Bite of a Viper (WW Challenge22)
Title: Bite of a Viper
Author: alaylith
Rating: PG
Universe: bookverse/Granada (I only took the detail from Granada that Watson is not married and still lives in Baker Street)
Word Count: 20x 100 words (= 2.000)
Warnings: sickness, hallucinations
Summary: The package containing an ivory box with the viper's tooth was not sent to Holmes, but to Watson.
A/N: Here is my entry to Watson's Woes Challenge 22. Thankfully I had a short school day today, so I had time to write it.
And I even managed my first drabble (100 words ficlets) series! :D
Saying that, the drabbles may appear "weird" to you, as I have never written such before and I did not know how to smoothly finish them etc. I felt pretty clumsy the first few, but it got better in the end. ^^
Hope ya still like it!
+++
It starts to rain the moment Watson enters Baker Street and with a sigh of relief he climbs the stairs to their rooms.
His shoulder hurts since this morning and he is glad that he arrived back home before the storm hits.
Watson is a little surprised to see their rooms empty - as far as he knows Holmes has no active case and Watson left him brooding on the sofa when he left for work.
But looking over the chaos in the room Holmes has been quite active before he left and Watson sighs, a small smile on his lips.
+++
Watson bends down to pick up a few books and turns to put them back into the shelves, when he notices the small brown package on his desk.
He picks it up curiously, noticing that there is no return address. He checks the wrapping which is fully intact and realizes that Holmes left before the package arrived.
Even though something is addressed to Watson, Holmes can never resist checking his post, deducing everything about the sender or just plainly opening it.
He chuckles, remembering the last time when Holmes opened a letter from a female admirer and opens the package.
+++
Watson looks up surprised as the wrapping reveals a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid.
It is a neat little thing and Watson takes it carefully into his hand to examine it.
He turns it around slowly, wondering who would send him such a gift and then he opens the lid curiously.
With no time to react a sharp spring emerges like a viper’s tooth and pricks him into the back of his hand and with a surprised yelp he drops the box.
A droplet of blood flows over his hand, resembling a dark red tear.
+++
Holmes curses strongly as he kicks the door close behind him and struggles out of his wet coat.
“Mrs Hudson!” he yells loudly, dropping his coat and hat on the floor. “Tea!”
He hears her grumbling, but does not wait for her to emerge and climbs up to their rooms. He is rather in a bad mood, as he had to deal with the bumbling idiots of Scotland Yard and the weather did nothing to lighten his mood.
He can’t wait to sit down before the fire and to play his violin to drown out this dreadful and boring world.
+++
Throwing open the door to their rooms Holmes suddenly stops.
It just takes a second for him to feel the coldness in the room, to see the unlit fire in the fireplace and the disarray of the room and to hear the unnatural silence besides the pounding of the rain on the window glasses.
His mind immediately realizes that something is wrong and with two great strides he stands in the middle of the room.
The sound of laboured breathing draws his eyes to the floor in front of the desk and a small gasp escapes his trembling lips.
“Watson!”
+++
Watson’s chest is aflame with a burning pain, his bones feel like they are melting and each breath feels like needles are sticking into his lungs.
His skin is itching and he lifts one hand to scratch madly at his arm.
A strong grip takes hold of his hand and draws his fingers away. He moans lowly, trying to continue and to relief himself of the itch.
But the hand stays firm and pushes his arm back down. With a growl he tries to wrench away and he begins to struggle weakly, his body shaking with the effort.
“Stop, Watson.”
+++
Watson’s eyes flutter open and the room spins dizzily around him, while mad faces grin down on him. He can hear them cackling, even though their mouths are not moving.
A pale ghost leans over his body and two pools of a grey sea stare into his eyes. “Watson?”
He believes he should know the ghost, the gaunt face, the trembling lips and the strong hands holding on to him, their grip steady but shaking.
The ghost speaks with a gentle voice, no more than a whisper and it soothes him despite the laughter of the faces on the walls.
+++
“Watson, can you hear me?” Holmes murmurs, a hint of desperation in his voice.
The last two days were terrible since Holmes found Watson unconscious on the floor. Watson is burning with fever, a terrible cough steals his breath and the few moments when he wakes up are filled with incoherent phrases and mumblings.
