmes fic at help_haiti community. Thank you so much for your offer ♥.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who prided himself on being immune to most common weaknesses - particularly those originating, if willing to abandon oneself to metaphorical speech, from the heart. As a natural, obvious consequence, at the present moment he was definitely not concerned; such a foolish notion would never occur to him. He was merely preoccupied with seeing the case brought to a satisfactory conclusion; if his steps were a fraction too hurried, it was indeed curiosity that stimulated his muscles, and nothing else. As he swiftly climbed his way down the bridge, his heart had definitely not been thumping a little too fast - nor his blood rushing a little too hard; if it appeared so, it was no doubt due to the physical exertion, and no other reason whatsoever.
Making his way back to the foul sewers beneath the Parliament was by no means a hard feat. All he needed to do was stride through the crowd with an air of determined purpose about him - a disdainful glance enough to promptly silenced the one foolish constable who tried to interfere with his walk - and soundlessly cut between the very confused agents that crowded the corridors of the building, trying to contain the angered clamor of the Lords. He slid through the crowd with the grace of a most skillful dancer, born of shadows and secret whispers; it was remarkably easy to follow the black cordon of uniforms to a tightly wounded stairwell, which plunged deep in the dark recesses of the building, all the way to the sewers. Imperiously raising his hand, he silenced one of Lestrade’s finest who had the imprudence to cross his way, brandishing a pocketbook and overflowing with questions; and he carried on unperturbed, circling the man with a swift footwork and moving onwards without as much as a second glance. There were important, vital matters that needed attending to at that very moment, that very second; he could feel, somewhere under his left lung, a cramp flexing its icy fingers on muscle and tissue, making each breath just a little complex, each heartbeat a little painful. Despite his rational knowledge that the situation must be in control, calm calculations taking place in a corner of his brain assuring him that no need to be concerned persisted - it seemed he would not be able to breathe evenly until he ascertained that for himself.
And his breath, sure enough, snapped free with a surge of relief that would have brought tears to the eyes of a lesser man, as he turned around the last corner and into the ample vault where the recent events had taken place - where the Doctor sat on a makeshift chair, on which he’d been, Holmes mused, most likely forced, and was impatiently allowing a stout, concerned-looking constable to fuss over him. Under Holmes’s gently amused gaze, he finally managed to send the fellow on his way, commanding something Holmes could not hear with his best martial expression - the one he tried on the detective, too, when ordering him to get dressed and go for a walk, or just to get up and bloody shave, and which was rarely effective in such occasions. It seemed, however, to be successful enough on the constable; he sharply straightened his back and mouthed something in response - a brief assent, no doubt, perhaps a ‘Yessir!’ - before stalking off in determined strides, leaving the Doctor to his own devices. Holmes could barely contain a thrill of shiny, foolish pride. Clever, clever Watson; despite his natural affable demeanor, he was perfectly capable of employing his military training to his advantage, when needed. A most skilled man; and seeing him behave in such fashion was all the reassurance Holmes needed. The cramp seemed to uncurl its claws from around his aching organs and he breathed, freely.
Holmes watched, lingering just a moment too long, as Watson allowed himself to close his eyes for one brief moment, seeming to fold over for the span of a soft, painful breath - before he sat up straight, eyes once again wide open as they surveyed the vault, alert and attentive. It was all too easy, however, for Holmes to see the strain in the Doctor’s posture; he did not need any of his peculiar deductive powers to recognise it. It was enough to see how Watson stretched his leg with apparent nonchalance, smiling polite, little smiles to those who slowed in their tracks to address him, apparently conceding himself a well deserved breath before resuming his duties - busy instead evaluating whether he would be able to trust his muscles to support him had he dared take too many steps without his cane. Holmes could estimate the level of Watson’s exhaustion with accuracy, after a glance at that tortured limb of his, forever troubling him and ready to reveal it weakness to a keen eye that may spot its slight tremor; the detective knew by heart the patterns of his friend’s walk, the ways he’d studied to try and conceal when the pain grew too harsh, and used them as a sure barometer to assess Watson’s conditions. The occasions were rare in which Watson would not trust himself to stand. Careful and sensible a doctor as he was, he would not push his body beyond its limits unless the situation made it inevitable; which had indeed been the case earlier, Holmes considered grimly, as he struggled against the darn Frenchman and his inhuman strength. Watson was no doubt paying the price for his recklessness, predictably so; Holmes could see the shoulder of his jacket spattered with dark, uneven stains, where blood from his fresh, still unhealed wounds had soaked the fabric.
With that final detail, Holmes declared his examination successfully concluded; and he at once determined that the best course of action would indeed be to lead the good Doctor back to the quiet of their lodgings as soon as humanly possible, and set out to do just so.
“Here, my dear fellow. I reckon this may be more profitable in your hands, under the present circumstances,” he said, as he stepped in front of Watson, casually handing him his cane. The Doctor observed it for one long moment before reaching out to grasp it, a huff that was in equal parts amused and reproachful escaping his lips.
“I see you’ve taken to stealing essential personal items, in addition to my clothes,” he commented, not missing a beat - eyes alight with the softest shimmer as he raised them to investigate Holmes’s face.
“I can say in my defense that the situation was of the utmost urgency,” he said, unperturbed. “It may please you to learn that your extraordinarily useful cane played a fundamental part in bringing Lord Blackwood to his second, I daresay definitive departure. Not to mention, of course, in preserving the physical integrity of my very valuable person.”
