Holmes fic: Misery 1/2
I started this on a whim last year -I believe it was the very first Holmes fic I started writing, based on the 1/24/10 file creation date [edit: it was the second, but the first non-challenge fic]- but it just kind of petered out as I focused on other stories that I was actually posting. I resurrected it for a shkinkmeme prompt (of course :-p); even then it took me months to finish it. But now it's done, so here it is.
Title: Misery 1/2
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary Watson
Wordcount: 13,185 (total)
Summary: Holmes hits a rough patch just after Watson's wedding.
Warnings: drug abuse, withdrawal
A/N: Mostly written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Give me some big time hurt/comfortRDJHolmes 2009 movie verse. Just do whatever you want to him, but hurt him AND I WANT WATSON COMFORT AND GUILT AND ALL.
Originally posted 19 March - 6 July 2011
Sherlock Holmes was invincible.
He could not resist strutting a bit as he entered the ring for his next bout, eyeing his large opponent calculatingly. The brute could give a fair fight to that overgrown Frenchman, but no matter. His previous three opponents had gotten progressively larger in size, the first having outmassed him by at least three stone, yet he had despatched them while sustaining only a handful of blows.
The roars of the onlookers bore him aloft, a small craft on a raging sea that rose with the waves rather than being overwhelmed by them. Adrenaline and cocaine thrummed in his veins, sharpening his gaze, his intuition flawless, his reflexes without equal.
He dodged his opponent's first swings with ease, and landed each of his own jabs uncontested. Allowing himself a brief smirk as he again ducked neatly under the lout's outstretched fist, Holmes enjoyed the moment as he hadn't done in a terribly long time.
To think he would have missed this if Gladstone hadn't insisted upon a walk!
Just a moment . . . what the devil had he done with the dog? He hoped he'd taken him home, but he honestly couldn't remember. He had halted in a dark alley to administer another dose of morphine while the dog sniffed the detritus scattered on the ground.
Gladstone having relieved himself while Holmes was otherwise occupied, he was debating whether to continue to the park or return home when he noticed the discarded page that advertised the night's tournament. Everything after was a blur until he was in his rented room at the establishment and preparing for his first match, which had included a generous dose of cocaine to counteract the lingering effects of the morphine.
He would have to inquire about the dog after this bout. Watson would never speak to him again if he lost their dog.
Watson.
His concentration on the fight faltered with the thought of Watson, the one he'd been so steadfastly trying not to think of for the past month, give or take a fortnight. Married. Gone. A wave of melancholy swamped his boat and doused the euphoria.
An impressive upper-cut connected with his jaw and he stumbled back, cursing his lapse of attention. He struck back with fury, but the damage was done.
Every thought, every movement became a monumental effort. Blows rained down, and he was barely able to block them, much less answer with his own.
Distantly he listened for the call at the end of the round; surely, it must come soon! All he needed was a moment, another bit of cocaine, and this bout would be his like the others.
Pain.
So much pain.
He was on the ground, trying in vain to protect his head and midsection from the worst of the blows that seemed to come from all sides.
His last conscious thought was spared to wonder what Watson would think of him now.
~~~~
Mary was halfway up the stairs when there was an insistent knocking -nay, pounding- at the front door. Sighing, she went to answer it; only their third night home, and John had already been called away to tend to a patient, and here, no doubt, was another. A small group of ragged boys was standing on the doorstep. When she opened the door, one stepped forward, a coat in his arms and a leash dangling from his elbow. "Please, mum, is the Doctor home?"
"I'm sorry, child, he is away tending to a patient," she said kindly, then caught a glimpse of the dog at the end of the leash. "Gladstone?"
The boy tugged on the leash and coaxed Gladstone forward so she could kneel and pet him. He was rather dirty, but his hindquarters wagged with pleasure at seeing her.
"Please, come in," she said, and herded them to the kitchen. Setting out a plate of biscuits while the water warmed for tea, she addressed the leader. "Why do you have Gladstone?"
"And Mr. Holmes' coat," he said, offering it to her. "We found 'em in an alley."
She took the coat and glanced it over, relieved to see no sign of new tears or stains. "You are the lads that help Mr. Holmes from time to time."
"Aye."
"Where is Mr. Holmes, then?"
"He's hurt, mum, and needs the Doctor."
Mary held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "What's your name, lad?"
"Wiggins."
"Well, Wiggins, let us have some tea, and then if John hasn't returned, I will tell you where to find him. Is that all right?"
Wiggins considered this, then nodded. "Oy, Cartwright! Go back an' tell 'em we'll bring the Doctor as quick as we can. Johnny, go with 'im."
The two he addressed rose from the table with a few complaints, stuffed their pockets with biscuits, and ran out of the house. Gladstone trotted toward the door after them, but soon decided he preferred the warm kitchen and the bowl of scraps Mary had put down for him.
While the boys had tea, Mary gently prodded them for more information about what had become of Mr. Holmes.
John had not returned by the time they finished, so Mary told Wiggins the address of the patient and cautioned him to be polite and leave the other boys on the street when he rang the bell. She gave him a note for her husband, then escorted the boys to the door. One of them she caught by the collar before he slunk out and held out her hand. Grumbling, the boy dug in his pocket and returned the spoon he'd swiped.
Once the boys had disappeared down the street, Mary locked the door and returned to the kitchen where Gladstone was happily sprawled in front of the fire. She sat beside him and petted him thoughtfully; after a while she rose and went to air out the spare bedroom.
~~~~
The pain flared and he groaned. It flared again and he tried to pull away from the grip, but that hurt even more.
"Holmes."
He moaned in response.
"Holmes."
He opened his eyes a fraction, the dim light of the lamp stabbing all the way to the back of his head. "Watson," he whispered.
"Were you trying to get yourself killed, or was this an experiment to see how much of a beating one man can survive?"
"Test of the stimulant properties of cocaine in the boxing ring," Holmes rasped, trying to grin and tasting blood. "No conclusions could be drawn, however. The effects wore off before the bout was over."
"You did more than enough damage to yourself in the meantime."
Holmes tried to sit up and soon wished he hadn't. He slumped back onto the lumpy pillow of the narrow cot.
"Don't move just yet, old chap," Watson cautioned, shrugging off his coat. "I haven't determined the full extent of your injuries."
"Then what have you been doing?" Holmes grumbled.
"I only arrived a few minutes ago," Watson said. "My primary concern was to make sure you could wake. From the looks of things, you had several nasty knocks to the head."
"That is to be expected when one has been boxing."
Watson said nothing, his warm hands touching Holmes' face as he felt for fractures. "Wiggins, would you see if they have anything that could be used as a cold compress?"
Small feet could be heard pounding down the stairs.
"Wiggins is here?"
"He fetched me. Had to follow me to a patient's home to tell me you'd been hurt. The rest of the lot is huddled downstairs. You worried them, Holmes."
"I see." Something tense in Watson's voice compelled him to ask, "Is there cause for such concern?"
"You look quite ghastly," Watson said, removing his hands from Holmes' face.
"Tell me."
"Both of your eyes will be swollen shut if we don't get a compress on them soon; they'll be quite colorful, regardless. The gash just above your eyebrow will need stitches. I put your nose back in joint before you woke. Your cheekbone is fractured. Your jaw is badly bruised, but not broken. And you've got several lumps on your head, so you're looking at a fine headache later."
