Sherlock Holmes Fic: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Five, Holmes/Watson, R)
Title: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Five)
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (currently pre-slash)
Warnings: Angst, mental health issues (this part). In general, alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three and Chapter Four of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I will continue posting the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archiving them on my journal for the duration of this story.
Chapter Summary: John Watson locates copious amounts of chalk, accepts an invitation, and learns more than he expected to--but less than he could have--about his roommate.
Chapter Five: On the Delicate Nature of A Man on the Brink
From: Forest Holmes
dude, breakthrough. you're in class, right? can you bring chalk when you come home? as much as you can snatch and then like six more pieces, thx
To: Forest Holmes
Why do you need chalk? What did you do?! Is this going to be like the time with the Molotov cocktail? Because I told you that wasn't cool.
From: Forest Holmes
the molotov thing was an accident. and how could i make a molotov cocktail with chalk? stop snatching medicine from your observation sessions it's fucking with your mind
To: Forest Holmes
What did you DO, Holmes?
From: Forest Holmes
have you noticed that you take the time to make your texts grammatically correct? i think thats probably ocd, you're a doctor, look into that
To: Forest Holmes
Not a doctor. Concerned with state of apartment. Coming home now.
From: Forest Holmes
CHALK
To: Forest Holmes
Yeah, yeah, I've got it.
I got home twenty minutes later, laden down with enough chalk to--I don't know. To do something involving a lot of chalk, the fuck if I know what. But I opened the door and Holmes was in the corner, plucking a nervous pizzicato on his violin. He jumped up when he saw me.
"I can explain," he said.
"What do you need to--" I started, and then I actually looked behind him. "Holmes."
"Well, I needed--"
"Holmes," I repeated, dropping my bag and staring. "That wall was white when I left!"
"It's chalkboard paint!" he said, grinning brightly. "My lab was stifling me and I think I've got--"
"We're not allowed to paint the walls in here!" I cried, moving forward. I reached out two fingers to touch it, but the paint was already dry. "Oh my god, Holmes, do you not understand that we signed a lease?"
"Pffft," he returned, gesturing broadly. "We'll paint it back before we move out."
"That not how it works," I moaned, looking at the wall with despair. "Fucking hell, you got some of this on the carpet--"
"It'll come out in the wash--"
"It's a carpet!" I cried. "How do you intend to wash it?"
"Lye?" he offered. "I don't know, dude, we'll figure something out. Gimme the chalk--you got the chalk, right?"
I gestured wordless at my bag and sank down onto the couch. "I want you to know that I hate you."
"Well," he said, "you brought me enough chalk that I think I am prepared to forgive you."
I didn't want to get into the fact that it wasn't me that needed forgiving. It wasn't worth it. He'd just talk in circles with me for fifteen minutes and then, inevitably, distract me with a well-placed smile or an adorable comment. It was maddening.
We'd been back from the camping trip for a week and a half. There was still some odd tension around his eyes, a sharp twitch to his jaw when he thought I wasn't paying attention, but by and large he seemed better. Not great, but better.
Then again, I hadn't seen that much of him. Thanksgiving was a few days away, and he was going home, so he'd sort of thrown himself into his work. One wall was covered entirely with pieces of printer paper, tacked up and taped together. They were scrawled over with notes, diagrams, and equations in something that didn't look like English. He'd found double-sided duct tape--god only knows where--and had stuck a piece to the wall to hold up his pens and Sharpies.
I'd say it looked like a war zone in our apartment, but that expression really doesn't mean what people thing it does. Still, it was a fucking mess.
I watched in morbid fascination as he took the chalk and dropped it into a cup. He then placed the cup onto a wooden board he seemed to have rigged onto a pulley next to the wall he'd painted. A bowl of water joined the cup, then a pile of rags, then six pencils and a Cliff bar and his iPod.
"Feet off the table," he said. Surprised, I obliged; he wasn't usually particularly fastidious. I shouldn't have thought it of him, as it turned out--he simply pulled the coffee table over to the wall.
And then stood on it.
"What are you doing?" I asked, bewildered. He gestured at the wall.
"I needed more space," he said absently, dipping a rag in water and stuffing it into his back pocket. "Couldn't be in the lab. I think I've nearly got it."
And then he put his headphones in and was lost to the world. I sighed, smiling a little, and pulled out one of my own textbooks. It was hard to focus on it, though; Holmes would shake his ass occasionally and he was nearly running across the table, scrawling madly with the chalk. His glasses were on again, and it shouldn't have been sexy--I didn't have any idea what he was writing, after all. Still, it was, and so I half-studied, keeping an eye on him.
After a while the intervals between sessions of dancing shortened. I think he'd kind of forgotten I was there. To be honest, I'd kind of forgotten I was there--kind of forgotten everything but his ass, really--when I got a text from Lestrade.
From: Geoff Lestrade
poker game @ the yrd. 10 min. u in?
I sighed. On the one hand, I didn't relish the idea of leaving dancing Holmes behind, or the idea of getting nothing done. On the other hand, it would probably be good to get out, if only for a couple hours. And if I won money I could bring food back for him. He'd like that.
Then I realized I was justifying my decision to go out based on whether or not Holmes would approve and wanted to kick myself right in the ass.
"I'm going to play poker with Lestrade and the boys," I called. He waved a hand at me and then resumed what he'd been doing for the last five minutes--specifically, standing with a hand on his hip, tapping a piece of chalk against his thigh with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. A few times he'd accidentally stuck the chalk in his mouth--that had been hilarious.
"Hey," he called, as I opened the door. "Try not to gamble away the rent."
"You got it," I said, closing the door gently behind me.
Poker with Lestrade was a good time. I beat him soundly, as always--the man has a terrible poker face, and his pledges were even worse. I got a special joy out of taking Clarkie's money, not that I let on. And then, yes, I did use part of my winnings to buy Holmes some fucking Chinese food--I can't help myself, alright? I just can't.