No doctor was able to determine what was wrong and Holmes was unable to leave Watson to investigate himself.
Holmes just can not leave the only man he cares about alone, fearing that when he returns his friend would be gone.
Holmes is just too scared.
+++
Seeing a small gleam of recognition in Watson’s eyes, Holmes clears his throat to call his name. “Watson?”
“Viper…,” Watson murmurs and Holmes’ shoulders sag a little, realizing that Watson is still hallucinating. “What viper, my dear friend?”
“The viper… black and white scales… the metallic tooth…,” Watson rambles on, his eyes darting around the room searching for something. “It bit me… The viper bit me…”
“Do not worry, the viper is gone,” Holmes whispers gently and caresses Watson’s forehead with a shaking hand.
With dismay Holmes sees how Watson’s eyes dim and he knows his friend is gone again.
+++
A prickling sensation wanders over his limbs and Watson imagines how hundreds of ants are crawling over his skin. Thinking about how the creatures bite into his skin and carry away bits and pieces from him makes him nauseous.
Bile rises in his throat and he struggles to rise as gentle hands grasp his shoulders and turn him on his side right before he vomits.
He coughs tiredly, his body shaking and a bony hand strokes comforting circles on his back. The hands roll him back and a wet cloth is run over his face, wiping away sweat and tears.
+++
On the third day Holmes realizes that Watson is dying. At least his heart - even though he would never admit having one - realizes it. His mind has known it the moment he entered their living room and saw Watson lying on the floor.
Watson whimpers in his sleep and Holmes automatically caresses his cheek, murmuring low words into his ear.
It takes a few moments, but Watson stills again and Holmes sits back in his chair.
He watches Watson for some minutes, before he lowers his face into his hands and a silent sob wrenches itself helplessly from his throat.
+++
Holmes does not know how long it takes for him to control his breathing, but as he looks up again he sees Watson watching him.
Knowing that this may be the last time to talk with his friend he raises from his chair and sits down on the bed beside his Boswell.
“Watson?” he asks and Watson’s eyes rest on his face shortly, before they wander searchingly over the floor.
“I dropped it…,” Watson whispers and Holmes smiles helplessly. “What did you drop?”
“The viper… When it bit me, I dropped it.”
And Holmes’ thoughts come to a grinding halt.
+++
Of all hallucinations, the viper is the only one which Watson’s mentioned twice and with more details than anything else.
Holmes jumps from the bed and storms into the living room to Watson’s desk. He immediately falls on his knees and looks around, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.
Then his eyes fall on the little box lying hidden beneath the desk.
Black and white scales…
Holmes carefully pulls it out and sees the spring.
Metallic tooth…
He finally understands what has happened.
It bit me…
A boundless rage takes hold of him and Holmes knows what to do.
+++
When Watson opens his eyes it takes him a moment to realize that he is in Holmes’ room. His next realisation is that he feels horrible, his whole body aches and his throat is dry.
He coughs weakly and turns his head to see Holmes sitting in a chair beside him. Holmes’ clothes are in disarray, his hair unkempt and his chin unshaved.
Deep sympathy and love fills his heart as he recognizes the sleepless nights and tiredness which are standard for a man taking care of the sick.
“Holmes?”
Holmes’ heads snaps up and Watson shudders seeing his eyes.
+++
There is worry, fear and exhaustion in the grey eyes, but Watson is surprised - and afraid, he has to admit - to also see such cold rage in their depths.
“Watson?” Holmes croaks and leans over his body. He lays a cool hand on his forehead and Watson smiles tiredly. “You look horrible, Holmes…”
Holmes barks a tired laugh and draws a weary hand over his face. Watson is shocked to see the tremors and he weakly grasps the hand from his forehead.
“Holmes…”
Holmes looks up and his eyes shine with unshed tears, but he returns the grip strongly.
“Watson…”
+++
Voices wake Watson and he turns to the slightly open door. One voice belongs to Holmes, but he does not know the other.
“But is it not peculiar?” the other voice says, a hint of steel in his voice.
“Not even a week after you blamed him for the death of his nephew without proof and being dismissed by Scotland Yard, he dies the same way?”
“As I told you, Smith poisoned his nephew. He must have infected himself with the same.”
