Sherlock Holmes: Miracle
Title: Miracle
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written in response to this prompt on the kinkmeme:
I would like a story where Watson is critically injured or ill. Holmes abandons Watson, unable to deal with it all.
I would like Holmes to eventually return and realize his stupidity.
Author's Notes: I wrote this well over a month ago, but due to the more personal nature of the request (as seen in the full version of the prompt on the meme), I've delayed reposting. Here it is now.
"Miracle Survivor of Coal Barge Explosion!" the newspaper proclaimed hyperbolically. Holmes set it aside with a disgusted sigh.
The only miracle is that they found the story worthy of print. From the details he'd bothered to read, even the word explosion was a gross exaggeration of the affair. With another sigh, he leaned his head back against the tree that was serving as his backrest and gazed up through the intertwining branches above. Brown, green, gold, and hints of blue played before his eyes as a breeze blew through the garden where he'd taken refuge. Spies, the lot of them, Holmes thought of the servants in the house. As this was his brother's country house, the staff could not be considered as anything but Mycroft's eyes and ears in the field. Poking, prying, staring... Silently asking him if he was all right.
I should have stayed in London, he mused irritatedly as he closed his eyes. At least there, there was only his landlady to trouble him. Only Mrs. Hudson and-
No. He opened his eyes again and focused his other senses outward as well. There was the scent of flowers and cut grass (someone was at work in another part of the garden) in the air. There was the tiny chirping of late nestlings in the branches overhead. The miracle of life...
There was that word to mock him again! He'd always disliked the word, finding it more synonymous with credulity than divine intervention, but now...
"It's a miracle, Mr. Holmes!" the nurse had exclaimed to him, rushing out of operation gallery to him. "A miracle!"
And so Holmes had almost dared to think as well - until Watson had opened his eyes and not moved.
Miracle, Holmes snorted. It might be extraordinary that the bullet had not killed Watson instantly. It might be a wonderful medical achievement that he still breathed.
But Dr. John Watson, paralyzed from the neckdown? Watson able to speak and blink, but otherwise do nothing except slowly waste away? That was a tragedy.
And one that Holmes had been unable to face. He'd listened to the other doctors explain how helpless Watson would be - how he'd be completely unable to care for himself in the smallest way. He'd imagined how Watson's muscles would slowly atrophy from disuse, flesh pale and wrinkled all around them. He'd watched the fire of strength and determination flicker out in Watson's eyes - and he hadn't been able to bear it.
That's not Watson! It was a shell that just lay there, unmoving, in a hospital bed. The real Watson stood tall, eyes blazing with indignant anger at the wrongs of the world. He stood at Holmes' side in his investigations and at his back in a fight. He did not just lay there, passive as a marionette.
Miracle! How Holmes hated the word now. He leaned forward and then back again rapidly, banging his head against the hard bark of the tree. Again and again he did it, striving to drive that loathsome word - and the memory of Watson - from his head. It would be better if he'd died instantly!
Holmes froze at that thought, the seeds of which had been planted in that grim hospital room, had taken root and grown through flight and separation, only to burst now into ugly, violent bloom.
Better off dead.
Then, Holmes could grieve properly. He could see his beloved friend laid to rest with all the honors of a military funeral. He could think back on their adventures together, smile in bittersweet reminiscence, and move on. He wouldn'thave to think of Watson being carried everywhere like a doll. Wouldn't see him swaddled like some great, shriveled baby, smelling of the wastes he was unable to relieve himself of properly. Would never see that cold, dead look in his eyes.
Never hear Watson's voice again... The thought lanced straight into Holmes' heart, paining his chest. A rush of memory assaulted him, ripping through his brain like a flash flood. Watson, chiding him for his ignorance, for his rudeness, for the careless risks he took... Complimenting him on his violin and requesting a favorite piece... Watson snapping back at him in irritation at his teasing mockery... Laughing with him over one silliness or another on the part of the Yarders... Telling Holmes, with the tears of joy in his voice that he stubbornly refused to shed from his eyes, how glad he was that Holmes was still alive.
Still alive. The words knotted in Holmes' throat, shivered in the lip that slipped between his teeth of it's own accord, and leaked out his eyes in stinging drops of saline. Whatever else they were, both he and Watson were still alive.