When I got back he was still on the table, and his headphones were still lodged firmly in his ears. He was--I guess the best word for it is gyrating, even though there wasn't exactly anything for him to gyrate against. But his hips were moving of their own accord, in steady, sensual circles. After a moment he bent down to make a correction, but he did it like a dance, keeping himself balanced. My mouth went very, very dry.
"Daddy I'm so sorry, I'm so-so-sorry yeah," he sang, totally unaware I was there. It would have been hilarious if it wasn't so goddamn hot. I don't even know why--oh that's such a lie, his ass was why, it's always his ass. "We just like to party, like to pa-pa-party yeah. Bang, bang, we're beautiful and dirty ri--YAAAAH!"
That last, of course, was what happened when he saw me. He'd half turned, reaching to rewet the rag he was using as an eraser, and met my eyes, shrieking his horror a second later. Probably too late I schooled my facial features into amusement rather than arousal, but he was already windmilling his arms and then crashing to the ground, tipping the table over with him.
"Motherfucker," he spat, while I laughed myself sick at his expense. What? I felt bad, I was mildly worried about him--but it was hilarious, and I'd told him the table was a bad idea. "Trying to give you a heart attack?"
"Why would I need to help you with that?" I asked, catching my breath. I offered him a hand and he took it; I hauled him to his feet, grinning. "I'm sure you'll give yourself one, one of these days."
"Fuck off," he said. Then: "Why does it suddenly smell awesome in here? Are you wearing Eau De Lo Mein Noodle? What is that?"
"I beat Lestrade and his boys in the poker game," I said, shrugging. "Ran down to the Chinese place up the street. Figured you could use a break."
"I don't have time for a--which Chinese place down the street?"
I grinned. I knew I had him. "Come on," I said, "who do you think I am? Emerald Duck."
He groaned audibly. "I can't," he said, looking lovingly at the plastic bags, "I can't, I really can't, I have too much to do--"
"Forest," I said, giving him a stern look. He grinned a little at the nickname and then resumed staring woefully at the bags. "You're going to have to eat. It's like midnight, I'm just going to bother you if you don't, and I got beef with broccoli."
"My one true entree!" he cried pitiably, putting a hand to his heart and leaning against the wall. "Oh how could you, you know I cannot resist the call--but it's good cold, you can put my darling in the fridge and I'll eat her in couple of hours--"
"That's disturbing, and also no," I said firmly. "You're eating. Deal."
He looked at me for a second, then sighed loudly and took the bag from me. "Oh, fine. But only because I should probably have stopped hours ago anyway," he admitted. "I've pretty much just been dancing out my frustration and forgetting to guard myself against my creepy lurking roommate."
"But I brought you beef with broccoli," I reminded him. He pulled the container out of the bag and caressed it lovingly.
"It's the only reason I let you survive," he agreed. "Is this house special fried rice? Did you get me house special fried rice? Oh, Appleseed, you're too good to me."
"We're sharing that," I told him firmly. "And believe me, I know I am."
He smiled at me, tossed me some chopsticks, and moved to the couch, cradling his beef with broccoli like it was a child. His favorite bowl was already half packed with weed; he sparked it and drew in a few long hits, exhaling heavily. Then he flipped on the television, scrolling through our DVR list idly.
"Why'd I record 28 Days Later?" he asked, cocking his head. "I own like four copies of it."
"You said it would be more suspenseful if you had to fast forward through the commercials," I sighed, grabbing two beers and sitting down next to him. "Pass the soy."
He tossed me a packet, grabbed the second beer and put the movie on. We chatted amiably through the opening credits. He wanted to know about my last class and the poker game ("Did you make Lestrade cry, Watson? I want to see that little fratboy weep, he's too cocky") and I wanted to know about his crop of undergrads. It was nice. Really nice, actually; we'd both been so busy that shooting the shit had become kind of a rarity. I'd missed him.
"Hey," I said, after a few minutes, "get your dirty chopsticks out of my cashew chicken."
"But I need it," he said. "You yourself told me I had to eat. You were very insistent."
"I told you that you had to eat your food," I reminded him. "This is my food. I thought beef with broccoli was your one and only."
"We have an open relationship," he shrugged. "Oh, shit, patient zero!" He turned to the screen, riveted by the angry chimpanzee biting the shit out of some poor scientist. He was still shoveling Chinese food into his mouth, washing it down with beer, and I could see him figuring out when he was going to pause for a smoke.
I relaxed further into the couch, enjoying the normalcy of it. And then:
"Hey," he said, burying his chopsticks in my chicken for the fifth time, "are you packed yet?"
"For what?" I asked, looking at him with confusion. "Am I going somewhere? I don't follow."
"Thanksgiving," he said slowly. "It's in like two days. I know how you are about packing--you were so pissy when you forgot stuff on that camping trip, I just don't want to go through that again."
"I forgot my underwear, probably because you rushed me--" I started, falling into the pattern of an already familiar argument. Then I stopped. "Wait. Thanksgiving? Holmes, I told you, my family is--"
"Yes, and I told you that I'd be fucked if you were going to spend the holidays by yourself getting drunk and watching shit movies," he said, staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "Oh, god, I knew you were drunk but I didn't think you were that drunk. Watson, come on. Of course you're coming home with me."
"Oh," I said. The thought of having someone to be with--of having Holmes to be with--over the holidays was already swelling in my chest, easing the anxiety that had been building there. I hadn't been looking forward to wallowing in my own dread aloneness while he and Miles were off with their family, I had to admit. But…
"Holmes," I said softly. "That's so nice of you, but I really don't need--you don't have to--"
"Shut the fuck up, it's nice of me," he growled, snatching my Chinese food container and slamming it onto the table. He was, I realized, actually upset. "My family isn't any fucking picnic, I'm not doing you any favors. I want you there for me as much as for you, so don't be a shit about this and just say you'll come, alright?"