Watson raised an eyebrow, carefully containing the grin which threatened to bloom on his lips. “I will have no choice but to justify your actions in light of the circumstances, then,” he said. “You should, however, hope did not ruin my cane in your dealings; for I will be otherwise deeply resentful of your - very valuable person.”
“Perhaps, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, his expression one of utmost regard, “I may ensure I remain in your good graces by suggesting that we swiftly retire to our apartments, and by making arrangements for it to happen, say, within the next three point five minutes.” He accurately did not register how Watson’s posture lost tension, relaxing under the sudden relief brought by his words, nor how Watson’s brow distended slightly, losing a few of the creases that marred it; the ones due to the pain remained. “I assume our dear friend Lestrade will have no trouble brilliantly handling the situation from now onwards, and will be busy enough not to need our statements for quite some time.”
“Yes,” Watson replied, slowly. His fingers were light and secure as they cradled his cane; Holmes was most certainly not looking, and definitely not thinking of it. “Perhaps that would do.”
---
The ride towards the apartment was unusually silent. With the exception of the steady clopping of the horses, the clatter of wheels on the uneven road, muffled by the thick curtains shielding the windows - no other sound broke the quiet hovering inside the carriage.
Watson, himself, sat in silence. There were many questions he desired to ask; many an information he needed in order satisfactory unravel the last threads of the recent events. What of Adler? What of Blackwood’s death, and the bruise he could already see blooming on the side of Holmes face? What of the splinter missing from the bottom of his cane? His curiosity, paired with his love for seeing a case brought to conclusion, demanded he seek explanation; yet, he could not bring himself to articulate the words. The seat of the carriage was soft, enticingly so, and seemed to be claiming all the residual strength his tired muscles retained, pulling him down towards the brink of unconsciousness. The mere act of speaking seemed, at the moment, to require an exceeding effort of concentration in order to bring words to his heavy lips; so, Watson contented himself with keeping his eyes open, and tightening his hold on the cane that rested on his knees. The pain in his shoulder had now dimmed to a dull, heavy pressure; it reached down in a diagonal streak across his body to intertwine with the ragged, familiar ache spreading from his tortured thigh. Watson kept his eyes trained on the irregular cobblestones he could see through a narrow slit between the curtains, and tried not to pay attention; barring when the carriage bumped on a sudden irregularity of the road, the pain remained settled on a constant, humming throb, allowing him to get accustomed to it, as if he’d never experienced life without it.
He could feel, at times, the gentle weight of Holmes’s gaze resting on his face; he thought he could perceive it scanning his body, reading it as if it were a clearly printed page, openly listing all of its aches for the world to see. He knew his jacket was irremediably stained where the wounds on his shoulder and neck had opened once again, oozing warm, thick blood; he knew he was holding his leg too stiffly, and that his arm rested awkwardly in his lap, too heavy to even think of moving. He would normally have been irritated at having Holmes so freely cataloguing his weaknesses; John Watson was not a man who easily accepted to have his vulnerability exposed. On the present occasion, however, he could not bring himself to be bothered by it. He had few energies to spare, and he would rather not consume them in being irrationally annoyed at Holmes because of pride matters, or in a futile attempt at lying; he chose to preserve them for more essential tasks, such as reaching his bed, divesting of his clothes and then refusing to move for a fortnight at least.
It was Holmes’s voice, low and unusually soft, to gently call him back from his musings. “Dearest fellow,” he said, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “I wonder if you would perhaps like to hear what took place after I left you to wrestle our late French acquaintance. I realize you must indeed be tired; but I reckon it would be preferable to go over the facts when they are still fresh in my mind, lest some important detail be forgotten. It would be an unspeakable shame to provide you with inexact material for your so very conscientious writing.”
Watson was somewhere beyond the point of caring about hiding the smile that stretched lazily on his lips. As if Holmes would ever forget any relevant detail of whatever had happened in the past few, crucial hours; but he would not be the one to make such an observation. Why, my dear fellow - that would be delightful, he would have liked to say. His larynx and mouth, however, were not quite willing to comply; so he limited himself to a slow, thankful nod, and let himself be cradled by the warm sound of Holmes’s voice.
---
Holmes lied to him a second time, that afternoon - as Watson stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to their rooms, considering with a vague sense of dread the amount of time he would need to reach the upper floor. Holmes very carefully did not glance at him as he said, “My apologies, dear Watson; I have an urgent physical necessity which would be very impolite to mention in further detail. I hope you will excuse me if I renounce to the pleasure of climbing up the stairs in your company, in favor of a hastier retreat.”
Watson was barely on time to contain an incredulous laugh. What genius had gotten into Holmes to mention such matters in public, he could not fathom; and then, with a slowness he could only ascribe to his current less than optimal condition, he realized. “By all means, my dear fellow; do hurry,” he said; and if it came out a little warmer than he’d intended, he did not really mind.
Holmes proceeded up the stairs without a glance back; yet Watson lowered his head anyway, careful to hide the smile ghosting on his lips. Typical brilliant, clumsy and dysfunctional display of kindness on Holmes’s part; his trademark magician’s trick, diverting the eye of the beholder with something blatant, ridiculous or grand, to hide his subtler plans. He must never have expected Watson to be fooled; and Watson, to reciprocate the favor, decided he would never mention anything in regard.