"Where there's life, there's hope." He scorned platitudes, but somehow, the words helped him to his feet. And from there, step by step, coach and train and cab, mile by mile, to London and the hospital in which he'd abandoned his dearest companion.
"Watson," he whispered, quietly shifting the curtains of the bed the nurse had indicated. She'd seemed surprised when he'd said Watson's name, as if she'd not expected any visitors for him.
There was no response from behind the curtains. Slowly, Holmes slipped into the dubious privacy the drapes provided and gazed down at the bed. Watson lay there, unmoving as before, eyes staring at the ceiling. "Watson," Holmes repeated, louder. Those empty eyes flicked in his direction, but soon turned away again. "I've come to take you home."
"Home?" The voice was harsh, barely recognizable. "And where is that?" That empty gaze returned to him - only, it was no longer void of emotion. Bitterness, pain, betrayal, loneliness, and despair all exploded from those eyes to rip into Holmes like scattershot. His knees shook and his feet urged him to flee once more.
No. That wasn't the choice he'd made. "Why, Baker Street, of course." He tried to keep his voice light, but it trembled in spite of his efforts.
"Go away, Holmes." Watson's voice was flat, his emotions having been apparently all spent in his gaze.
"Come now, my dear Wa-"
"I'm not your dear anything!" Perhaps not spent after all. Watson's voice broke on the words. "You've made that clear enough. Now leave me. Again."
"No, Watson. Not again." Never again. "We're going home."
But Watson rolled his head on his pillow, turning away from Holmes. "I've no need for pity - yours or anyone else's."
Heart aching, fingers quivering, Holmes put his hand on Watson's shoulder. "I'm sorry I ran away.I'm sorry I abandoned you when you needed me most, but-"
"I said, I don't need your pity and I don't need you!"
"But I need you, Watson!" The words ripped themselves from his very core as he fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching sheets with both hands. "I need you," he repeated in a raw whisper.
"What use could I possibly be to you now?" Watson's voice shook as much as Holmes' grip on the bedding. He didn't turn his head.
"The same as you've always been." Holmes moved a hand to Watson's cheek, where he could feel it, and stroked the beard that was now growing there. "The friend who keeps me company on a rainy April evening. The companion who not only listens to my every thought, but gives me new ones." He slid his hand along a trembling jaw to softly grip Watson's chin. "The mirror that reflects me as I truly am," he continued, turning Watson's unresisting face towards him once more. "The warm heart to my cold machine." Holmes' voice broke this time as he again met all the hurt and doubt in those wounded eyes. "It's selfish, I know, to ask you to stay with me - as selfish as when I ran away. But..." He swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes. "In whatever shape, form, or condition..." He rested his hand on Watson's cheek again and dropped his head forward so their foreheads touched. "I need you, Watson."
"I'll only get in your way - slow you down." Holmes couldn't see Watson's face, but he thought he heard a hint of hope there.
"You alwaysdid, you know," he replied softly, trying to sound cheerful. There was a hoarse bark from Watson at that, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Holmes shifted his hand to the back of his friend's head, pressing their brows more firmly together. "That never mattered."
"One would think it had, the way you carried on sometimes." Holmes could feel tears falling on the hand that still rested on the bed, but he also heard the dear, dear laughter in that voice.
"What matters now," he continued after clearing his throat, "is only this." He pulled back and, softly, blew on Watson's forehead, smiling through his tears at the wrinkling of the other man's nose. "I'm alive." His smile grew at the small answering curve of Watson's lips as he lifted his hand from the sheets to hover before his nose and mouth, faintly catching his exhaled breath on his palm. "You're alive."
And that was as much of a miracle as they chose to make it.
Some reviewers on fanfiction dot net have requested a continuation of this (one person also requested Watson getting all better, but I'd never write anything so implausible), but I'm not sure. Do more people want to read more about paralyzed!Watson and Holmes? If so, what kinds of scenario(s)? Lifestyle adjustments with a mix of angsty, tender, and humorous moments (humorous because I'm imagining Holmes taking dictation and arguing with Watson over details, wording, etc)?
P.S.: If you've missed my other recent angsty Holmes/Watson stories, please check them out. Not Here and Mortar.