"I--what--why would you--" I said, stunned into speechlessness. He waved a frustrated hand, but when he spoke his voice wasn't angry as much as--raw. Beaten in.
"You make me feel like me," he sighed. "My parents--well, you'll see. There's no point ruining the night by getting into it. But you're coming or I'm skipping it, that's the end of it."
"Holmes--"
"Fuck off!" he snapped. "John, I swear to god this isn't pity or--or obligation. I want you to come with me. So just fucking agree, okay?"
I stared at him for a minute. Then, slowly, I nodded; he sighed his relief and leaned back, taking a long pull from his beer.
"Thank you," I said, after a minute. He snorted.
"You won't be thanking me after you meet them," he said, chuckling darkly. "I should be thanking you, actually."
"You could give me the cashew chicken back," I offered, chancing a small grin. He met my eyes and the blackness lifted from his a little; he smiled too, handing me the container.
"My bad," he admitted. Then: "Oh, shit. Zombie hoard!"
He didn't seem to want to discuss it anymore, so I leaned back with my own beer and lit a cigarette, trying to ignore the battle between dread and affection taking place in the pit of my stomach.
Two days later we were at Miles' bar, laden down with bags. I was expecting his tiny convertible to turn the corner when he said he was going to get the car; the yellow Lamborghini that pulled up to the curb was, as such, a bit of a shock. Holmes didn't seem remotely phased, just walked back to the trunk, but I stared like a man possessed.
"Is this yours?" I asked finally, when Miles caught me looking and raised his eyebrows. He grinned and nodded, patting the door.
"My baby," he said easily. "Get in; there's a lever on the side of passenger seat, and the back's bigger than you'd think."
I crawled back there, shell-shocked. Holmes got into the front a second later.
"I think your roommate thinks I'm selling drugs," Miles said conversationally, pulling away from the curb. "How opposed are you to letting him continue to believe that?"
"Very," Holmes said, scowling. "Though I can think of at least 15 people I'd love to convince of that, if you're looking to try on the persona." He turned to me, smiling. "I thought I'd told you," he said, "Miles only owns the bar for fun."
"I work for the government," Miles added, when I just blinked at Holmes. "Tech infrastructures, mostly, but I've got a couple of defense contracts going too. Nothing I can actually talk about, which made it hard to get laid. So I bought the bar. I always liked the idea of being a bartender."
"I--you--what?" I said, finally. Holmes laughed.
"He's twice as smart as me," he said in an undertone. "Don't tell him I said that, though, he'll get a ridiculously swelled head."
"And I'm sitting next to my brother," Miles said amiably. "This car's not big enough for two massive egos."
"Oh, like your ego isn't twice as big as mine," Holmes started; I left them to their friendly bickering and ran my fingers along the edges of the leather seats. I'd never been in a car that nice. It was kind of distracting.
"I pulled your pillow out of your bag," Holmes said suddenly; I registered this only because he smacked me in the face with it a minute later. "You should try to get some sleep, we'll be in the car for awhile and I know you were up most of the night."
"You know that because you were up most of the night," I pointed out. "Maybe you should try passing out."
"He's on music duty," Miles said. "And seriously, man, you look like shit."
"Thanks," I returned dryly. Still, I knew it was true--I'd realized the morning after the Chinese food incident that I wasn't going to have two days without distraction after all, and had been scrambling frantically to get myself to a decent stopping point in my classwork. Thinking about it, I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. And there's something lulling about the backseat of a car, the steady forward motion of it, the world streaming by.
I stretched out, leaning my head against the pillow. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Holmes give me a strange, soft look--the kind of looks I gave him when he wasn't looking. I wrenched my head around to see, but he was facing front, talking to Miles.
Just my mind playing tricks on me, then. I sighed and turned into my pillow, falling into a deep and blissfully dreamless sleep.
"You have to tell him," Miles was saying, the first time I opened my eyes. Tell me what, I wondered, trying to force myself awake.
"He'll find out soon enough," Holmes responded, as I realized they might not even be talking about me. What other him, then? I tried valiantly to resist the call of sleep and find out, but I felt it dragging me under, violent and strong.
The second time I woke up it was a slow, soft thing, almost like I was dreaming. Twilight had fallen; the world rushing by was a palette of grey and gold, edges of the sunset filtering in across the clouds. Holmes was driving, which sent a jolt of alarm through my body, but he seemed to be doing alright. Miles was on the phone; it sounded like he was running tech support with someone. I looked up at the rearview mirror only to find Holmes' eyes on me. They were soft, the grey in them reflecting the weather, but they widened a little when he noticed I was up.
"Hi," he said, very quietly. I wasn't awake long enough to respond.
The third time I woke up, it was because we'd come to a dead stop. I sat up, rubbing my face; Holmes was in the passenger seat again. He turned around, giving me a smile that flickered and died so quickly I almost missed it.
"I was just about to wake you," he said. "We're here."
I looked at him; he looked drawn and exhausted and Miles, opening his door, just seemed resolved.
"I'm going to grab the bags," he said, climbing out. We followed, catching out bags as Miles tossed them to us. Holmes leaned against the car, playing nervously at the duffel strap.
"I knew I should have brought my violin," he said, nonsensically. "Not that I could play it, but I'd feel better just having it, you know?"
"What's wro--?" I started, but Holmes sighed heavily, sounding old and effectively shutting me up.
"There are some things I didn't tell you," he said, "about my family. I didn't want to--"
"Boys!" I heard someone calling. "Boys, over here! "
I glanced up as Holmes sighed again, turning around. But when he spoke, his voice was warm, not nearly as tired as it had been a moment before.
"Dad," he said, letting his father hug him. Mr. Holmes was tall like Miles, but thin like Holmes; I could see a bit of both of them in his face. His hair was a burnished gray, but he would be been something of a silver fox if not for his eyes, which looked closer to 90 than 65. He hugged Miles when Holmes released him, and then turned to me.