He walked gingerly, facing one step after the other with equal concentration. He climbed slowly, leaning on his cane and on the banister more heavily than he ever would had he been under someone’s eye; and yet, despite all his care, when he reached the landing the deep throbbing in his leg had acquired a blade-sharp edge, cutting into his flesh every time he rested his weight on the offending limb. He conceded himself a moment’s rest, and couldn’t help but notice a slight abnormality; the footrest which naturally belonged in the studio, in front of the armchair, had somehow ended right beyond the last step, carelessly pushed to one side - enough not to be blatant, yet enough for it to be immediately noticeable to an observer with previous knowledge of the place. Watson felt quite confident in his suspicions regarding how that may have happened. However, as kind as the silent offer may be, he would not sit; he was well aware that, should he give in to such a temptation, the pain would come back tenfold once he tried to stand again. He gripped the knob adorning the end of the banister, allowing himself a moment to rake up his scattered remaining energies, and walked on - one hand discretely braced against the thin wallpaper covering the wall.
It took him thrice the time it usually would to reach his room, and he couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh of relief once the door was firmly shut behind him. He made his way to the dressing table and, once he had made sure he could balance evenly leaning his hip against the solid wood, he dropped his cane. He would be, for once, glad to spend some time without walking; while he was not a man who loved inactivity, the thought of utter, prolonged rest had seldom seemed so appealing.
It was hard to restrain a pained groan as he carefully divested of his jacket, folding it tidily on the back of the chair - more for habit rather than for actual necessity; he did not hold any hope it would be possible to salvage the ruined garment. He proceeded to unbutton his shirt, with one hand only; his left shoulder appeared to have swollen to the point of doubling its size, and he could not lift his arm more than a few degrees before the excruciating pain forced him to desist. A hiss escaped his lips as he tried to slip the fabric off the wounded arm; it had clung to the open wounds that spread from his neck to his bicep, glued in place by the drying blood. He knew that by forcibly removing the it would do nothing more than exacerbate the damage; he would have to fetch water, and patiently soak the fabric until it peeled away with ease.
Watson abandoned his attempts, and brought a hand to cradle his throbbing forehead. It seemed his exhaustion had reached its peak, to the point of overcoming even his medical instincts; he was very close to simply collapsing on the bed as he was, and his wounds be damned. He would most likely not die from infection because of a delay of a mere few hours; he would chastise himself for his carelessness in the morning, when his doctorial spirit would be back in full force.
It seemed he spent too much time absorbed in his own considerations, of late; because at that moment he was once again startled into awareness by the slight creak of the door, and Holmes’s voice calling him gently. He turned to find his fellow tenant carrying a bowl of water, and a clean cloth, and medical supplies. Holmes had already divested of his hat and jacket and remained in shirtsleeves, braces hanging loosely from his trousers; Watson felt a sincere surge of gratitude warming up his chest, and let it emerge on his lips in a hearty smile.
“My dear fellow,” he said, slowly; his voice was weak and strained and, under other circumstances, he would have cringed at the sound of it. Right about now, he could not bring himself to care. “You truly are a blessing .”
Holmes’s smile was tiny and carefully contained as he pushed the door closed, and stepped towards the centre of the room. “I must say, Watson, that I quite appreciate your recent tendency to flatter me,” he said, eyeing with critical expression Watson’s stiff posture. “I wonder if it will protract in the future, provided I keep up my high behavioral standards.”
“I like to think of myself as objective and impartial in drawing my conclusions,” Watson said. He felt in no shape for continuing their banter, so he nodded towards the table: “You may leave the bowl there; I sincerely thank you for your thoughtfulness, my friend. I may not be able to express my gratitude properly at the moment, but rest assured your kindness is greatly appreciated.”
“Don’t be foolish, Watson,” Holmes replied, as he deposited the objects where Watson had requested; he took hold of the chair and pushed it to Watson’s side, then looked at him with eyes so innocent-seeming as to be almost irritating. “I have no intention of leaving. While I do not doubt in the least of your great skill as a doctor, I believe I could be of some assistance at the moment. Therefore, I would invite you to sit down at once, and let me take care of that wound.”
Watson shifted against the edge of the table, trying to relieve the growing ache in his limbs. “Holmes…” he began; but he was commanded to silence by Holmes imperiously raising his index finger, and staring at him like an irritated mother forced to repeat her orders one second time. “At once,” he repeated; and Watson struggled not to let out a sigh as he heaved himself from his current support and took the two, short steps that separate him from the seat. It should not have been so difficult; it was exasperating, and Watson had to bite slightly on his lip to prevent a groan from escaping.
Holmes, bless his newfound tactfulness, did not remark; he ostensibly turned his back to Watson, focusing on preparing the cloth, the soft sound of sloshing water the only thing to be heard in the room. They did not speak as Holmes stood at Watson’s back, and gently pressed the warm, soaked fabric to Watson’s throbbing shoulder, lifting it only to press it again one inch to the side, one inch lower; they did not speak as he slid his fingers under Watson’s unbuttoned collar, idly stroking his skin before working at the soiled material of his shirt, trying to pry it away from Watson’s live flesh with as much delicacy as possible. Watson - eyes half-closed as he reveled in the pleasurable, achingly comforting feel of the warmth tampering the steel spikes of his ache - caught himself on time to prevent a soft sound of appreciation from escaping his lips. He blinked, considering he should retain full awareness in order not to embarrass himself in front of his fellow; he tipped his head forward, muscles in his neck tensing and releasing, before he forced himself to speak.