That explained why he could hardly see, at least. It was somewhat of a relief. "It could be worse," he said confidently.
"I haven't looked at the rest of you yet," Watson said dryly.
Wiggins' footsteps returned and a cold cloth was placed over Holmes' eyes. "Thank you, Wiggins. Doctor, do what you must."
Fortunately Holmes hadn't been redressed when he'd been brought up to the small room, so Watson only had put aside the moth-eaten blanket covering him. "You're all over bruises, Holmes," he warned with a sympathetic wince before beginning his methodical assessment.
Patching Holmes up was laborious for Watson and painful for Holmes. Watson did what he could to avoid causing pain as he worked, but Holmes really was quite battered.
"Couldn't you have given me morphine before finishing what that brute started?" Holmes asked through gritted teeth while Watson splinted his broken left forearm.
"I did," Watson said coolly.
"You can't be serious."
"Now you doubt my honesty?"
"No, no, of course not. I doubt the label on your bottle."
"It was your bottle." Holmes could hear the smirk in the good Doctor's voice.
He groaned and was grateful most of his face was covered by a cloth so Wiggins couldn't see the tears of pain leaking from his eyes. His consciousness began to waver, and he willingly allowed it to drift.
"Your violin will be collecting dust for a while," Watson commented absently.
Holmes grunted, words beyond him while Watson was manipulating his aching fingers. Music wasn't at the front of his mind at the moment, he mused distantly before drifting away again.
He was brought back to himself when Watson patted his less damaged cheek. "Stay with me, old chap," the Doctor said softly as he removed the cloth from Holmes' face. "You need to sit up so I can bind your ribs."
Holmes nodded slightly, but regretted even that motion as pain flared bright behind his eyes. He took a few careful breaths, planning how he would attempt to rise. 'Attempt' was indeed the correct word; his abused body protested even the smallest movement, but he felt Watson's hands helping him up, and between his meager efforts and the support of those warm hands, he achieved a sitting position.
His head whirled dizzily from the change in orientation and his stomach churned in sympathy, but it wasn't until Watson helped him shift his legs over the edge of the cot that he was in danger of losing control. His stomach lurched as his feet hit the ground and he gasped, "Watson!"
Watson was ready for this possibility--had sent Wiggins away for this very reason--and supplied the only suitable receptacle in the room, a battered tin pitcher. Holmes retched, leaning heavily against Watson, and was grateful there wasn't much in his stomach, though the dry heaves hurt just as much. He tried to give the pitcher back to Watson when he had finished, but Watson didn't take it. "Hold on to that, you may still need it."
Holmes frowned, but obeyed.
"Now try to remain still," Watson cautioned.
Holmes shivered at the feel of Watson's hands splayed on his rib cage.
"Don't get excited," Watson said wryly, a smile in his voice.
Holmes snorted, then hissed as Watson's hand landed solidly on a bad bruise.
"Five broken, three of which are broken in two places," Watson announced as he began the wrapping. "By the looks of it, your opponent decided to dispense with the rules once you were on the ground. You were kicked, old chap, and I'll wager your arm, fingers, and knee were also the victims of a foot."
"In these tournaments, the rules are only adhered to when convenient," Holmes admitted.
Watson clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
"What's wrong with my knee?" Holmes asked, squinting down at his legs until he could discern the bandaging on his right knee.
"Dislocated patella." When he'd finished and ensured that Holmes could breathe sufficiently well, he began putting the medical supplies back in his bag and looking about for the rest of Holmes' belongings. His clothes were draped haphazardly over one of the chairs, so he fetched the whole lot and dumped them on the cot next to Holmes. "Let's get you dressed so we can go home."
"Our homes are no longer in the same location," Holmes reminded him as Watson helped him thread his arms into his shirtsleeves.
"You'll need help for a while, old chap, so it will be easiest for both of us if you stay at my house."
"Your house."
"Yes, my house. Mary suggested it." There was pride in his voice.
"Did she really," Holmes said musingly as Watson did up his buttons.
Both were startled when the door to the room slammed open and Wiggins burst in. Holmes stiffened and bit back a few very choice words. "The missus says the room is quite ready, and she had me bring Mr. Holmes' coat," Wiggins said eagerly.
"It's Mrs. Watson to you," Holmes said sternly.
"Yessir, sorry, Mr. Holmes."
"Watson, hand me my jacket, if you would."
Watson complied, uncertain what Holmes intended, and watched as he awkwardly dug in the pockets one-handed. Finally Holmes withdrew a battered wallet and, after squinting at several of the coins, he held out his hand to Wiggins. "Here, distribute these amongst the Irregulars. You all have been . . . very helpful. Doctor, I believe we'll need a cab?"
"Yes."
"Wiggins, if you would, and let us know when one has arrived."
Wiggins nodded eagerly and shoved Holmes' coat into Watson's arms before dashing toward the door. He hesitated just before reaching it. "Is it all right if I send Billy up when the cab arrives, Mr. Holmes? He, well, he stayed here while we all fetched the Doctor, and he was mighty worried about you, sir, but don't tell him I said so!"
Holmes' mouth quirked into a small smile. "You may send whomever you wish."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Wiggins carefully shut the door behind him, and his footsteps quickly receded down the stairs.
Holmes shoved the wallet back into his jacket pocket and held out his arms so Watson could help him with his waistcoat, jacket, and coat. Watson stopped after the jacket, however, and fashioned a sling for Holmes' left arm. Then he added the coat and buttoned it over the sling and arm.
"And now I must stand, eh, Watson?"
"I'm afraid so, my dear fellow."
Holmes took a steadying breath, then gripped Watson's offered hand. Watson had to support most of Holmes' weight while the detective attempted to find his balance, hampered as he was by his injuries. Holmes gritted his teeth and closed his eyes when the vertigo became almost too much to bear, but he was able to remain upright and his stomach stayed in its proper place.
He opened his eyes to see a hesitant Billy peeking in the door. "Yes, Billy? Has our cab arrived?"
"Aye, Mr. Holmes."
"Very good. Ah, Billy, would you mind carrying the Doctor's bag down?"
"Not a'tall, Mr. Holmes," Billy said eagerly, coming forward to take the medical bag. He had to use both hands to lift it, but he beamed to be given the task.
"Go on, we'll be down momentarily," Holmes encouraged. Once the lad had left, he fished his dark-lensed spectacles from his coat pocket and put them on. "My hat, Watson?"
Watson set it on his head and handed Holmes his cane as well. "I believe you'll need this more than I."
"Ah, yes, much obliged." He sighed, then straightened his shoulders and began taking careful steps toward the door. Watson followed closely behind him, ready to intervene if he stumbled. But while Holmes was moving quite slowly--especially for him--he did not stumble, and Watson wondered how much of himself he was expending in the effort.
Wiggins was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, having sent the rest of the Irregulars outside to hold the cab and make sure there weren't any other onlookers. Holmes paused halfway down the stairs and glanced back slightly toward Watson. "Watson, what time is it?"
"Nearly six o'clock. Why?"
"Would, ah, Mrs. Watson mind providing a bit of breakfast for the Irregulars?" He resumed his slow descent.