"And you must be John," he said, smiling warmly when I nodded. "Sherlock has told me so much about you; it's nice to finally put a face to the name. I'm Edward."
We shook hands; his grip was firm. I was at a loss as to what all the distress had been about, but I figured I'd find out soon enough. Edward led us back toward the house, and it was then that I actually took in the sheer size of the place; a massive house on sprawling grounds that seemed to go on forever.
"Jesus, man," I said in a good-natured undertone, "you might have told me you were the heir to a vast fortune. See if I ever let you bum my cigarettes again."
I felt his hand close on my arm before I turned to see his face; it was white, almost panicked. "Watson," he said, "I really should have told you about--you know, we can just get out of here, man, we can turn around right now--"
In that same moment, I heard Miles say "How is she today," to his father; widening my eyes, I noticed the signs of a regular medical presence in the home. Things I recognized from the house I'd left behind when I lost my grandfather. My heart sank, realizing and wishing I hadn't.
"Holmes," I said, wanting to reassure him that I wasn't going anywhere; I was cut off by the front door opening. The woman who walked out was polished, beautiful for her age--but looked considerably older than Edward, now that I thought about it. The line of her jaw resembled Holmes' to an almost shocking degree, and her eyes were identical to Miles'; clearly their mother. Aside from the fact that her lipstick was a little off, she looked completely fine.
I'd already started to feel the sweet relief of being wrong when she opened her mouth. "Edward," she said, looking over us and sounding confused. "I didn't know we were having guests for dinner. Clients?"
Miles' jaw was set and Holmes' grip on my arm went achingly tight. "No, love," Edward said, sounding resigned. "Not clients."
"Well," she said, still sounding confused but clearly trying to breeze by it. "It's lovely to meet you, in any case. Do come in. Could I possibly get your names…?"
Holmes grip got inexplicably tighter for a second; the he released me and stepped forward, holding his hand out to shake. "I'm Sherlock," he said, his voice admirably even even if his eyes were shining. "It's so nice to meet you."
--
The table was set for five, though the staff presence in the house was considerably larger. Compared to my own remembered Thanksgivings, which usually involved my grandfather and I tucking in to a rotisserie chicken from the place up the street, the spread was magnificent. Still, I could see by the way Holmes was twitching that it had one been a much grander affair. The house bore a number of signs of worn-down extravagance, now that I bothered to look; paintings were crooked on the walls, and there were strange scratches on the antique furniture. As though someone long since had stopped caring about the upkeep, another thing that I recognized from my own childhood.
It was obvious what was wrong with Mrs. Holmes. Her son, much later, would show me her medical charts and let me see for myself, but even as a first year med-student Alzheimer's is easy enough to diagnose. By my guess she'd been in the throes of it for 7 or 8 years, maybe more--and, fuck, this is making me sound like I'm the one of the two of us who's good at reading people. I'm not; that's always been Holmes' arena. But my grandfather spent three months dying in a ward of a hospital filled with people over eighty, and he was only awake about half the time I was there. I'd spent a fair amount of time with the condition, even then.
"So," I said, fifteen minutes into the first course, "Mrs. Holmes. What do you do?"
She smiled at me, charming, if a little lost. It was clear that she'd once been a self-possessed woman, good with people--brilliant, even. Considering her sons, that wouldn't have surprised me. She chatted amiably with me, discussing the literature class she was teaching, her husband's fledgling architecture firm. They were going to spend sixth months in England, she told me, once the baby was old enough to travel.
Miles' hands clenched tightly around his fork when she said that; he'd hardly spoken since we'd arrived. Holmes, for his part, refused to look at me, but smiled sadly when I went along with this. I remembered, thank god, what to do in these situations, and was able to speak where they couldn't.
And Holmes' poor father--she remembered him, clearly, knew who he was, but it was also clear that she didn't, some days. The joy that lit his face when she addressed him by name was heartbreaking, wrenching to watch. He told me about their wedding, and she laughed, soft peals that sounded like bells, as he recounted it. Miles and Holmes, who'd obviously both played this game with them before, nodded along as best they could.
First course was followed by a second, and then a third; Mrs. Holmes complained bitterly that attendance was so small this year, but apparently it couldn't be helped. "You'll have to come back next year, Mr. Watson," she said, her eyes glinting. "Normally this is quite a lavish affair, but I'm not quite myself this season."
"Please," I said, resisting the urge to take Holmes' hand in my own as he made a small, pained sound beside me, "call me John."
I won't say it was the worst two hours of my life; I've spent more time in worse circumstances, to say the least. But god, I can't remember the last time I felt so fucking helpless, watching my friend suffer through it. He'd twisted his napkin in his lap so many times that it was knotted and tangled when he spilled his wine down his shirt at his mother's inquiry into where he'd grown up; I handed mine over wordlessly, smiled as best I could when he caught my eye.
I won't say it was the worst two hours of my life. I was still relieved when it was over, when a round-faced nurse led an exhausted Mrs. Holmes--Amanda, as she'd told me to call her--up to her bedroom. Then it was just me and the Holmes men, Miles and his father and my roommate, who'd trained me not to call him by his first name long before.
"Shit," Miles said, pouring himself a large glass of the brandy that had been laid out on the table. He downed half of it in one go. "Was she this bad last year?"
Holmes laughed dryly. "She was worse this summer, not that you were here for that. Thought Dad was a burglar one night, that was a good time. Fuck."
"It's not so bad, boys," Edward said, trying for joviality and coming out flat. He turned to me. "And thank you, John. You were very good with her--she's better than this some days. I'd hoped--anyway, I'm very sorry."