“I heard rumors that, as of late, you seem to have taken an interest in the medical profession,” he said, voice low and scratchy, as if covered by a thin layer of sand. Holmes’s short, full laugh was not abashed in the least.
“Then, let us hope my skills a doctor are superior to the ones I demonstrate in disguising myself,” was all he replied, the shadow of a laugh reflected in his voice; and Watson imperceptibly shook his head, and allowed himself a tired smile. He let his gaze wander, unfocused, to the window - a shard of warm, dusty light sneaked through the parted curtains and spread through the room in a soft, luminous mist. Watson seemed to be irresistibly attracted to it - the warmth dancing on his cheeks and forehead mirroring the one gently pressed on his shoulder. It trickled on his skin, stray water droplets tracing neat lines along his back, sunshine pressing in thin fingers on his throat; it seemed to seep inside of him, permeating the biting pain until its sharpness was numbed, its edges rounded. There seemed to be a vast, echoing place carved inside his chest; warmth and loss intermingled in the strange melancholy of a sunlit gothic cathedral - and Watson found himself wondering, in a still-sharp corner of his mind, if shock had perhaps gotten the best of him.
“Are you all right, old boy? ” Holmes’s murmur was soft and unobtrusive as it brushed against Watson’s skin, a brief caress to his strained nerves. Watson closed his eyes, sighing deeply, and leaned back into his friend’s touch.
“Yes,” he replied, in a whisper. Holmes’s hands were infinitely gentle on his aching flesh, moving with knowing tenderness, firm and careful; Watson felt the tiniest tear as his shirt was slowly peeled off yet another shrapnel laceration, live flesh protesting for a flurry of seconds before the warm cloth once again eased the sharpness of the ache. He felt Holmes fold back the fabric, sliding it off Watson’s shoulder, then hesitating as he took his time to inspect the wounds. The warm cloth was removed, and Watson trembled in the lightest shiver as cool air grazed his skin; Holmes’s fingertips traced a delicate line, following the contours of Watson’s muscles, and disappeared. There was nothing, but the memory of warmth; Watson wondered how men could survive such losses.
Then, sudden and yet somehow not startling in the least, Holmes’s lips were touching his skin - slow, heavy, warm - soft, right beside the ragged wounds. Watson inhaled, sharply - his whole body seeming to converge in that single point of soft, scorching pressure on his neck; his thought astray, he felt as if his body only existed in virtue of that contact, only alive there where Holmes’s lips allowed it to. He did not utter a word, much too preoccupied with keeping his breathing even - his heart thumped loudly in his chest, accelerated, impossible to control. Watson’s breath faltered, trembled at the soft movements of Holmes’s lips as he breathed against his skin. He almost moaned at the loss as Holmes proceeded in his gentle, feather-like exploration - his lips pressing gently on Watson’s nape before sliding to the tense tendons on the unhurt side of his neck; Watson could not repress a shiver as he felt Holmes’s tongue taste his skin, gentle and curious, and it felt so easy and simple and right that Watson’s chest seemed about to crack open, unable to contain it. The soft, heavy curve of Holmes’s lips, pressing against his jugular, which pulsed hard enough for Watson to feel with astonishing clarity - and suddenly the sharp, hidden secret of Holmes’s teeth, closing on the soft patch of skin just below the corner of Watson’s jaw, half possessive, half hungry. The heavy, ritual power of it shot through Watson’s nerves, racking him with primal calls of conflict, submission, desire he was too weak to sustain; he gasped, his harsh breath tinged with a whimper, soft, pliant - he offered no resistance, surrendering himself to a most delectable predator. But Holmes did not continue - he did not devour him, as Watson half feared, half wildly, crazily desired he would - his teeth pressing too softly to hurt, merely enough to assert his claim with calm clarity, marking the place for - later.
When he spoke, his tongue brushed Watson’s skin, and he shivered. “Do not…” he murmured; and then, as he softly bumped his head against Watson’s, once, twice - his hands spread on Watson’s flesh, holding him, asserting his place, tense with powerless rage - “I can’t. I - can’t.”
And several words reverberated in Watson’s mind - perhaps fruit of his exhaustion, his strained brain; perhaps words he himself had desired to speak many times, and had never managed to. Do not harm yourself. Do not be in danger. Do not let me leave you behind. Do not die. Do not cause me to worry. Do not scare me. Do not die. Do not die. And none were needed to interpret that second, frustrated murmur, glowing in bright clarity on its very own - echoed in a simple, yet woefully complicated statement, lodged tiny and neat and wordless deep in Watson’s breast: I can’t. Without you -
Watson remained silent. Something heavy and tangled had crawled out of his heart, it seemed, sweet and sore and not quite articulate, to become lodged in his throat; he would not trust his voice to speak. Holmes’s hands were splayed on his torso; he could not see Holmes’s face. He allowed himself to lean imperceptibly back against Holmes’s strong frame, and he was rewarded by warm lips pressing just below his nape, at the height of his Atlas vertebra. Three very distinct points of warmth - yet Watson, for some unfathomable reason, felt as if they would be able to encircle and shelter him, quiet and strong, enough to keep him safe from much greater dangers. Holmes sighed, and Watson could almost make himself believe that they may be sharing the same, foolish thought.
Slowly, Watson reached to cover Holmes’s hand with his own, and rested it there; still, he did not speak. As it was, it was all he could do to keep breathing.
.
writing]
Title: All he could do (to keep breathing).
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: - and suddenly the sharp, hidden secret of Holmes’s teeth, closing on the soft patch of skin just below the corner of Watson’s jaw, half possessive, half hungry.