"She'd be delighted."
"Wiggins, do you have your watch?" Holmes asked the boy.
"Yessir, Mr. Holmes. Right here," Wiggins said, pulling it from an inner pocket in his trousers.
Watson stared at it a moment, as it was clearly a woman's watch, and found himself wondering where Wiggins had gotten it.
"He came by it honestly," Holmes said as if reading Watson's mind. Again. "It was his grandmother's. Now, Watson, would you care to set a time for breakfast that would allow your lovely wife to prepare a sufficient repast for this lot of hungry fellows?"
"Half past eight," Watson replied promptly. "The housekeeper arrives at seven and can assist."
"Excellent."
Holmes finally reached the bottom of the staircase. Wiggins held open the outside door for them; Watson took his bag from Billy, and they climbed into the waiting cab.
Watson sat next to Holmes rather than across, in case he was needed to keep Holmes upright and on the seat. Once the door was closed and the cab on its way, he half expected Holmes to somehow acknowledge his great discomfort, but his companion sat silently, inscrutable, his spectacles perched high on his swollen nose and his hat low on his forehead. The only sound he made during the journey was a brief gasp when the cab took a sharp turn and his weight pressed his wounded arm against the side of the cab.
Watson paid the cabbie while Holmes disembarked, paying careful attention to the area: Watson's new home. Between the pre-dawn darkness and his swollen eyes and dark spectacles, he was effectively blind, but there was far more to observation than mere sight. The smells, the sounds--or the absence of them--the feel of the pavement; it was a modest, well-kept neighborhood, quite suitable for a tidy man like Watson. Rather better suited than the chaos of Baker Street, especially for a physician with a growing practice.
Mary opened the front door as they approached the brightly-lit house, Holmes following Watson up the steps. Holmes was grateful his spectacles blocked much of the light of the entryway, for even what did reach his eyes was most uncomfortable to his already aching head. He surveyed the entryway while the Doctor helped him out of his coat and briefly told Mary what had transpired. When Watson reached the subject of the Irregulars, Holmes broke into the conversation and said, "Since you were so willing to extend your hospitality to me, I took the liberty of inferring that you would not mind extending it slightly farther."
"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," Mary said warmly. "It's a wonderful idea. I dare say you have a softer heart than John has seen fit to mention in his scribblings."
Holmes turned and regarded her with a raised eyebrow, but did not reply. She met his glance and smiled. Holmes decided that he ought to hang his hat on the open peg he could see out of the corner of his eye, so he ignored Mary and turned his attention to crossing the short distance. It was more difficult than it ought to be, even in his wounded state--it seemed his injuries were stiffening up--and once he came within arm's reach of the peg, it took him longer than it should have done to figure out what to do with the cane so he could deal with the hat. Having only one useful arm was going to grow tiresome quite quickly, that much was certain.
At length he managed to tuck the cane under his arm without dropping it and ducked his head enough to reach the hat brim without dislodging the cane. With considerable effort, he was able to snag the hat upon the peg on the first attempt, swaying slightly as he did so, then fumbled for the cane to keep himself from falling.
Taking a deep breath, he noticed that the entryway had abruptly lost its color and seemed rather distant; he wondered briefly if he should tell Watson that some new wallpaper was needed, but it sounded like he was still talking to Mary. As his vision narrowed and stretched, Holmes listened intently, clutching at the sound of their conversation with the last shreds of his quickly receding consciousness. Then even that sound was drowned out by his blood pounding in his ears, his vision a mere pinprick, and for a moment he feared he would disgrace himself by collapsing in Dr. Watson's hallway.
Warmth flushed his face and limbs as he began to return to himself; the first thing he could hear was Watson saying, "Holmes?" over and over again, though he couldn't yet respond. Then he felt a hand on his elbow and was fairly certain that the pressure against his back was from the arm that belonged to that hand. When he finally regained the capacity for speech, he said simply, "Watson," in response.
"There you are. I take it I should add light-headedness to your list of ills?"
Holmes made a noncommittal sound.
"Come, the guest room is down the hall, and you ought to be in bed. Mary is fetching some of my clothes for you to wear until I can fetch some of yours from Baker Street, though I noticed you're already wearing something of mine. I've been looking for that waistcoat for a week."
"You never mentioned it."
"I wasn't very well going to send a telegram to ask if you'd stolen a waistcoat from my luggage," Watson retorted. "Though knowing you, I should've known better than to think I'd merely left it behind on accident."
"Indeed." Holmes headed for an armchair before the small fireplace, but Watson caught his shoulders and turned him toward the bed on the other side of the room.
"No, Holmes, I want you in bed. Now."
"Are you propositioning me, Watson?"
Watson gave one of his little frustrated sighs. "Are you quite certain the cocaine has worn off?" He pushed Holmes down to sit on the edge of the bed and took his cane and laid it on a chaise lounge against the wall before efficiently unfastening the clothing he'd helped Holmes into a short time before.
"The cocaine? Yes. Everything else? Well . . ." Holmes replied dreamily.
"What else--no, never mind, I don't want to know right now." He turned when Mary entered the room, taking the nightshirt and linens from her and kissing her briefly. She left immediately after; there was a noise at the back door that should be the housekeeper arriving, and they had a breakfast to prepare.
The bare-chested Holmes was fidgeting with the wrappings on his hand and arm, his eyes still concealed behind those glasses. Watson divested him of his eyewear and eased the nightshirt over his head. "We'll need to draw you a bath later."
Holmes shrugged apathetically.
"So tell me, what became of the investigation of that machine and Moriarty? I checked the papers, but there was nothing about it."
Holmes decided not to comment on the fact that Watson was reading the London papers while at the seaside with his new bride. "I lack sufficient data for a hypothesis. The machine and the inspector's corpse yielded no new information, and Moriarty himself is behaving for the time being. I await activity on his part to continue the hunt," he said with an aggrieved sigh.
"I see." Watson gently pushed him to lie back so his trousers could be removed. He said nothing else until Holmes was settled in bed. "Is there anything in particular I should fetch from your rooms when I go?"
"You needn't neglect your patients on my account," Holmes replied. "A few borrowed items will be sufficient for my needs, I am sure."
"You are, at present, my sole patient. It is Sunday, so I have no office hours or rounds to make. Besides, I'm not giving you access to my wardrobe again," Watson retorted. "You'll wear your own clothing if I have anything to say about it."
"What of the other patient you were attending?"
"A child with a headcold. He will be fine. So you see, I am free to pay a visit to Baker Street and fetch a few things for you. At the very least I will need to assure Mrs. Hudson that you are not dead in an alley somewhere."
"Nanny would prefer it so. And I am certain she has not noticed I am no longer present."
Holmes looked far too satisfied with himself as he said it, so Watson had to pursue the matter. "I am certain she will notice the absence of strange noises, the fact that you are not eating the food she leaves for you, or at the very least that Gladstone is no longer underfoot."
Holmes considered this. "She might miss Gladstone," he conceded. "I am merely the source of the rent. But if you insist, I will require my dressing gown, tobacco, and whatever other articles of clothing you think necessary," he said dismissively.
Watson had a feeling he would be hearing--at length--from Mrs. Hudson about whatever it was Holmes had done to alienate her this time.