"Please don't apologize," I said, feeling sick to my stomach. "Really, it's--"
"Watson," Holmes said suddenly. I looked up; his face was drawn and haggard, that same look he'd had before we went camping. Now that I saw it again I realized that the quality hadn't really left him--he'd just gotten better at hiding it from me, I guess, or hiding it from himself. He was too thin, I realized, and the circles under his eyes were darker than ever. I wondered what else I'd been missing as his mouth worked soundlessly for a second.
Then: "You shouldn't have to be here for this part," he sighed, the edge of his lip quirking up in a strange, bitter half-smile. "There are some thing we've got to talk about, I don't want to make you sit through it."
"Holmes," I said, surprising, "really, I don't--"
"Please," he said quietly. "Please leave. My room is right upstairs, and I really don't want you here for this."
"Sherlock," Edward snapped, "I understand that this is trying for you, but that conversation can wait. There's no need to be rude to our guest--"
"It's fine," I said at once, standing. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off with a smile; I've always prided myself on my ability to be achingly polite when necessary. "Really. It's fine. I'm not offended, I swear. I'd actually love to take a walk around the grounds; this is a gorgeous estate, Edward. Anything in particular I should check out while I'm out there?"
He stared at me. Miles, however, smiled. "There's a garden out behind the left wing," he said. "Sherlock and I used to climb the trees out there. You'd like it, I think."
"It's freezing out," Edward protested. "You'd be more comfortable--"
"I'll be fine," I repeated firmly. God forbid I be trapped inside without the ability to smoke a sorely needed cigarette. And then I turned to Holmes, who was staring at the table. He met my gaze after a second. "I'll be out there if you need me, okay?"
"Yeah," he said softly, managing a slight grin. "I'll come get you when we're done."
I wandered out, leaving them to it. Miles was right; there was a lovely garden, with a flat, unbacked bench that I stretched out on, staring up at the sky. I hadn't been so far from the city lights in months, so I entertained myself with counting constellations. I worked my way through half a pack of cigarettes like that, trying to distinguish between the smoke and my breath, visible in the chilled night air.
It had been about an hour when Holmes came out of the house and joined me. He sat down facing my prone form, legs crossed--his back was stiff and straight. We must have painted quite the picture of opposites in that moment, me flat on my back with my legs straddled, him a tight sketch of tension.
I handed him my half smoked cigarette. He took it, busied himself with finishing it while I righted myself, facing him. Then he sighed.
"I'm sorry I was an asshole back there. We were just--Miles wants Dad to get her put in a nursing home because the 24/7 care is going to bleed him dry, no matter how much fucking money they've got. He's not wrong, but--ah, I don't know. It's a big fucking mess," he said, rolling the cigarette across his fingers. He was going to burn himself, so I took it from him gently, handing him a fresh one. He smiled at me and lit it, then rubbed his face with the palm of his hand.
"I should have told you before," he said, at great length.
"Holmes, it's--"
"Shut up!" he snapped. Immediately regret washed over his face and he winced, looking up at me through hooded eyes. "Sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to--I just, you know. Don't want to fucking talk about this."
"You don't have to," I said. He sighed again.
"Yeah, I do." He took a long drag from the cigarette, tipping his head back to stare at the sky. "She wasn't always like this, you know. When I was a kid she was fun--funny. They named us after Doyle characters because they met at a costume party. My dad was rocking a deerstalker and Mom was trying to pull off--heh. A female doctor Watson, actually. They thought it was hilarious."
"They were always--well. They both came from really old money, especially my dad. He still thinks I'm wasting my life going into chemistry; his firm is one of the top in the country, not that he does much beside consult and sign the papers anymore. When Miles moved out he decided that I was going to take up the family business, and he's never really let go of it. He loves me, of course, but he told me when I graduated from school that I'd have to pay my own way if I was going to--"
"Ah, fuck. I'm not going to explain them right, you know? It's too much to just--I should have told you before, there's--they're not bad people, they've never been bad people, just eccentric." He paused, laughing dryly. "It was weird, though. I was that kid who lived in the giant house, the one whose parents whisked him off to England every couple years, the one who was sent to school in three piece suits. Miles did what he could, but there was no helping it. Not that I wasn't weird enough on my own, I guess."
He laughed again, humorlessly. "She started losing it when I was in high school. Did you know that early onset Alzheimer's is genetic? Three genes, three little fucking genes that can make you lose your mind at 50. And I guess I thought--god, it sounds so stupid. I mean, by the time I started working on the concept for my thesis she was too far gone for any help, but there's Miles, you know, and me, and I just--"
He stopped and shuddered, a full-body tremor. "I'd risk anything," he said, fierce but afraid too, like I had a gun to his head. "I would, I fucking would, but things have gotten--it's so fucked up, Watson, I've--"
His voice broke at the same time that my control did. With every instinct in my body screaming violently against it, I scooted forward and put my arms around him, pulling him close. I guess I expected him to shove back, to punch me, to run--instead he clung to me, his hands going to fists around my jacket.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was clipped with strain, thick with some emotion that sounded more like fear than grief.
"It's okay," I said, because I had no idea what else to say. He laughed into my neck, that horrible humorless laugh that I'd already realized was my least favorite sound in the world.
"It's not," he said, and his voice trembled. "It's not, it's--I've done it all wrong, I've made--it's all choices and I should have--I can't keep hold of it, I can't, I need--"
And then he was crying--and fuck, if that's not the worst description in the world of what was happening, I don't know what is. There were tears, I know that, because I could feel them against my neck, dripping down under my shirt. And he was trembling, his back heaving with the sobs, but--but. Crying is normally an expression of grief, and this wasn't like that. He shook against me like he was drowning, like he was fighting something, like he was frustrated, and I sat there, rubbing his back and not wanting to pry.
Goddamn it, if I'd only--but I guess it doesn't matter now. I let him ride it out instead of pushing him to tell me, instead of pushing him like I should have done. I think, in retrospect, that he wanted to tell me that night. That he would have, if I'd only pressed the point a little harder, and then maybe I could have helped him, could have stopped the tide of the inevitable.