A/N: This story belongs to tearful_eye, who requested a protective!Holmes fic at help_haiti community. Thank you so much for your offer ♥.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who prided himself on being immune to most common weaknesses - particularly those originating, if willing to abandon oneself to metaphorical speech, from the heart. As a natural, obvious consequence, at the present moment he was definitely not concerned; such a foolish notion would never occur to him. He was merely preoccupied with seeing the case brought to a satisfactory conclusion; if his steps were a fraction too hurried, it was indeed curiosity that stimulated his muscles, and nothing else. As he swiftly climbed his way down the bridge, his heart had definitely not been thumping a little too fast - nor his blood rushing a little too hard; if it appeared so, it was no doubt due to the physical exertion, and no other reason whatsoever.
Making his way back to the foul sewers beneath the Parliament was by no means a hard feat. All he needed to do was stride through the crowd with an air of determined purpose about him - a disdainful glance enough to promptly silenced the one foolish constable who tried to interfere with his walk - and soundlessly cut between the very confused agents that crowded the corridors of the building, trying to contain the angered clamor of the Lords. He slid through the crowd with the grace of a most skillful dancer, born of shadows and secret whispers; it was remarkably easy to follow the black cordon of uniforms to a tightly wounded stairwell, which plunged deep in the dark recesses of the building, all the way to the sewers. Imperiously raising his hand, he silenced one of Lestrade’s finest who had the imprudence to cross his way, brandishing a pocketbook and overflowing with questions; and he carried on unperturbed, circling the man with a swift footwork and moving onwards without as much as a second glance. There were important, vital matters that needed attending to at that very moment, that very second; he could feel, somewhere under his left lung, a cramp flexing its icy fingers on muscle and tissue, making each breath just a little complex, each heartbeat a little painful. Despite his rational knowledge that the situation must be in control, calm calculations taking place in a corner of his brain assuring him that no need to be concerned persisted - it seemed he would not be able to breathe evenly until he ascertained that for himself.
And his breath, sure enough, snapped free with a surge of relief that would have brought tears to the eyes of a lesser man, as he turned around the last corner and into the ample vault where the recent events had taken place - where the Doctor sat on a makeshift chair, on which he’d been, Holmes mused, most likely forced, and was impatiently allowing a stout, concerned-looking constable to fuss over him. Under Holmes’s gently amused gaze, he finally managed to send the fellow on his way, commanding something Holmes could not hear with his best martial expression - the one he tried on the detective, too, when ordering him to get dressed and go for a walk, or just to get up and bloody shave, and which was rarely effective in such occasions. It seemed, however, to be successful enough on the constable; he sharply straightened his back and mouthed something in response - a brief assent, no doubt, perhaps a ‘Yessir!’ - before stalking off in determined strides, leaving the Doctor to his own devices. Holmes could barely contain a thrill of shiny, foolish pride. Clever, clever Watson; despite his natural affable demeanor, he was perfectly capable of employing his military training to his advantage, when needed. A most skilled man; and seeing him behave in such fashion was all the reassurance Holmes needed. The cramp seemed to uncurl its claws from around his aching organs and he breathed, freely.
Holmes watched, lingering just a moment too long, as Watson allowed himself to close his eyes for one brief moment, seeming to fold over for the span of a soft, painful breath - before he sat up straight, eyes once again wide open as they surveyed the vault, alert and attentive. It was all too easy, however, for Holmes to see the strain in the Doctor’s posture; he did not need any of his peculiar deductive powers to recognise it. It was enough to see how Watson stretched his leg with apparent nonchalance, smiling polite, little smiles to those who slowed in their tracks to address him, apparently conceding himself a well deserved breath before resuming his duties - busy instead evaluating whether he would be able to trust his muscles to support him had he dared take too many steps without his cane. Holmes could estimate the level of Watson’s exhaustion with accuracy, after a glance at that tortured limb of his, forever troubling him and ready to reveal it weakness to a keen eye that may spot its slight tremor; the detective knew by heart the patterns of his friend’s walk, the ways he’d studied to try and conceal when the pain grew too harsh, and used them as a sure barometer to assess Watson’s conditions. The occasions were rare in which Watson would not trust himself to stand. Careful and sensible a doctor as he was, he would not push his body beyond its limits unless the situation made it inevitable; which had indeed been the case earlier, Holmes considered grimly, as he struggled against the darn Frenchman and his inhuman strength. Watson was no doubt paying the price for his recklessness, predictably so; Holmes could see the shoulder of his jacket spattered with dark, uneven stains, where blood from his fresh, still unhealed wounds had soaked the fabric.
With that final detail, Holmes declared his examination successfully concluded; and he at once determined that the best course of action would indeed be to lead the good Doctor back to the quiet of their lodgings as soon as humanly possible, and set out to do just so.
“Here, my dear fellow. I reckon this may be more profitable in your hands, under the present circumstances,” he said, as he stepped in front of Watson, casually handing him his cane. The Doctor observed it for one long moment before reaching out to grasp it, a huff that was in equal parts amused and reproachful escaping his lips.
“I see you’ve taken to stealing essential personal items, in addition to my clothes,” he commented, not missing a beat - eyes alight with the softest shimmer as he raised them to investigate Holmes’s face.
“I can say in my defense that the situation was of the utmost urgency,” he said, unperturbed. “It may please you to learn that your extraordinarily useful cane played a fundamental part in bringing Lord Blackwood to his second, I daresay definitive departure. Not to mention, of course, in preserving the physical integrity of my very valuable person.”