"That ratty dressing gown is not coming into my house," Watson objected. "It should have been burnt long ago. Why don't you wear the one I gave you? It's actually suitable for respectable company."
"It lacks character."
"If by character you mean strange smells and stains of dubious origin, then yes, it lacks character. I'm sure you'll have that remedied within a fortnight. I have never met anyone else quite so gifted at ruining clothing."
"It is an occupational hazard," Holmes said defensively.
Watson could think of several responses, none of which would result in a productive conversation. So he ignored the comment and decided it was time to let Holmes rest. "Do you need anything for the moment, old chap?"
"Just my case, if you'd be so kind," Holmes replied, almost suspiciously quickly.
Watson found himself moving toward Holmes' coat, where he'd replaced the case after dosing Holmes with its contents earlier. He stopped himself and frowned at Holmes. "Absolutely not."
When Holmes merely stared at him, Watson elaborated, "I can't give you anything if I don't know what else you've dosed yourself with. Anything you take must come from me."
"Might I ask when you will provide this 'anything'? Or were you planning to make me beg?"
"Good heavens, Holmes, I'm not a sadist. I just want you to eat something before I drug you so you'll sleep."
"I rather think the sleeping should come first," Holmes commented hopefully.
"Not this time," Watson replied shortly. When Holmes said nothing further, Watson left, saying, "I'll return with your breakfast."
Holmes sighed, not bothering to hide the grimace provoked by that unwise movement. He closed his eyes and took stock. His ribs groaned with every breath he took, his arm throbbed, his head pounded, his knee was blessedly numb from being iced (when had that happened? He wasn't sure), the rest of his being ached relentlessly, and his stomach churned with nausea. Each heartbeat, every inhale and exhale sent a jolt of agony washing through every nerve in his body. It was enough to make one wonder whether life was worth the effort. He was rather of the opinion that it wasn't.
He heard Watson return, but didn't open his eyes again until Watson cleared his throat meaningfully. Holmes looked at him, naked pain in his eyes, and he thought he saw Watson flinch. If he did, he recovered quickly. "I hope you'll try a bit of everything, but at the very least I insist that you have some toast," Watson said with a forced cheerfulness that made Holmes want to smear the jam on his face.
Watson set the tray over Holmes' legs, then helped Holmes sit up and wedged a few pillows behind him to keep him upright. Holmes had to blink a few times before the room stopped rotating around him, then he sighed at the breakfast staring up at him. It had all the stuff of a typical breakfast, and he wanted absolutely none of it. He was considering how he might hide the toast when Watson spoke. "Don't even think about it, Holmes. I'm not budging from this spot until I see you eat something."
Holmes glanced at him and sighed again, reluctantly picking up a piece of toast with a hand that shook rather alarmingly. Under Watson's watchful eye he dutifully ate the darn thing, and as soon as it was gone, he put his hand back in his lap and left it there. "I have eaten something," he reminded Watson when the insufferable man didn't move.
"Drink the water, Holmes."
Holmes glared at the glass of water balefully, then reluctantly reached for it. The glass chattered against the tray as he tried to lift it, his hand trembling and sloshing some of the water. Watson had to help him keep it steady so he could drink; Holmes drank as quickly as he could, though doing so made his stomach churn unpleasantly. But it was a success: Watson took away the tray and left the room with it.
When Watson reappeared, he held a bottle and a small glass. He carefully poured a small measure from the bottle into the glass, then held the glass to Holmes' mouth for him to drink. "If you're still in pain later, I will give you more."
Now Holmes asked for water, hoping to wash away the bitter taste of the laudanum. It helped, somewhat. Though Holmes wanted nothing more than for Watson to leave him alone, Watson insisted upon telling him any number of completely pointless things, as well as submitting him to the indignity of being helped to use the chamberpot.
Only after that did Watson help him lie back down. "Is there anything else you need before you sleep?"
"No," Holmes replied brusquely.
Watson stood beside the bed with his arms crossed and gave him one of those looks. "Suit yourself," he said. "Did you want me to let the lads come in to see you when they arrive?"
Holmes had to consider this, and thought about seeing their young faces clouded with concern, and how the older ones might know that the trembling of his hand had nothing to do with his injuries. "No."
Watson nodded once and turned to leave. "I'll check on you in a little while. Call if you need anything."
Holmes waved this away with his good hand and then he was blessedly alone. The irony was amusing: he'd been miserable these past weeks because he didn't want to be alone, yet now that he was in Watson's house, all he wanted was to be alone. But he didn't laugh; he felt more like weeping, and thought himself ridiculous for it.
His mind was slow and his body sluggish but not yet asleep when he heard the troop of boys herd into the kitchen. Several came very near his door, but Watson's voice cautioned them that Mr. Holmes was sleeping and they could visit later when he was feeling better.
Holmes snorted at the idea of 'feeling better'--it just didn't seem possible. Life was bleak, the world impossibly dull, and yet again he wondered why anyone bothered with this meaningless existence in the first place. It was a shame that his case didn't presently have sufficient morphine in it to curtail his existence.
~~~~
Mrs. Hudson was not best pleased to see Dr. Watson appear on the doorstep. "So you have him, then? You can keep him."
Watson placated her as well as he could, and agreed to listen to her recital of the latest outrages over a pot of tea in the kitchen. Most were minor annoyances that seemed part of Holmes' nature--the mess, his hygiene, noise at all hours, allowing the dog to soil the rugs-- but others were more serious and Watson was taken aback. "He threatened you with his revolver?"
"He even set something up so it would go off if the door so much as opened a crack. Of course, after that bucket of water came down on my head, I wasn't likely to go opening that door, now was I? And when I put the tea or his meals outside the door, he wouldn't touch them. So I stopped wasting my time and waited for him to ask for his meals."
"Did he?"
"Once in a rare while, yes. And he would go out on occasion, but he always looked like an indigent."
After Watson agreed to have Holmes pay for the rug cleaning and anything else he'd damaged and negotiated on several other points, he ventured--with some trepidation--up to Holmes' rooms to fetch what was needed. Though Mrs. Hudson had told him that she had not stepped foot in the rooms for weeks to do any cleaning, all his prior experience with Holmes' messes did not prepare him for the jumble that greeted him when he opened the door.
There were bottles upon bottles strewn on the floor, some of them broken from being smashed against the walls; crumpled newspapers and letters littered every horizontal surface; a heavy haze still hung in the air from Holmes' pipe; and various of Holmes' belongings were sprinkled amongst the mess, some things broken or torn or otherwise ruined in whatever destructive rage had led Holmes to throw bottles at the walls. Most of the bottles were from gin, brandy, and the like, though there was an astonishing number of smaller bottles that explained quite succinctly why the dose of morphine he'd given Holmes earlier hadn't been enough.
Watson ventured to Holmes' bedroom and tried not to think about the chaos of things he had to cross or avoid while collecting the few items of clothing and other things Holmes would need. He put them in one of Holmes' traveling bags and left it by the sitting room door, then endeavored to start straightening up a little.
As he piled the bottles upon bottles upon the settee, he was struck with something that should have occurred to him far sooner: all of this was from the past month and a half. Holmes' rooms had not been this disarrayed when he'd paid Holmes a visit two days before the wedding.