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written in response to this prompt on the kinkmeme:
I would like a story where Watson is critically injured or ill. Holmes abandons Watson, unable to deal with it all.
I would like Holmes to eventually return and realize his stupidity.
Author's Notes: I wrote this well over a month ago, but due to the more personal nature of the request (as seen in the full version of the prompt on the meme), I've delayed reposting. Here it is now.
"Miracle Survivor of Coal Barge Explosion!" the newspaper proclaimed hyperbolically. Holmes set it aside with a disgusted sigh.
The only miracle is that they found the story worthy of print. From the details he'd bothered to read, even the word explosion was a gross exaggeration of the affair. With another sigh, he leaned his head back against the tree that was serving as his backrest and gazed up through the intertwining branches above. Brown, green, gold, and hints of blue played before his eyes as a breeze blew through the garden where he'd taken refuge. Spies, the lot of them, Holmes thought of the servants in the house. As this was his brother's country house, the staff could not be considered as anything but Mycroft's eyes and ears in the field. Poking, prying, staring... Silently asking him if he was all right.
I should have stayed in London, he mused irritatedly as he closed his eyes. At least there, there was only his landlady to trouble him. Only Mrs. Hudson and-
No. He opened his eyes again and focused his other senses outward as well. There was the scent of flowers and cut grass (someone was at work in another part of the garden) in the air. There was the tiny chirping of late nestlings in the branches overhead. The miracle of life...
There was that word to mock him again! He'd always disliked the word, finding it more synonymous with credulity than divine intervention, but now...
"It's a miracle, Mr. Holmes!" the nurse had exclaimed to him, rushing out of operation gallery to him. "A miracle!"
And so Holmes had almost dared to think as well - until Watson had opened his eyes and not moved.
Miracle, Holmes snorted. It might be extraordinary that the bullet had not killed Watson instantly. It might be a wonderful medical achievement that he still breathed.
But Dr. John Watson, paralyzed from the neckdown? Watson able to speak and blink, but otherwise do nothing except slowly waste away? That was a tragedy.
And one that Holmes had been unable to face. He'd listened to the other doctors explain how helpless Watson would be - how he'd be completely unable to care for himself in the smallest way. He'd imagined how Watson's muscles would slowly atrophy from disuse, flesh pale and wrinkled all around them. He'd watched the fire of strength and determination flicker out in Watson's eyes - and he hadn't been able to bear it.
That's not Watson! It was a shell that just lay there, unmoving, in a hospital bed. The real Watson stood tall, eyes blazing with indignant anger at the wrongs of the world. He stood at Holmes' side in his investigations and at his back in a fight. He did not just lay there, passive as a marionette.
Miracle! How Holmes hated the word now. He leaned forward and then back again rapidly, banging his head against the hard bark of the tree. Again and again he did it, striving to drive that loathsome word - and the memory of Watson - from his head. It would be better if he'd died instantly!
Holmes froze at that thought, the seeds of which had been planted in that grim hospital room, had taken root and grown through flight and separation, only to burst now into ugly, violent bloom.
Better off dead.
Then, Holmes could grieve properly. He could see his beloved friend laid to rest with all the honors of a military funeral. He could think back on their adventures together, smile in bittersweet reminiscence, and move on. He wouldn'thave to think of Watson being carried everywhere like a doll. Wouldn't see him swaddled like some great, shriveled baby, smelling of the wastes he was unable to relieve himself of properly. Would never see that cold, dead look in his eyes.
Never hear Watson's voice again... The thought lanced straight into Holmes' heart, paining his chest. A rush of memory assaulted him, ripping through his brain like a flash flood. Watson, chiding him for his ignorance, for his rudeness, for the careless risks he took... Complimenting him on his violin and requesting a favorite piece... Watson snapping back at him in irritation at his teasing mockery... Laughing with him over one silliness or another on the part of the Yarders... Telling Holmes, with the tears of joy in his voice that he stubbornly refused to shed from his eyes, how glad he was that Holmes was still alive.
Still alive. The words knotted in Holmes' throat, shivered in the lip that slipped between his teeth of it's own accord, and leaked out his eyes in stinging drops of saline. Whatever else they were, both he and Watson were still alive.