Watson raised an eyebrow, carefully containing the grin which threatened to bloom on his lips. “I will have no choice but to justify your actions in light of the circumstances, then,” he said. “You should, however, hope did not ruin my cane in your dealings; for I will be otherwise deeply resentful of your - very valuable person.”
“Perhaps, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, his expression one of utmost regard, “I may ensure I remain in your good graces by suggesting that we swiftly retire to our apartments, and by making arrangements for it to happen, say, within the next three point five minutes.” He accurately did not register how Watson’s posture lost tension, relaxing under the sudden relief brought by his words, nor how Watson’s brow distended slightly, losing a few of the creases that marred it; the ones due to the pain remained. “I assume our dear friend Lestrade will have no trouble brilliantly handling the situation from now onwards, and will be busy enough not to need our statements for quite some time.”
“Yes,” Watson replied, slowly. His fingers were light and secure as they cradled his cane; Holmes was most certainly not looking, and definitely not thinking of it. “Perhaps that would do.”
---
The ride towards the apartment was unusually silent. With the exception of the steady clopping of the horses, the clatter of wheels on the uneven road, muffled by the thick curtains shielding the windows - no other sound broke the quiet hovering inside the carriage.
Watson, himself, sat in silence. There were many questions he desired to ask; many an information he needed in order satisfactory unravel the last threads of the recent events. What of Adler? What of Blackwood’s death, and the bruise he could already see blooming on the side of Holmes face? What of the splinter missing from the bottom of his cane? His curiosity, paired with his love for seeing a case brought to conclusion, demanded he seek explanation; yet, he could not bring himself to articulate the words. The seat of the carriage was soft, enticingly so, and seemed to be claiming all the residual strength his tired muscles retained, pulling him down towards the brink of unconsciousness. The mere act of speaking seemed, at the moment, to require an exceeding effort of concentration in order to bring words to his heavy lips; so, Watson contented himself with keeping his eyes open, and tightening his hold on the cane that rested on his knees. The pain in his shoulder had now dimmed to a dull, heavy pressure; it reached down in a diagonal streak across his body to intertwine with the ragged, familiar ache spreading from his tortured thigh. Watson kept his eyes trained on the irregular cobblestones he could see through a narrow slit between the curtains, and tried not to pay attention; barring when the carriage bumped on a sudden irregularity of the road, the pain remained settled on a constant, humming throb, allowing him to get accustomed to it, as if he’d never experienced life without it.
He could feel, at times, the gentle weight of Holmes’s gaze resting on his face; he thought he could perceive it scanning his body, reading it as if it were a clearly printed page, openly listing all of its aches for the world to see. He knew his jacket was irremediably stained where the wounds on his shoulder and neck had opened once again, oozing warm, thick blood; he knew he was holding his leg too stiffly, and that his arm rested awkwardly in his lap, too heavy to even think of moving. He would normally have been irritated at having Holmes so freely cataloguing his weaknesses; John Watson was not a man who easily accepted to have his vulnerability exposed. On the present occasion, however, he could not bring himself to be bothered by it. He had few energies to spare, and he would rather not consume them in being irrationally annoyed at Holmes because of pride matters, or in a futile attempt at lying; he chose to preserve them for more essential tasks, such as reaching his bed, divesting of his clothes and then refusing to move for a fortnight at least.
It was Holmes’s voice, low and unusually soft, to gently call him back from his musings. “Dearest fellow,” he said, his hands neatly folded in his lap. “I wonder if you would perhaps like to hear what took place after I left you to wrestle our late French acquaintance. I realize you must indeed be tired; but I reckon it would be preferable to go over the facts when they are still fresh in my mind, lest some important detail be forgotten. It would be an unspeakable shame to provide you with inexact material for your so very conscientious writing.”
Watson was somewhere beyond the point of caring about hiding the smile that stretched lazily on his lips. As if Holmes would ever forget any relevant detail of whatever had happened in the past few, crucial hours; but he would not be the one to make such an observation. Why, my dear fellow - that would be delightful, he would have liked to say. His larynx and mouth, however, were not quite willing to comply; so he limited himself to a slow, thankful nod, and let himself be cradled by the warm sound of Holmes’s voice.
---
Holmes lied to him a second time, that afternoon - as Watson stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to their rooms, considering with a vague sense of dread the amount of time he would need to reach the upper floor. Holmes very carefully did not glance at him as he said, “My apologies, dear Watson; I have an urgent physical necessity which would be very impolite to mention in further detail. I hope you will excuse me if I renounce to the pleasure of climbing up the stairs in your company, in favor of a hastier retreat.”
Watson was barely on time to contain an incredulous laugh. What genius had gotten into Holmes to mention such matters in public, he could not fathom; and then, with a slowness he could only ascribe to his current less than optimal condition, he realized. “By all means, my dear fellow; do hurry,” he said; and if it came out a little warmer than he’d intended, he did not really mind.
Holmes proceeded up the stairs without a glance back; yet Watson lowered his head anyway, careful to hide the smile ghosting on his lips. Typical brilliant, clumsy and dysfunctional display of kindness on Holmes’s part; his trademark magician’s trick, diverting the eye of the beholder with something blatant, ridiculous or grand, to hide his subtler plans. He must never have expected Watson to be fooled; and Watson, to reciprocate the favor, decided he would never mention anything in regard.