He says I'm being ridiculous when I ask him about it now, but he's always cared too much about my fucking feelings.
He pulled away from me that night after a long, long time, and apologized for himself. I told him not to, told him he was being stupid--and then I told him other things. About my grandfather's bad habit of leaving the stove on when he was drunk, and how I'd burned myself on it one time. About how my brother and I had built a treehouse in my backyard when I was six, right before my parents died. About how many shots I did on my 21st birthday; about some of the crazy nights I'd had while I was on leave. About whatever I could think of, really, to distract him. He laughed and smoked my cigarettes and, after a few hours, complained of the cold.
We went inside. There was an air mattress set up on the floor of his room that I collapsed onto; he crawled into the bed he'd spent his childhood sleeping in and flipped off the light. It must have been a few hours later that I woke up to the mattress shifting, opened my eyes to see him climbing in next to me.
"Not a fucking word, John," he said, turning away from me and pulling the blanket up over himself. "This is not something I want to fucking talk about."
"Okay," I agreed softly. He fell asleep a few minutes later, his breathing deepening and evening out. I don't want to think about how long I laid awake that night, relishing the feeling of him next to me, platonic comfort or no.
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (currently pre-slash)
Warnings: Angst, mental health issues (this part). In general, alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three and Chapter Four of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I will continue posting the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archiving them on my journal for the duration of this story.
Chapter Summary: John Watson locates copious amounts of chalk, accepts an invitation, and learns more than he expected to--but less than he could have--about his roommate.
Chapter Five: On the Delicate Nature of A Man on the Brink
From: Forest Holmes
dude, breakthrough. you're in class, right? can you bring chalk when you come home? as much as you can snatch and then like six more pieces, thx
To: Forest Holmes
Why do you need chalk? What did you do?! Is this going to be like the time with the Molotov cocktail? Because I told you that wasn't cool.
From: Forest Holmes
the molotov thing was an accident. and how could i make a molotov cocktail with chalk? stop snatching medicine from your observation sessions it's fucking with your mind
To: Forest Holmes
What did you DO, Holmes?
From: Forest Holmes
have you noticed that you take the time to make your texts grammatically correct? i think thats probably ocd, you're a doctor, look into that
To: Forest Holmes
Not a doctor. Concerned with state of apartment. Coming home now.
From: Forest Holmes
CHALK
To: Forest Holmes
Yeah, yeah, I've got it.
I got home twenty minutes later, laden down with enough chalk to--I don't know. To do something involving a lot of chalk, the fuck if I know what. But I opened the door and Holmes was in the corner, plucking a nervous pizzicato on his violin. He jumped up when he saw me.
"I can explain," he said.
"What do you need to--" I started, and then I actually looked behind him. "Holmes."
"Well, I needed--"
"Holmes," I repeated, dropping my bag and staring. "That wall was white when I left!"
"It's chalkboard paint!" he said, grinning brightly. "My lab was stifling me and I think I've got--"
"We're not allowed to paint the walls in here!" I cried, moving forward. I reached out two fingers to touch it, but the paint was already dry. "Oh my god, Holmes, do you not understand that we signed a lease?"
"Pffft," he returned, gesturing broadly. "We'll paint it back before we move out."
"That not how it works," I moaned, looking at the wall with despair. "Fucking hell, you got some of this on the carpet--"
"It'll come out in the wash--"
"It's a carpet!" I cried. "How do you intend to wash it?"
"Lye?" he offered. "I don't know, dude, we'll figure something out. Gimme the chalk--you got the chalk, right?"
I gestured wordless at my bag and sank down onto the couch. "I want you to know that I hate you."
"Well," he said, "you brought me enough chalk that I think I am prepared to forgive you."
I didn't want to get into the fact that it wasn't me that needed forgiving. It wasn't worth it. He'd just talk in circles with me for fifteen minutes and then, inevitably, distract me with a well-placed smile or an adorable comment. It was maddening.
We'd been back from the camping trip for a week and a half. There was still some odd tension around his eyes, a sharp twitch to his jaw when he thought I wasn't paying attention, but by and large he seemed better. Not great, but better.
Then again, I hadn't seen that much of him. Thanksgiving was a few days away, and he was going home, so he'd sort of thrown himself into his work. One wall was covered entirely with pieces of printer paper, tacked up and taped together. They were scrawled over with notes, diagrams, and equations in something that didn't look like English. He'd found double-sided duct tape--god only knows where--and had stuck a piece to the wall to hold up his pens and Sharpies.
I'd say it looked like a war zone in our apartment, but that expression really doesn't mean what people thing it does. Still, it was a fucking mess.
I watched in morbid fascination as he took the chalk and dropped it into a cup. He then placed the cup onto a wooden board he seemed to have rigged onto a pulley next to the wall he'd painted. A bowl of water joined the cup, then a pile of rags, then six pencils and a Cliff bar and his iPod.
"Feet off the table," he said. Surprised, I obliged; he wasn't usually particularly fastidious. I shouldn't have thought it of him, as it turned out--he simply pulled the coffee table over to the wall.
And then stood on it.
"What are you doing?" I asked, bewildered. He gestured at the wall.
"I needed more space," he said absently, dipping a rag in water and stuffing it into his back pocket. "Couldn't be in the lab. I think I've nearly got it."
And then he put his headphones in and was lost to the world. I sighed, smiling a little, and pulled out one of my own textbooks. It was hard to focus on it, though; Holmes would shake his ass occasionally and he was nearly running across the table, scrawling madly with the chalk. His glasses were on again, and it shouldn't have been sexy--I didn't have any idea what he was writing, after all. Still, it was, and so I half-studied, keeping an eye on him.