Holmes’ voice is cool, but Watson can hear an underlying tone he is not used to.
Brutal satisfaction.
+++
“But trapped in his own cellar!” the other voice continues.
“He was trapped for several days, caught in hallucinations. He even took the skin from his own arm!”
“I assume he thought ants were crawling over him,” Holmes replies and Watson puts a shaking hand on his own arm, feeling the healing scratches on his skin.
“I am still sure of his crime, so I do believe justice has been served with his death. I will not investigate this, Morton.”
“I heard that Watson has been sick,” Morton whispers. “And the only vial of antidote is missing from Smith’s house.”
+++
Watson feels how his heart stops beating for a moment and he can hear the rush of his blood in his ears.
“Are you accusing me, Detective?” Holmes’ amused voice rings out.
Silence fills the air and Watson holds his breath waiting for an answer.
“There is no proof, Mr. Holmes,” Morton says after a moment and his voice has changed. Watson is not sure, but he thinks he hears a combination of respect - and fear.
“You are right, there is no proof,” Holmes agrees easily. “And as I said - justice has been served. Smith is no longer a threat.”
+++
When Holmes enters the bedroom again Watson is unable to look at him.
“How much did you hear?” Holmes asks as he chooses to stand beside the bed instead of sitting down.
“Too much…” Watson swallows thickly and then turns to look at his friend’s face.
“What happened, Holmes?”
Shadows dance over Holmes’ face as the candle flickers besides the bed.
“Smith was bitten by a viper.”
Watson remembers the ivory box and the spring. He remembers some details about the death of Smith’s nephew which Holmes was unable to solve.
He also remembers the cold rage and brutal satisfaction.
+++
Watson looks at the small empty vial on the nightstand and a deep shudder runs through his body.
A gentle hand caresses his cheek - a hand which has always reached for justice. As he looks back into Holmes’ eyes, he can still see the love and fondness which he could always see. But now he can also see the coldness, the rage and the brutality.
Watson does not know what is more painful.
Knowing that Holmes is able to murder ruthlessly or knowing that Holmes murders for him.
The light of the candle dies and darkness embraces them both.
Author: alaylith
Rating: PG
Universe: bookverse/Granada (I only took the detail from Granada that Watson is not married and still lives in Baker Street)
Word Count: 20x 100 words (= 2.000)
Warnings: sickness, hallucinations
Summary: The package containing an ivory box with the viper's tooth was not sent to Holmes, but to Watson.
A/N: Here is my entry to Watson's Woes Challenge 22. Thankfully I had a short school day today, so I had time to write it.
And I even managed my first drabble (100 words ficlets) series! :D
Saying that, the drabbles may appear "weird" to you, as I have never written such before and I did not know how to smoothly finish them etc. I felt pretty clumsy the first few, but it got better in the end. ^^
Hope ya still like it!
+++
It starts to rain the moment Watson enters Baker Street and with a sigh of relief he climbs the stairs to their rooms.
His shoulder hurts since this morning and he is glad that he arrived back home before the storm hits.
Watson is a little surprised to see their rooms empty - as far as he knows Holmes has no active case and Watson left him brooding on the sofa when he left for work.
But looking over the chaos in the room Holmes has been quite active before he left and Watson sighs, a small smile on his lips.
+++
Watson bends down to pick up a few books and turns to put them back into the shelves, when he notices the small brown package on his desk.
He picks it up curiously, noticing that there is no return address. He checks the wrapping which is fully intact and realizes that Holmes left before the package arrived.
Even though something is addressed to Watson, Holmes can never resist checking his post, deducing everything about the sender or just plainly opening it.
He chuckles, remembering the last time when Holmes opened a letter from a female admirer and opens the package.
+++
Watson looks up surprised as the wrapping reveals a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid.
It is a neat little thing and Watson takes it carefully into his hand to examine it.
He turns it around slowly, wondering who would send him such a gift and then he opens the lid curiously.
With no time to react a sharp spring emerges like a viper’s tooth and pricks him into the back of his hand and with a surprised yelp he drops the box.
A droplet of blood flows over his hand, resembling a dark red tear.
+++
Holmes curses strongly as he kicks the door close behind him and struggles out of his wet coat.