Watson surveyed the debris with new eyes as he tried to comprehend the amount of self-abuse Holmes had inflicted upon himself in a few short weeks.
~~~
Part 2
Title: Misery 1/2
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary Watson
Wordcount: 13,185 (total)
Summary: Holmes hits a rough patch just after Watson's wedding.
Warnings: drug abuse, withdrawal
A/N: Mostly written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Give me some big time hurt/comfortRDJHolmes 2009 movie verse. Just do whatever you want to him, but hurt him AND I WANT WATSON COMFORT AND GUILT AND ALL.
Originally posted 19 March - 6 July 2011
Sherlock Holmes was invincible.
He could not resist strutting a bit as he entered the ring for his next bout, eyeing his large opponent calculatingly. The brute could give a fair fight to that overgrown Frenchman, but no matter. His previous three opponents had gotten progressively larger in size, the first having outmassed him by at least three stone, yet he had despatched them while sustaining only a handful of blows.
The roars of the onlookers bore him aloft, a small craft on a raging sea that rose with the waves rather than being overwhelmed by them. Adrenaline and cocaine thrummed in his veins, sharpening his gaze, his intuition flawless, his reflexes without equal.
He dodged his opponent's first swings with ease, and landed each of his own jabs uncontested. Allowing himself a brief smirk as he again ducked neatly under the lout's outstretched fist, Holmes enjoyed the moment as he hadn't done in a terribly long time.
To think he would have missed this if Gladstone hadn't insisted upon a walk!
Just a moment . . . what the devil had he done with the dog? He hoped he'd taken him home, but he honestly couldn't remember. He had halted in a dark alley to administer another dose of morphine while the dog sniffed the detritus scattered on the ground.
Gladstone having relieved himself while Holmes was otherwise occupied, he was debating whether to continue to the park or return home when he noticed the discarded page that advertised the night's tournament. Everything after was a blur until he was in his rented room at the establishment and preparing for his first match, which had included a generous dose of cocaine to counteract the lingering effects of the morphine.
He would have to inquire about the dog after this bout. Watson would never speak to him again if he lost their dog.
Watson.
His concentration on the fight faltered with the thought of Watson, the one he'd been so steadfastly trying not to think of for the past month, give or take a fortnight. Married. Gone. A wave of melancholy swamped his boat and doused the euphoria.
An impressive upper-cut connected with his jaw and he stumbled back, cursing his lapse of attention. He struck back with fury, but the damage was done.
Every thought, every movement became a monumental effort. Blows rained down, and he was barely able to block them, much less answer with his own.
Distantly he listened for the call at the end of the round; surely, it must come soon! All he needed was a moment, another bit of cocaine, and this bout would be his like the others.
Pain.
So much pain.
He was on the ground, trying in vain to protect his head and midsection from the worst of the blows that seemed to come from all sides.
His last conscious thought was spared to wonder what Watson would think of him now.
~~~~
Mary was halfway up the stairs when there was an insistent knocking -nay, pounding- at the front door. Sighing, she went to answer it; only their third night home, and John had already been called away to tend to a patient, and here, no doubt, was another. A small group of ragged boys was standing on the doorstep. When she opened the door, one stepped forward, a coat in his arms and a leash dangling from his elbow. "Please, mum, is the Doctor home?"
"I'm sorry, child, he is away tending to a patient," she said kindly, then caught a glimpse of the dog at the end of the leash. "Gladstone?"
The boy tugged on the leash and coaxed Gladstone forward so she could kneel and pet him. He was rather dirty, but his hindquarters wagged with pleasure at seeing her.
"Please, come in," she said, and herded them to the kitchen. Setting out a plate of biscuits while the water warmed for tea, she addressed the leader. "Why do you have Gladstone?"
"And Mr. Holmes' coat," he said, offering it to her. "We found 'em in an alley."
She took the coat and glanced it over, relieved to see no sign of new tears or stains. "You are the lads that help Mr. Holmes from time to time."
"Aye."
"Where is Mr. Holmes, then?"
"He's hurt, mum, and needs the Doctor."
Mary held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "What's your name, lad?"
"Wiggins."
"Well, Wiggins, let us have some tea, and then if John hasn't returned, I will tell you where to find him. Is that all right?"
Wiggins considered this, then nodded. "Oy, Cartwright! Go back an' tell 'em we'll bring the Doctor as quick as we can. Johnny, go with 'im."
The two he addressed rose from the table with a few complaints, stuffed their pockets with biscuits, and ran out of the house. Gladstone trotted toward the door after them, but soon decided he preferred the warm kitchen and the bowl of scraps Mary had put down for him.
While the boys had tea, Mary gently prodded them for more information about what had become of Mr. Holmes.
John had not returned by the time they finished, so Mary told Wiggins the address of the patient and cautioned him to be polite and leave the other boys on the street when he rang the bell. She gave him a note for her husband, then escorted the boys to the door. One of them she caught by the collar before he slunk out and held out her hand. Grumbling, the boy dug in his pocket and returned the spoon he'd swiped.
Once the boys had disappeared down the street, Mary locked the door and returned to the kitchen where Gladstone was happily sprawled in front of the fire. She sat beside him and petted him thoughtfully; after a while she rose and went to air out the spare bedroom.
~~~~
The pain flared and he groaned. It flared again and he tried to pull away from the grip, but that hurt even more.
"Holmes."
He moaned in response.
"Holmes."
He opened his eyes a fraction, the dim light of the lamp stabbing all the way to the back of his head. "Watson," he whispered.
"Were you trying to get yourself killed, or was this an experiment to see how much of a beating one man can survive?"
"Test of the stimulant properties of cocaine in the boxing ring," Holmes rasped, trying to grin and tasting blood. "No conclusions could be drawn, however. The effects wore off before the bout was over."
"You did more than enough damage to yourself in the meantime."
Holmes tried to sit up and soon wished he hadn't. He slumped back onto the lumpy pillow of the narrow cot.
"Don't move just yet, old chap," Watson cautioned, shrugging off his coat. "I haven't determined the full extent of your injuries."
"Then what have you been doing?" Holmes grumbled.
"I only arrived a few minutes ago," Watson said. "My primary concern was to make sure you could wake. From the looks of things, you had several nasty knocks to the head."
"That is to be expected when one has been boxing."
Watson said nothing, his warm hands touching Holmes' face as he felt for fractures. "Wiggins, would you see if they have anything that could be used as a cold compress?"
Small feet could be heard pounding down the stairs.
"Wiggins is here?"
"He fetched me. Had to follow me to a patient's home to tell me you'd been hurt. The rest of the lot is huddled downstairs. You worried them, Holmes."
"I see." Something tense in Watson's voice compelled him to ask, "Is there cause for such concern?"
"You look quite ghastly," Watson said, removing his hands from Holmes' face.
"Tell me."
"Both of your eyes will be swollen shut if we don't get a compress on them soon; they'll be quite colorful, regardless. The gash just above your eyebrow will need stitches. I put your nose back in joint before you woke. Your cheekbone is fractured. Your jaw is badly bruised, but not broken. And you've got several lumps on your head, so you're looking at a fine headache later."
That explained why he could hardly see, at least. It was somewhat of a relief. "It could be worse," he said confidently.