He walked gingerly, facing one step after the other with equal concentration. He climbed slowly, leaning on his cane and on the banister more heavily than he ever would had he been under someone’s eye; and yet, despite all his care, when he reached the landing the deep throbbing in his leg had acquired a blade-sharp edge, cutting into his flesh every time he rested his weight on the offending limb. He conceded himself a moment’s rest, and couldn’t help but notice a slight abnormality; the footrest which naturally belonged in the studio, in front of the armchair, had somehow ended right beyond the last step, carelessly pushed to one side - enough not to be blatant, yet enough for it to be immediately noticeable to an observer with previous knowledge of the place. Watson felt quite confident in his suspicions regarding how that may have happened. However, as kind as the silent offer may be, he would not sit; he was well aware that, should he give in to such a temptation, the pain would come back tenfold once he tried to stand again. He gripped the knob adorning the end of the banister, allowing himself a moment to rake up his scattered remaining energies, and walked on - one hand discretely braced against the thin wallpaper covering the wall.
It took him thrice the time it usually would to reach his room, and he couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh of relief once the door was firmly shut behind him. He made his way to the dressing table and, once he had made sure he could balance evenly leaning his hip against the solid wood, he dropped his cane. He would be, for once, glad to spend some time without walking; while he was not a man who loved inactivity, the thought of utter, prolonged rest had seldom seemed so appealing.
It was hard to restrain a pained groan as he carefully divested of his jacket, folding it tidily on the back of the chair - more for habit rather than for actual necessity; he did not hold any hope it would be possible to salvage the ruined garment. He proceeded to unbutton his shirt, with one hand only; his left shoulder appeared to have swollen to the point of doubling its size, and he could not lift his arm more than a few degrees before the excruciating pain forced him to desist. A hiss escaped his lips as he tried to slip the fabric off the wounded arm; it had clung to the open wounds that spread from his neck to his bicep, glued in place by the drying blood. He knew that by forcibly removing the it would do nothing more than exacerbate the damage; he would have to fetch water, and patiently soak the fabric until it peeled away with ease.
Watson abandoned his attempts, and brought a hand to cradle his throbbing forehead. It seemed his exhaustion had reached its peak, to the point of overcoming even his medical instincts; he was very close to simply collapsing on the bed as he was, and his wounds be damned. He would most likely not die from infection because of a delay of a mere few hours; he would chastise himself for his carelessness in the morning, when his doctorial spirit would be back in full force.
It seemed he spent too much time absorbed in his own considerations, of late; because at that moment he was once again startled into awareness by the slight creak of the door, and Holmes’s voice calling him gently. He turned to find his fellow tenant carrying a bowl of water, and a clean cloth, and medical supplies. Holmes had already divested of his hat and jacket and remained in shirtsleeves, braces hanging loosely from his trousers; Watson felt a sincere surge of gratitude warming up his chest, and let it emerge on his lips in a hearty smile.
“My dear fellow,” he said, slowly; his voice was weak and strained and, under other circumstances, he would have cringed at the sound of it. Right about now, he could not bring himself to care. “You truly are a blessing .”
Holmes’s smile was tiny and carefully contained as he pushed the door closed, and stepped towards the centre of the room. “I must say, Watson, that I quite appreciate your recent tendency to flatter me,” he said, eyeing with critical expression Watson’s stiff posture. “I wonder if it will protract in the future, provided I keep up my high behavioral standards.”
“I like to think of myself as objective and impartial in drawing my conclusions,” Watson said. He felt in no shape for continuing their banter, so he nodded towards the table: “You may leave the bowl there; I sincerely thank you for your thoughtfulness, my friend. I may not be able to express my gratitude properly at the moment, but rest assured your kindness is greatly appreciated.”
“Don’t be foolish, Watson,” Holmes replied, as he deposited the objects where Watson had requested; he took hold of the chair and pushed it to Watson’s side, then looked at him with eyes so innocent-seeming as to be almost irritating. “I have no intention of leaving. While I do not doubt in the least of your great skill as a doctor, I believe I could be of some assistance at the moment. Therefore, I would invite you to sit down at once, and let me take care of that wound.”
Watson shifted against the edge of the table, trying to relieve the growing ache in his limbs. “Holmes…” he began; but he was commanded to silence by Holmes imperiously raising his index finger, and staring at him like an irritated mother forced to repeat her orders one second time. “At once,” he repeated; and Watson struggled not to let out a sigh as he heaved himself from his current support and took the two, short steps that separate him from the seat. It should not have been so difficult; it was exasperating, and Watson had to bite slightly on his lip to prevent a groan from escaping.
Holmes, bless his newfound tactfulness, did not remark; he ostensibly turned his back to Watson, focusing on preparing the cloth, the soft sound of sloshing water the only thing to be heard in the room. They did not speak as Holmes stood at Watson’s back, and gently pressed the warm, soaked fabric to Watson’s throbbing shoulder, lifting it only to press it again one inch to the side, one inch lower; they did not speak as he slid his fingers under Watson’s unbuttoned collar, idly stroking his skin before working at the soiled material of his shirt, trying to pry it away from Watson’s live flesh with as much delicacy as possible. Watson - eyes half-closed as he reveled in the pleasurable, achingly comforting feel of the warmth tampering the steel spikes of his ache - caught himself on time to prevent a soft sound of appreciation from escaping his lips. He blinked, considering he should retain full awareness in order not to embarrass himself in front of his fellow; he tipped his head forward, muscles in his neck tensing and releasing, before he forced himself to speak.