“Mrs Hudson!” he yells loudly, dropping his coat and hat on the floor. “Tea!”
He hears her grumbling, but does not wait for her to emerge and climbs up to their rooms. He is rather in a bad mood, as he had to deal with the bumbling idiots of Scotland Yard and the weather did nothing to lighten his mood.
He can’t wait to sit down before the fire and to play his violin to drown out this dreadful and boring world.
+++
Throwing open the door to their rooms Holmes suddenly stops.
It just takes a second for him to feel the coldness in the room, to see the unlit fire in the fireplace and the disarray of the room and to hear the unnatural silence besides the pounding of the rain on the window glasses.
His mind immediately realizes that something is wrong and with two great strides he stands in the middle of the room.
The sound of laboured breathing draws his eyes to the floor in front of the desk and a small gasp escapes his trembling lips.
“Watson!”
+++
Watson’s chest is aflame with a burning pain, his bones feel like they are melting and each breath feels like needles are sticking into his lungs.
His skin is itching and he lifts one hand to scratch madly at his arm.
A strong grip takes hold of his hand and draws his fingers away. He moans lowly, trying to continue and to relief himself of the itch.
But the hand stays firm and pushes his arm back down. With a growl he tries to wrench away and he begins to struggle weakly, his body shaking with the effort.
“Stop, Watson.”
+++
Watson’s eyes flutter open and the room spins dizzily around him, while mad faces grin down on him. He can hear them cackling, even though their mouths are not moving.
A pale ghost leans over his body and two pools of a grey sea stare into his eyes. “Watson?”
He believes he should know the ghost, the gaunt face, the trembling lips and the strong hands holding on to him, their grip steady but shaking.
The ghost speaks with a gentle voice, no more than a whisper and it soothes him despite the laughter of the faces on the walls.
+++
“Watson, can you hear me?” Holmes murmurs, a hint of desperation in his voice.
The last two days were terrible since Holmes found Watson unconscious on the floor. Watson is burning with fever, a terrible cough steals his breath and the few moments when he wakes up are filled with incoherent phrases and mumblings.
No doctor was able to determine what was wrong and Holmes was unable to leave Watson to investigate himself.
Holmes just can not leave the only man he cares about alone, fearing that when he returns his friend would be gone.
Holmes is just too scared.
+++
Seeing a small gleam of recognition in Watson’s eyes, Holmes clears his throat to call his name. “Watson?”
“Viper…,” Watson murmurs and Holmes’ shoulders sag a little, realizing that Watson is still hallucinating. “What viper, my dear friend?”
“The viper… black and white scales… the metallic tooth…,” Watson rambles on, his eyes darting around the room searching for something. “It bit me… The viper bit me…”
“Do not worry, the viper is gone,” Holmes whispers gently and caresses Watson’s forehead with a shaking hand.
With dismay Holmes sees how Watson’s eyes dim and he knows his friend is gone again.
+++
A prickling sensation wanders over his limbs and Watson imagines how hundreds of ants are crawling over his skin. Thinking about how the creatures bite into his skin and carry away bits and pieces from him makes him nauseous.
Bile rises in his throat and he struggles to rise as gentle hands grasp his shoulders and turn him on his side right before he vomits.
He coughs tiredly, his body shaking and a bony hand strokes comforting circles on his back. The hands roll him back and a wet cloth is run over his face, wiping away sweat and tears.
+++
On the third day Holmes realizes that Watson is dying. At least his heart - even though he would never admit having one - realizes it. His mind has known it the moment he entered their living room and saw Watson lying on the floor.
Watson whimpers in his sleep and Holmes automatically caresses his cheek, murmuring low words into his ear.
It takes a few moments, but Watson stills again and Holmes sits back in his chair.
He watches Watson for some minutes, before he lowers his face into his hands and a silent sob wrenches itself helplessly from his throat.
+++
Holmes does not know how long it takes for him to control his breathing, but as he looks up again he sees Watson watching him.
Knowing that this may be the last time to talk with his friend he raises from his chair and sits down on the bed beside his Boswell.
“Watson?” he asks and Watson’s eyes rest on his face shortly, before they wander searchingly over the floor.