"I haven't looked at the rest of you yet," Watson said dryly.
Wiggins' footsteps returned and a cold cloth was placed over Holmes' eyes. "Thank you, Wiggins. Doctor, do what you must."
Fortunately Holmes hadn't been redressed when he'd been brought up to the small room, so Watson only had put aside the moth-eaten blanket covering him. "You're all over bruises, Holmes," he warned with a sympathetic wince before beginning his methodical assessment.
Patching Holmes up was laborious for Watson and painful for Holmes. Watson did what he could to avoid causing pain as he worked, but Holmes really was quite battered.
"Couldn't you have given me morphine before finishing what that brute started?" Holmes asked through gritted teeth while Watson splinted his broken left forearm.
"I did," Watson said coolly.
"You can't be serious."
"Now you doubt my honesty?"
"No, no, of course not. I doubt the label on your bottle."
"It was your bottle." Holmes could hear the smirk in the good Doctor's voice.
He groaned and was grateful most of his face was covered by a cloth so Wiggins couldn't see the tears of pain leaking from his eyes. His consciousness began to waver, and he willingly allowed it to drift.
"Your violin will be collecting dust for a while," Watson commented absently.
Holmes grunted, words beyond him while Watson was manipulating his aching fingers. Music wasn't at the front of his mind at the moment, he mused distantly before drifting away again.
He was brought back to himself when Watson patted his less damaged cheek. "Stay with me, old chap," the Doctor said softly as he removed the cloth from Holmes' face. "You need to sit up so I can bind your ribs."
Holmes nodded slightly, but regretted even that motion as pain flared bright behind his eyes. He took a few careful breaths, planning how he would attempt to rise. 'Attempt' was indeed the correct word; his abused body protested even the smallest movement, but he felt Watson's hands helping him up, and between his meager efforts and the support of those warm hands, he achieved a sitting position.
His head whirled dizzily from the change in orientation and his stomach churned in sympathy, but it wasn't until Watson helped him shift his legs over the edge of the cot that he was in danger of losing control. His stomach lurched as his feet hit the ground and he gasped, "Watson!"
Watson was ready for this possibility--had sent Wiggins away for this very reason--and supplied the only suitable receptacle in the room, a battered tin pitcher. Holmes retched, leaning heavily against Watson, and was grateful there wasn't much in his stomach, though the dry heaves hurt just as much. He tried to give the pitcher back to Watson when he had finished, but Watson didn't take it. "Hold on to that, you may still need it."
Holmes frowned, but obeyed.
"Now try to remain still," Watson cautioned.
Holmes shivered at the feel of Watson's hands splayed on his rib cage.
"Don't get excited," Watson said wryly, a smile in his voice.
Holmes snorted, then hissed as Watson's hand landed solidly on a bad bruise.
"Five broken, three of which are broken in two places," Watson announced as he began the wrapping. "By the looks of it, your opponent decided to dispense with the rules once you were on the ground. You were kicked, old chap, and I'll wager your arm, fingers, and knee were also the victims of a foot."
"In these tournaments, the rules are only adhered to when convenient," Holmes admitted.
Watson clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
"What's wrong with my knee?" Holmes asked, squinting down at his legs until he could discern the bandaging on his right knee.
"Dislocated patella." When he'd finished and ensured that Holmes could breathe sufficiently well, he began putting the medical supplies back in his bag and looking about for the rest of Holmes' belongings. His clothes were draped haphazardly over one of the chairs, so he fetched the whole lot and dumped them on the cot next to Holmes. "Let's get you dressed so we can go home."
"Our homes are no longer in the same location," Holmes reminded him as Watson helped him thread his arms into his shirtsleeves.
"You'll need help for a while, old chap, so it will be easiest for both of us if you stay at my house."
"Your house."
"Yes, my house. Mary suggested it." There was pride in his voice.
"Did she really," Holmes said musingly as Watson did up his buttons.
Both were startled when the door to the room slammed open and Wiggins burst in. Holmes stiffened and bit back a few very choice words. "The missus says the room is quite ready, and she had me bring Mr. Holmes' coat," Wiggins said eagerly.
"It's Mrs. Watson to you," Holmes said sternly.
"Yessir, sorry, Mr. Holmes."
"Watson, hand me my jacket, if you would."
Watson complied, uncertain what Holmes intended, and watched as he awkwardly dug in the pockets one-handed. Finally Holmes withdrew a battered wallet and, after squinting at several of the coins, he held out his hand to Wiggins. "Here, distribute these amongst the Irregulars. You all have been . . . very helpful. Doctor, I believe we'll need a cab?"
"Yes."
"Wiggins, if you would, and let us know when one has arrived."
Wiggins nodded eagerly and shoved Holmes' coat into Watson's arms before dashing toward the door. He hesitated just before reaching it. "Is it all right if I send Billy up when the cab arrives, Mr. Holmes? He, well, he stayed here while we all fetched the Doctor, and he was mighty worried about you, sir, but don't tell him I said so!"
Holmes' mouth quirked into a small smile. "You may send whomever you wish."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Wiggins carefully shut the door behind him, and his footsteps quickly receded down the stairs.
Holmes shoved the wallet back into his jacket pocket and held out his arms so Watson could help him with his waistcoat, jacket, and coat. Watson stopped after the jacket, however, and fashioned a sling for Holmes' left arm. Then he added the coat and buttoned it over the sling and arm.
"And now I must stand, eh, Watson?"
"I'm afraid so, my dear fellow."
Holmes took a steadying breath, then gripped Watson's offered hand. Watson had to support most of Holmes' weight while the detective attempted to find his balance, hampered as he was by his injuries. Holmes gritted his teeth and closed his eyes when the vertigo became almost too much to bear, but he was able to remain upright and his stomach stayed in its proper place.
He opened his eyes to see a hesitant Billy peeking in the door. "Yes, Billy? Has our cab arrived?"
"Aye, Mr. Holmes."
"Very good. Ah, Billy, would you mind carrying the Doctor's bag down?"
"Not a'tall, Mr. Holmes," Billy said eagerly, coming forward to take the medical bag. He had to use both hands to lift it, but he beamed to be given the task.
"Go on, we'll be down momentarily," Holmes encouraged. Once the lad had left, he fished his dark-lensed spectacles from his coat pocket and put them on. "My hat, Watson?"
Watson set it on his head and handed Holmes his cane as well. "I believe you'll need this more than I."
"Ah, yes, much obliged." He sighed, then straightened his shoulders and began taking careful steps toward the door. Watson followed closely behind him, ready to intervene if he stumbled. But while Holmes was moving quite slowly--especially for him--he did not stumble, and Watson wondered how much of himself he was expending in the effort.
Wiggins was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, having sent the rest of the Irregulars outside to hold the cab and make sure there weren't any other onlookers. Holmes paused halfway down the stairs and glanced back slightly toward Watson. "Watson, what time is it?"
"Nearly six o'clock. Why?"
"Would, ah, Mrs. Watson mind providing a bit of breakfast for the Irregulars?" He resumed his slow descent.
"She'd be delighted."
"Wiggins, do you have your watch?" Holmes asked the boy.
"Yessir, Mr. Holmes. Right here," Wiggins said, pulling it from an inner pocket in his trousers.