"Where there's life, there's hope." He scorned platitudes, but somehow, the words helped him to his feet. And from there, step by step, coach and train and cab, mile by mile, to London and the hospital in which he'd abandoned his dearest companion.
"Watson," he whispered, quietly shifting the curtains of the bed the nurse had indicated. She'd seemed surprised when he'd said Watson's name, as if she'd not expected any visitors for him.
There was no response from behind the curtains. Slowly, Holmes slipped into the dubious privacy the drapes provided and gazed down at the bed. Watson lay there, unmoving as before, eyes staring at the ceiling. "Watson," Holmes repeated, louder. Those empty eyes flicked in his direction, but soon turned away again. "I've come to take you home."
"Home?" The voice was harsh, barely recognizable. "And where is that?" That empty gaze returned to him - only, it was no longer void of emotion. Bitterness, pain, betrayal, loneliness, and despair all exploded from those eyes to rip into Holmes like scattershot. His knees shook and his feet urged him to flee once more.
No. That wasn't the choice he'd made. "Why, Baker Street, of course." He tried to keep his voice light, but it trembled in spite of his efforts.
"Go away, Holmes." Watson's voice was flat, his emotions having been apparently all spent in his gaze.
"Come now, my dear Wa-"
"I'm not your dear anything!" Perhaps not spent after all. Watson's voice broke on the words. "You've made that clear enough. Now leave me. Again."
"No, Watson. Not again." Never again. "We're going home."
But Watson rolled his head on his pillow, turning away from Holmes. "I've no need for pity - yours or anyone else's."
Heart aching, fingers quivering, Holmes put his hand on Watson's shoulder. "I'm sorry I ran away.I'm sorry I abandoned you when you needed me most, but-"
"I said, I don't need your pity and I don't need you!"
"But I need you, Watson!" The words ripped themselves from his very core as he fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching sheets with both hands. "I need you," he repeated in a raw whisper.
"What use could I possibly be to you now?" Watson's voice shook as much as Holmes' grip on the bedding. He didn't turn his head.
"The same as you've always been." Holmes moved a hand to Watson's cheek, where he could feel it, and stroked the beard that was now growing there. "The friend who keeps me company on a rainy April evening. The companion who not only listens to my every thought, but gives me new ones." He slid his hand along a trembling jaw to softly grip Watson's chin. "The mirror that reflects me as I truly am," he continued, turning Watson's unresisting face towards him once more. "The warm heart to my cold machine." Holmes' voice broke this time as he again met all the hurt and doubt in those wounded eyes. "It's selfish, I know, to ask you to stay with me - as selfish as when I ran away. But..." He swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes. "In whatever shape, form, or condition..." He rested his hand on Watson's cheek again and dropped his head forward so their foreheads touched. "I need you, Watson."
"I'll only get in your way - slow you down." Holmes couldn't see Watson's face, but he thought he heard a hint of hope there.
"You alwaysdid, you know," he replied softly, trying to sound cheerful. There was a hoarse bark from Watson at that, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Holmes shifted his hand to the back of his friend's head, pressing their brows more firmly together. "That never mattered."
"One would think it had, the way you carried on sometimes." Holmes could feel tears falling on the hand that still rested on the bed, but he also heard the dear, dear laughter in that voice.
"What matters now," he continued after clearing his throat, "is only this." He pulled back and, softly, blew on Watson's forehead, smiling through his tears at the wrinkling of the other man's nose. "I'm alive." His smile grew at the small answering curve of Watson's lips as he lifted his hand from the sheets to hover before his nose and mouth, faintly catching his exhaled breath on his palm. "You're alive."
And that was as much of a miracle as they chose to make it.
Some reviewers on fanfiction dot net have requested a continuation of this (one person also requested Watson getting all better, but I'd never write anything so implausible), but I'm not sure. Do more people want to read more about paralyzed!Watson and Holmes? If so, what kinds of scenario(s)? Lifestyle adjustments with a mix of angsty, tender, and humorous moments (humorous because I'm imagining Holmes taking dictation and arguing with Watson over details, wording, etc)?
P.S.: If you've missed my other recent angsty Holmes/Watson stories, please check them out. Not Here and Mortar.