“I heard rumors that, as of late, you seem to have taken an interest in the medical profession,” he said, voice low and scratchy, as if covered by a thin layer of sand. Holmes’s short, full laugh was not abashed in the least.
“Then, let us hope my skills a doctor are superior to the ones I demonstrate in disguising myself,” was all he replied, the shadow of a laugh reflected in his voice; and Watson imperceptibly shook his head, and allowed himself a tired smile. He let his gaze wander, unfocused, to the window - a shard of warm, dusty light sneaked through the parted curtains and spread through the room in a soft, luminous mist. Watson seemed to be irresistibly attracted to it - the warmth dancing on his cheeks and forehead mirroring the one gently pressed on his shoulder. It trickled on his skin, stray water droplets tracing neat lines along his back, sunshine pressing in thin fingers on his throat; it seemed to seep inside of him, permeating the biting pain until its sharpness was numbed, its edges rounded. There seemed to be a vast, echoing place carved inside his chest; warmth and loss intermingled in the strange melancholy of a sunlit gothic cathedral - and Watson found himself wondering, in a still-sharp corner of his mind, if shock had perhaps gotten the best of him.
“Are you all right, old boy? ” Holmes’s murmur was soft and unobtrusive as it brushed against Watson’s skin, a brief caress to his strained nerves. Watson closed his eyes, sighing deeply, and leaned back into his friend’s touch.
“Yes,” he replied, in a whisper. Holmes’s hands were infinitely gentle on his aching flesh, moving with knowing tenderness, firm and careful; Watson felt the tiniest tear as his shirt was slowly peeled off yet another shrapnel laceration, live flesh protesting for a flurry of seconds before the warm cloth once again eased the sharpness of the ache. He felt Holmes fold back the fabric, sliding it off Watson’s shoulder, then hesitating as he took his time to inspect the wounds. The warm cloth was removed, and Watson trembled in the lightest shiver as cool air grazed his skin; Holmes’s fingertips traced a delicate line, following the contours of Watson’s muscles, and disappeared. There was nothing, but the memory of warmth; Watson wondered how men could survive such losses.
Then, sudden and yet somehow not startling in the least, Holmes’s lips were touching his skin - slow, heavy, warm - soft, right beside the ragged wounds. Watson inhaled, sharply - his whole body seeming to converge in that single point of soft, scorching pressure on his neck; his thought astray, he felt as if his body only existed in virtue of that contact, only alive there where Holmes’s lips allowed it to. He did not utter a word, much too preoccupied with keeping his breathing even - his heart thumped loudly in his chest, accelerated, impossible to control. Watson’s breath faltered, trembled at the soft movements of Holmes’s lips as he breathed against his skin. He almost moaned at the loss as Holmes proceeded in his gentle, feather-like exploration - his lips pressing gently on Watson’s nape before sliding to the tense tendons on the unhurt side of his neck; Watson could not repress a shiver as he felt Holmes’s tongue taste his skin, gentle and curious, and it felt so easy and simple and right that Watson’s chest seemed about to crack open, unable to contain it. The soft, heavy curve of Holmes’s lips, pressing against his jugular, which pulsed hard enough for Watson to feel with astonishing clarity - and suddenly the sharp, hidden secret of Holmes’s teeth, closing on the soft patch of skin just below the corner of Watson’s jaw, half possessive, half hungry. The heavy, ritual power of it shot through Watson’s nerves, racking him with primal calls of conflict, submission, desire he was too weak to sustain; he gasped, his harsh breath tinged with a whimper, soft, pliant - he offered no resistance, surrendering himself to a most delectable predator. But Holmes did not continue - he did not devour him, as Watson half feared, half wildly, crazily desired he would - his teeth pressing too softly to hurt, merely enough to assert his claim with calm clarity, marking the place for - later.
When he spoke, his tongue brushed Watson’s skin, and he shivered. “Do not…” he murmured; and then, as he softly bumped his head against Watson’s, once, twice - his hands spread on Watson’s flesh, holding him, asserting his place, tense with powerless rage - “I can’t. I - can’t.”
And several words reverberated in Watson’s mind - perhaps fruit of his exhaustion, his strained brain; perhaps words he himself had desired to speak many times, and had never managed to. Do not harm yourself. Do not be in danger. Do not let me leave you behind. Do not die. Do not cause me to worry. Do not scare me. Do not die. Do not die. And none were needed to interpret that second, frustrated murmur, glowing in bright clarity on its very own - echoed in a simple, yet woefully complicated statement, lodged tiny and neat and wordless deep in Watson’s breast: I can’t. Without you -
Watson remained silent. Something heavy and tangled had crawled out of his heart, it seemed, sweet and sore and not quite articulate, to become lodged in his throat; he would not trust his voice to speak. Holmes’s hands were splayed on his torso; he could not see Holmes’s face. He allowed himself to lean imperceptibly back against Holmes’s strong frame, and he was rewarded by warm lips pressing just below his nape, at the height of his Atlas vertebra. Three very distinct points of warmth - yet Watson, for some unfathomable reason, felt as if they would be able to encircle and shelter him, quiet and strong, enough to keep him safe from much greater dangers. Holmes sighed, and Watson could almost make himself believe that they may be sharing the same, foolish thought.
Slowly, Watson reached to cover Holmes’s hand with his own, and rested it there; still, he did not speak. As it was, it was all he could do to keep breathing.
.