Watson stared at it a moment, as it was clearly a woman's watch, and found himself wondering where Wiggins had gotten it.
"He came by it honestly," Holmes said as if reading Watson's mind. Again. "It was his grandmother's. Now, Watson, would you care to set a time for breakfast that would allow your lovely wife to prepare a sufficient repast for this lot of hungry fellows?"
"Half past eight," Watson replied promptly. "The housekeeper arrives at seven and can assist."
"Excellent."
Holmes finally reached the bottom of the staircase. Wiggins held open the outside door for them; Watson took his bag from Billy, and they climbed into the waiting cab.
Watson sat next to Holmes rather than across, in case he was needed to keep Holmes upright and on the seat. Once the door was closed and the cab on its way, he half expected Holmes to somehow acknowledge his great discomfort, but his companion sat silently, inscrutable, his spectacles perched high on his swollen nose and his hat low on his forehead. The only sound he made during the journey was a brief gasp when the cab took a sharp turn and his weight pressed his wounded arm against the side of the cab.
Watson paid the cabbie while Holmes disembarked, paying careful attention to the area: Watson's new home. Between the pre-dawn darkness and his swollen eyes and dark spectacles, he was effectively blind, but there was far more to observation than mere sight. The smells, the sounds--or the absence of them--the feel of the pavement; it was a modest, well-kept neighborhood, quite suitable for a tidy man like Watson. Rather better suited than the chaos of Baker Street, especially for a physician with a growing practice.
Mary opened the front door as they approached the brightly-lit house, Holmes following Watson up the steps. Holmes was grateful his spectacles blocked much of the light of the entryway, for even what did reach his eyes was most uncomfortable to his already aching head. He surveyed the entryway while the Doctor helped him out of his coat and briefly told Mary what had transpired. When Watson reached the subject of the Irregulars, Holmes broke into the conversation and said, "Since you were so willing to extend your hospitality to me, I took the liberty of inferring that you would not mind extending it slightly farther."
"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," Mary said warmly. "It's a wonderful idea. I dare say you have a softer heart than John has seen fit to mention in his scribblings."
Holmes turned and regarded her with a raised eyebrow, but did not reply. She met his glance and smiled. Holmes decided that he ought to hang his hat on the open peg he could see out of the corner of his eye, so he ignored Mary and turned his attention to crossing the short distance. It was more difficult than it ought to be, even in his wounded state--it seemed his injuries were stiffening up--and once he came within arm's reach of the peg, it took him longer than it should have done to figure out what to do with the cane so he could deal with the hat. Having only one useful arm was going to grow tiresome quite quickly, that much was certain.
At length he managed to tuck the cane under his arm without dropping it and ducked his head enough to reach the hat brim without dislodging the cane. With considerable effort, he was able to snag the hat upon the peg on the first attempt, swaying slightly as he did so, then fumbled for the cane to keep himself from falling.
Taking a deep breath, he noticed that the entryway had abruptly lost its color and seemed rather distant; he wondered briefly if he should tell Watson that some new wallpaper was needed, but it sounded like he was still talking to Mary. As his vision narrowed and stretched, Holmes listened intently, clutching at the sound of their conversation with the last shreds of his quickly receding consciousness. Then even that sound was drowned out by his blood pounding in his ears, his vision a mere pinprick, and for a moment he feared he would disgrace himself by collapsing in Dr. Watson's hallway.
Warmth flushed his face and limbs as he began to return to himself; the first thing he could hear was Watson saying, "Holmes?" over and over again, though he couldn't yet respond. Then he felt a hand on his elbow and was fairly certain that the pressure against his back was from the arm that belonged to that hand. When he finally regained the capacity for speech, he said simply, "Watson," in response.
"There you are. I take it I should add light-headedness to your list of ills?"
Holmes made a noncommittal sound.
"Come, the guest room is down the hall, and you ought to be in bed. Mary is fetching some of my clothes for you to wear until I can fetch some of yours from Baker Street, though I noticed you're already wearing something of mine. I've been looking for that waistcoat for a week."
"You never mentioned it."
"I wasn't very well going to send a telegram to ask if you'd stolen a waistcoat from my luggage," Watson retorted. "Though knowing you, I should've known better than to think I'd merely left it behind on accident."
"Indeed." Holmes headed for an armchair before the small fireplace, but Watson caught his shoulders and turned him toward the bed on the other side of the room.
"No, Holmes, I want you in bed. Now."
"Are you propositioning me, Watson?"
Watson gave one of his little frustrated sighs. "Are you quite certain the cocaine has worn off?" He pushed Holmes down to sit on the edge of the bed and took his cane and laid it on a chaise lounge against the wall before efficiently unfastening the clothing he'd helped Holmes into a short time before.
"The cocaine? Yes. Everything else? Well . . ." Holmes replied dreamily.
"What else--no, never mind, I don't want to know right now." He turned when Mary entered the room, taking the nightshirt and linens from her and kissing her briefly. She left immediately after; there was a noise at the back door that should be the housekeeper arriving, and they had a breakfast to prepare.
The bare-chested Holmes was fidgeting with the wrappings on his hand and arm, his eyes still concealed behind those glasses. Watson divested him of his eyewear and eased the nightshirt over his head. "We'll need to draw you a bath later."
Holmes shrugged apathetically.
"So tell me, what became of the investigation of that machine and Moriarty? I checked the papers, but there was nothing about it."
Holmes decided not to comment on the fact that Watson was reading the London papers while at the seaside with his new bride. "I lack sufficient data for a hypothesis. The machine and the inspector's corpse yielded no new information, and Moriarty himself is behaving for the time being. I await activity on his part to continue the hunt," he said with an aggrieved sigh.
"I see." Watson gently pushed him to lie back so his trousers could be removed. He said nothing else until Holmes was settled in bed. "Is there anything in particular I should fetch from your rooms when I go?"
"You needn't neglect your patients on my account," Holmes replied. "A few borrowed items will be sufficient for my needs, I am sure."
"You are, at present, my sole patient. It is Sunday, so I have no office hours or rounds to make. Besides, I'm not giving you access to my wardrobe again," Watson retorted. "You'll wear your own clothing if I have anything to say about it."
"What of the other patient you were attending?"
"A child with a headcold. He will be fine. So you see, I am free to pay a visit to Baker Street and fetch a few things for you. At the very least I will need to assure Mrs. Hudson that you are not dead in an alley somewhere."
"Nanny would prefer it so. And I am certain she has not noticed I am no longer present."
Holmes looked far too satisfied with himself as he said it, so Watson had to pursue the matter. "I am certain she will notice the absence of strange noises, the fact that you are not eating the food she leaves for you, or at the very least that Gladstone is no longer underfoot."
Holmes considered this. "She might miss Gladstone," he conceded. "I am merely the source of the rent. But if you insist, I will require my dressing gown, tobacco, and whatever other articles of clothing you think necessary," he said dismissively.
Watson had a feeling he would be hearing--at length--from Mrs. Hudson about whatever it was Holmes had done to alienate her this time.
"That ratty dressing gown is not coming into my house," Watson objected. "It should have been burnt long ago. Why don't you wear the one I gave you? It's actually suitable for respectable company."