“I dropped it…,” Watson whispers and Holmes smiles helplessly. “What did you drop?”
“The viper… When it bit me, I dropped it.”
And Holmes’ thoughts come to a grinding halt.
+++
Of all hallucinations, the viper is the only one which Watson’s mentioned twice and with more details than anything else.
Holmes jumps from the bed and storms into the living room to Watson’s desk. He immediately falls on his knees and looks around, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.
Then his eyes fall on the little box lying hidden beneath the desk.
Black and white scales…
Holmes carefully pulls it out and sees the spring.
Metallic tooth…
He finally understands what has happened.
It bit me…
A boundless rage takes hold of him and Holmes knows what to do.
+++
When Watson opens his eyes it takes him a moment to realize that he is in Holmes’ room. His next realisation is that he feels horrible, his whole body aches and his throat is dry.
He coughs weakly and turns his head to see Holmes sitting in a chair beside him. Holmes’ clothes are in disarray, his hair unkempt and his chin unshaved.
Deep sympathy and love fills his heart as he recognizes the sleepless nights and tiredness which are standard for a man taking care of the sick.
“Holmes?”
Holmes’ heads snaps up and Watson shudders seeing his eyes.
+++
There is worry, fear and exhaustion in the grey eyes, but Watson is surprised - and afraid, he has to admit - to also see such cold rage in their depths.
“Watson?” Holmes croaks and leans over his body. He lays a cool hand on his forehead and Watson smiles tiredly. “You look horrible, Holmes…”
Holmes barks a tired laugh and draws a weary hand over his face. Watson is shocked to see the tremors and he weakly grasps the hand from his forehead.
“Holmes…”
Holmes looks up and his eyes shine with unshed tears, but he returns the grip strongly.
“Watson…”
+++
Voices wake Watson and he turns to the slightly open door. One voice belongs to Holmes, but he does not know the other.
“But is it not peculiar?” the other voice says, a hint of steel in his voice.
“Not even a week after you blamed him for the death of his nephew without proof and being dismissed by Scotland Yard, he dies the same way?”
“As I told you, Smith poisoned his nephew. He must have infected himself with the same.”
Holmes’ voice is cool, but Watson can hear an underlying tone he is not used to.
Brutal satisfaction.
+++
“But trapped in his own cellar!” the other voice continues.
“He was trapped for several days, caught in hallucinations. He even took the skin from his own arm!”
“I assume he thought ants were crawling over him,” Holmes replies and Watson puts a shaking hand on his own arm, feeling the healing scratches on his skin.
“I am still sure of his crime, so I do believe justice has been served with his death. I will not investigate this, Morton.”
“I heard that Watson has been sick,” Morton whispers. “And the only vial of antidote is missing from Smith’s house.”
+++
Watson feels how his heart stops beating for a moment and he can hear the rush of his blood in his ears.
“Are you accusing me, Detective?” Holmes’ amused voice rings out.
Silence fills the air and Watson holds his breath waiting for an answer.
“There is no proof, Mr. Holmes,” Morton says after a moment and his voice has changed. Watson is not sure, but he thinks he hears a combination of respect - and fear.
“You are right, there is no proof,” Holmes agrees easily. “And as I said - justice has been served. Smith is no longer a threat.”
+++
When Holmes enters the bedroom again Watson is unable to look at him.
“How much did you hear?” Holmes asks as he chooses to stand beside the bed instead of sitting down.
“Too much…” Watson swallows thickly and then turns to look at his friend’s face.
“What happened, Holmes?”
Shadows dance over Holmes’ face as the candle flickers besides the bed.
“Smith was bitten by a viper.”
Watson remembers the ivory box and the spring. He remembers some details about the death of Smith’s nephew which Holmes was unable to solve.
He also remembers the cold rage and brutal satisfaction.
+++
Watson looks at the small empty vial on the nightstand and a deep shudder runs through his body.
A gentle hand caresses his cheek - a hand which has always reached for justice. As he looks back into Holmes’ eyes, he can still see the love and fondness which he could always see. But now he can also see the coldness, the rage and the brutality.
Watson does not know what is more painful.
Knowing that Holmes is able to murder ruthlessly or knowing that Holmes murders for him.
The light of the candle dies and darkness embraces them both.