After a while the intervals between sessions of dancing shortened. I think he'd kind of forgotten I was there. To be honest, I'd kind of forgotten I was there--kind of forgotten everything but his ass, really--when I got a text from Lestrade.
From: Geoff Lestrade
poker game @ the yrd. 10 min. u in?
I sighed. On the one hand, I didn't relish the idea of leaving dancing Holmes behind, or the idea of getting nothing done. On the other hand, it would probably be good to get out, if only for a couple hours. And if I won money I could bring food back for him. He'd like that.
Then I realized I was justifying my decision to go out based on whether or not Holmes would approve and wanted to kick myself right in the ass.
"I'm going to play poker with Lestrade and the boys," I called. He waved a hand at me and then resumed what he'd been doing for the last five minutes--specifically, standing with a hand on his hip, tapping a piece of chalk against his thigh with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. A few times he'd accidentally stuck the chalk in his mouth--that had been hilarious.
"Hey," he called, as I opened the door. "Try not to gamble away the rent."
"You got it," I said, closing the door gently behind me.
Poker with Lestrade was a good time. I beat him soundly, as always--the man has a terrible poker face, and his pledges were even worse. I got a special joy out of taking Clarkie's money, not that I let on. And then, yes, I did use part of my winnings to buy Holmes some fucking Chinese food--I can't help myself, alright? I just can't.
When I got back he was still on the table, and his headphones were still lodged firmly in his ears. He was--I guess the best word for it is gyrating, even though there wasn't exactly anything for him to gyrate against. But his hips were moving of their own accord, in steady, sensual circles. After a moment he bent down to make a correction, but he did it like a dance, keeping himself balanced. My mouth went very, very dry.
"Daddy I'm so sorry, I'm so-so-sorry yeah," he sang, totally unaware I was there. It would have been hilarious if it wasn't so goddamn hot. I don't even know why--oh that's such a lie, his ass was why, it's always his ass. "We just like to party, like to pa-pa-party yeah. Bang, bang, we're beautiful and dirty ri--YAAAAH!"
That last, of course, was what happened when he saw me. He'd half turned, reaching to rewet the rag he was using as an eraser, and met my eyes, shrieking his horror a second later. Probably too late I schooled my facial features into amusement rather than arousal, but he was already windmilling his arms and then crashing to the ground, tipping the table over with him.
"Motherfucker," he spat, while I laughed myself sick at his expense. What? I felt bad, I was mildly worried about him--but it was hilarious, and I'd told him the table was a bad idea. "Trying to give you a heart attack?"
"Why would I need to help you with that?" I asked, catching my breath. I offered him a hand and he took it; I hauled him to his feet, grinning. "I'm sure you'll give yourself one, one of these days."
"Fuck off," he said. Then: "Why does it suddenly smell awesome in here? Are you wearing Eau De Lo Mein Noodle? What is that?"
"I beat Lestrade and his boys in the poker game," I said, shrugging. "Ran down to the Chinese place up the street. Figured you could use a break."
"I don't have time for a--which Chinese place down the street?"
I grinned. I knew I had him. "Come on," I said, "who do you think I am? Emerald Duck."
He groaned audibly. "I can't," he said, looking lovingly at the plastic bags, "I can't, I really can't, I have too much to do--"
"Forest," I said, giving him a stern look. He grinned a little at the nickname and then resumed staring woefully at the bags. "You're going to have to eat. It's like midnight, I'm just going to bother you if you don't, and I got beef with broccoli."
"My one true entree!" he cried pitiably, putting a hand to his heart and leaning against the wall. "Oh how could you, you know I cannot resist the call--but it's good cold, you can put my darling in the fridge and I'll eat her in couple of hours--"
"That's disturbing, and also no," I said firmly. "You're eating. Deal."
He looked at me for a second, then sighed loudly and took the bag from me. "Oh, fine. But only because I should probably have stopped hours ago anyway," he admitted. "I've pretty much just been dancing out my frustration and forgetting to guard myself against my creepy lurking roommate."
"But I brought you beef with broccoli," I reminded him. He pulled the container out of the bag and caressed it lovingly.
"It's the only reason I let you survive," he agreed. "Is this house special fried rice? Did you get me house special fried rice? Oh, Appleseed, you're too good to me."
"We're sharing that," I told him firmly. "And believe me, I know I am."
He smiled at me, tossed me some chopsticks, and moved to the couch, cradling his beef with broccoli like it was a child. His favorite bowl was already half packed with weed; he sparked it and drew in a few long hits, exhaling heavily. Then he flipped on the television, scrolling through our DVR list idly.
"Why'd I record 28 Days Later?" he asked, cocking his head. "I own like four copies of it."
"You said it would be more suspenseful if you had to fast forward through the commercials," I sighed, grabbing two beers and sitting down next to him. "Pass the soy."
He tossed me a packet, grabbed the second beer and put the movie on. We chatted amiably through the opening credits. He wanted to know about my last class and the poker game ("Did you make Lestrade cry, Watson? I want to see that little fratboy weep, he's too cocky") and I wanted to know about his crop of undergrads. It was nice. Really nice, actually; we'd both been so busy that shooting the shit had become kind of a rarity. I'd missed him.
"Hey," I said, after a few minutes, "get your dirty chopsticks out of my cashew chicken."
"But I need it," he said. "You yourself told me I had to eat. You were very insistent."
"I told you that you had to eat your food," I reminded him. "This is my food. I thought beef with broccoli was your one and only."
"We have an open relationship," he shrugged. "Oh, shit, patient zero!" He turned to the screen, riveted by the angry chimpanzee biting the shit out of some poor scientist. He was still shoveling Chinese food into his mouth, washing it down with beer, and I could see him figuring out when he was going to pause for a smoke.
I relaxed further into the couch, enjoying the normalcy of it. And then:
"Hey," he said, burying his chopsticks in my chicken for the fifth time, "are you packed yet?"
"For what?" I asked, looking at him with confusion. "Am I going somewhere? I don't follow."