"It lacks character."
"If by character you mean strange smells and stains of dubious origin, then yes, it lacks character. I'm sure you'll have that remedied within a fortnight. I have never met anyone else quite so gifted at ruining clothing."
"It is an occupational hazard," Holmes said defensively.
Watson could think of several responses, none of which would result in a productive conversation. So he ignored the comment and decided it was time to let Holmes rest. "Do you need anything for the moment, old chap?"
"Just my case, if you'd be so kind," Holmes replied, almost suspiciously quickly.
Watson found himself moving toward Holmes' coat, where he'd replaced the case after dosing Holmes with its contents earlier. He stopped himself and frowned at Holmes. "Absolutely not."
When Holmes merely stared at him, Watson elaborated, "I can't give you anything if I don't know what else you've dosed yourself with. Anything you take must come from me."
"Might I ask when you will provide this 'anything'? Or were you planning to make me beg?"
"Good heavens, Holmes, I'm not a sadist. I just want you to eat something before I drug you so you'll sleep."
"I rather think the sleeping should come first," Holmes commented hopefully.
"Not this time," Watson replied shortly. When Holmes said nothing further, Watson left, saying, "I'll return with your breakfast."
Holmes sighed, not bothering to hide the grimace provoked by that unwise movement. He closed his eyes and took stock. His ribs groaned with every breath he took, his arm throbbed, his head pounded, his knee was blessedly numb from being iced (when had that happened? He wasn't sure), the rest of his being ached relentlessly, and his stomach churned with nausea. Each heartbeat, every inhale and exhale sent a jolt of agony washing through every nerve in his body. It was enough to make one wonder whether life was worth the effort. He was rather of the opinion that it wasn't.
He heard Watson return, but didn't open his eyes again until Watson cleared his throat meaningfully. Holmes looked at him, naked pain in his eyes, and he thought he saw Watson flinch. If he did, he recovered quickly. "I hope you'll try a bit of everything, but at the very least I insist that you have some toast," Watson said with a forced cheerfulness that made Holmes want to smear the jam on his face.
Watson set the tray over Holmes' legs, then helped Holmes sit up and wedged a few pillows behind him to keep him upright. Holmes had to blink a few times before the room stopped rotating around him, then he sighed at the breakfast staring up at him. It had all the stuff of a typical breakfast, and he wanted absolutely none of it. He was considering how he might hide the toast when Watson spoke. "Don't even think about it, Holmes. I'm not budging from this spot until I see you eat something."
Holmes glanced at him and sighed again, reluctantly picking up a piece of toast with a hand that shook rather alarmingly. Under Watson's watchful eye he dutifully ate the darn thing, and as soon as it was gone, he put his hand back in his lap and left it there. "I have eaten something," he reminded Watson when the insufferable man didn't move.
"Drink the water, Holmes."
Holmes glared at the glass of water balefully, then reluctantly reached for it. The glass chattered against the tray as he tried to lift it, his hand trembling and sloshing some of the water. Watson had to help him keep it steady so he could drink; Holmes drank as quickly as he could, though doing so made his stomach churn unpleasantly. But it was a success: Watson took away the tray and left the room with it.
When Watson reappeared, he held a bottle and a small glass. He carefully poured a small measure from the bottle into the glass, then held the glass to Holmes' mouth for him to drink. "If you're still in pain later, I will give you more."
Now Holmes asked for water, hoping to wash away the bitter taste of the laudanum. It helped, somewhat. Though Holmes wanted nothing more than for Watson to leave him alone, Watson insisted upon telling him any number of completely pointless things, as well as submitting him to the indignity of being helped to use the chamberpot.
Only after that did Watson help him lie back down. "Is there anything else you need before you sleep?"
"No," Holmes replied brusquely.
Watson stood beside the bed with his arms crossed and gave him one of those looks. "Suit yourself," he said. "Did you want me to let the lads come in to see you when they arrive?"
Holmes had to consider this, and thought about seeing their young faces clouded with concern, and how the older ones might know that the trembling of his hand had nothing to do with his injuries. "No."
Watson nodded once and turned to leave. "I'll check on you in a little while. Call if you need anything."
Holmes waved this away with his good hand and then he was blessedly alone. The irony was amusing: he'd been miserable these past weeks because he didn't want to be alone, yet now that he was in Watson's house, all he wanted was to be alone. But he didn't laugh; he felt more like weeping, and thought himself ridiculous for it.
His mind was slow and his body sluggish but not yet asleep when he heard the troop of boys herd into the kitchen. Several came very near his door, but Watson's voice cautioned them that Mr. Holmes was sleeping and they could visit later when he was feeling better.
Holmes snorted at the idea of 'feeling better'--it just didn't seem possible. Life was bleak, the world impossibly dull, and yet again he wondered why anyone bothered with this meaningless existence in the first place. It was a shame that his case didn't presently have sufficient morphine in it to curtail his existence.
~~~~
Mrs. Hudson was not best pleased to see Dr. Watson appear on the doorstep. "So you have him, then? You can keep him."
Watson placated her as well as he could, and agreed to listen to her recital of the latest outrages over a pot of tea in the kitchen. Most were minor annoyances that seemed part of Holmes' nature--the mess, his hygiene, noise at all hours, allowing the dog to soil the rugs-- but others were more serious and Watson was taken aback. "He threatened you with his revolver?"
"He even set something up so it would go off if the door so much as opened a crack. Of course, after that bucket of water came down on my head, I wasn't likely to go opening that door, now was I? And when I put the tea or his meals outside the door, he wouldn't touch them. So I stopped wasting my time and waited for him to ask for his meals."
"Did he?"
"Once in a rare while, yes. And he would go out on occasion, but he always looked like an indigent."
After Watson agreed to have Holmes pay for the rug cleaning and anything else he'd damaged and negotiated on several other points, he ventured--with some trepidation--up to Holmes' rooms to fetch what was needed. Though Mrs. Hudson had told him that she had not stepped foot in the rooms for weeks to do any cleaning, all his prior experience with Holmes' messes did not prepare him for the jumble that greeted him when he opened the door.
There were bottles upon bottles strewn on the floor, some of them broken from being smashed against the walls; crumpled newspapers and letters littered every horizontal surface; a heavy haze still hung in the air from Holmes' pipe; and various of Holmes' belongings were sprinkled amongst the mess, some things broken or torn or otherwise ruined in whatever destructive rage had led Holmes to throw bottles at the walls. Most of the bottles were from gin, brandy, and the like, though there was an astonishing number of smaller bottles that explained quite succinctly why the dose of morphine he'd given Holmes earlier hadn't been enough.
Watson ventured to Holmes' bedroom and tried not to think about the chaos of things he had to cross or avoid while collecting the few items of clothing and other things Holmes would need. He put them in one of Holmes' traveling bags and left it by the sitting room door, then endeavored to start straightening up a little.
As he piled the bottles upon bottles upon the settee, he was struck with something that should have occurred to him far sooner: all of this was from the past month and a half. Holmes' rooms had not been this disarrayed when he'd paid Holmes a visit two days before the wedding.
Watson surveyed the debris with new eyes as he tried to comprehend the amount of self-abuse Holmes had inflicted upon himself in a few short weeks.
~~~
Part 2