"Thanksgiving," he said slowly. "It's in like two days. I know how you are about packing--you were so pissy when you forgot stuff on that camping trip, I just don't want to go through that again."
"I forgot my underwear, probably because you rushed me--" I started, falling into the pattern of an already familiar argument. Then I stopped. "Wait. Thanksgiving? Holmes, I told you, my family is--"
"Yes, and I told you that I'd be fucked if you were going to spend the holidays by yourself getting drunk and watching shit movies," he said, staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "Oh, god, I knew you were drunk but I didn't think you were that drunk. Watson, come on. Of course you're coming home with me."
"Oh," I said. The thought of having someone to be with--of having Holmes to be with--over the holidays was already swelling in my chest, easing the anxiety that had been building there. I hadn't been looking forward to wallowing in my own dread aloneness while he and Miles were off with their family, I had to admit. But…
"Holmes," I said softly. "That's so nice of you, but I really don't need--you don't have to--"
"Shut the fuck up, it's nice of me," he growled, snatching my Chinese food container and slamming it onto the table. He was, I realized, actually upset. "My family isn't any fucking picnic, I'm not doing you any favors. I want you there for me as much as for you, so don't be a shit about this and just say you'll come, alright?"
"I--what--why would you--" I said, stunned into speechlessness. He waved a frustrated hand, but when he spoke his voice wasn't angry as much as--raw. Beaten in.
"You make me feel like me," he sighed. "My parents--well, you'll see. There's no point ruining the night by getting into it. But you're coming or I'm skipping it, that's the end of it."
"Holmes--"
"Fuck off!" he snapped. "John, I swear to god this isn't pity or--or obligation. I want you to come with me. So just fucking agree, okay?"
I stared at him for a minute. Then, slowly, I nodded; he sighed his relief and leaned back, taking a long pull from his beer.
"Thank you," I said, after a minute. He snorted.
"You won't be thanking me after you meet them," he said, chuckling darkly. "I should be thanking you, actually."
"You could give me the cashew chicken back," I offered, chancing a small grin. He met my eyes and the blackness lifted from his a little; he smiled too, handing me the container.
"My bad," he admitted. Then: "Oh, shit. Zombie hoard!"
He didn't seem to want to discuss it anymore, so I leaned back with my own beer and lit a cigarette, trying to ignore the battle between dread and affection taking place in the pit of my stomach.
Two days later we were at Miles' bar, laden down with bags. I was expecting his tiny convertible to turn the corner when he said he was going to get the car; the yellow Lamborghini that pulled up to the curb was, as such, a bit of a shock. Holmes didn't seem remotely phased, just walked back to the trunk, but I stared like a man possessed.
"Is this yours?" I asked finally, when Miles caught me looking and raised his eyebrows. He grinned and nodded, patting the door.
"My baby," he said easily. "Get in; there's a lever on the side of passenger seat, and the back's bigger than you'd think."
I crawled back there, shell-shocked. Holmes got into the front a second later.
"I think your roommate thinks I'm selling drugs," Miles said conversationally, pulling away from the curb. "How opposed are you to letting him continue to believe that?"
"Very," Holmes said, scowling. "Though I can think of at least 15 people I'd love to convince of that, if you're looking to try on the persona." He turned to me, smiling. "I thought I'd told you," he said, "Miles only owns the bar for fun."
"I work for the government," Miles added, when I just blinked at Holmes. "Tech infrastructures, mostly, but I've got a couple of defense contracts going too. Nothing I can actually talk about, which made it hard to get laid. So I bought the bar. I always liked the idea of being a bartender."
"I--you--what?" I said, finally. Holmes laughed.
"He's twice as smart as me," he said in an undertone. "Don't tell him I said that, though, he'll get a ridiculously swelled head."
"And I'm sitting next to my brother," Miles said amiably. "This car's not big enough for two massive egos."
"Oh, like your ego isn't twice as big as mine," Holmes started; I left them to their friendly bickering and ran my fingers along the edges of the leather seats. I'd never been in a car that nice. It was kind of distracting.
"I pulled your pillow out of your bag," Holmes said suddenly; I registered this only because he smacked me in the face with it a minute later. "You should try to get some sleep, we'll be in the car for awhile and I know you were up most of the night."
"You know that because you were up most of the night," I pointed out. "Maybe you should try passing out."
"He's on music duty," Miles said. "And seriously, man, you look like shit."
"Thanks," I returned dryly. Still, I knew it was true--I'd realized the morning after the Chinese food incident that I wasn't going to have two days without distraction after all, and had been scrambling frantically to get myself to a decent stopping point in my classwork. Thinking about it, I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. And there's something lulling about the backseat of a car, the steady forward motion of it, the world streaming by.
I stretched out, leaning my head against the pillow. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Holmes give me a strange, soft look--the kind of looks I gave him when he wasn't looking. I wrenched my head around to see, but he was facing front, talking to Miles.
Just my mind playing tricks on me, then. I sighed and turned into my pillow, falling into a deep and blissfully dreamless sleep.
"You have to tell him," Miles was saying, the first time I opened my eyes. Tell me what, I wondered, trying to force myself awake.
"He'll find out soon enough," Holmes responded, as I realized they might not even be talking about me. What other him, then? I tried valiantly to resist the call of sleep and find out, but I felt it dragging me under, violent and strong.
The second time I woke up it was a slow, soft thing, almost like I was dreaming. Twilight had fallen; the world rushing by was a palette of grey and gold, edges of the sunset filtering in across the clouds. Holmes was driving, which sent a jolt of alarm through my body, but he seemed to be doing alright. Miles was on the phone; it sounded like he was running tech support with someone. I looked up at the rearview mirror only to find Holmes' eyes on me. They were soft, the grey in them reflecting the weather, but they widened a little when he noticed I was up.
"Hi," he said, very quietly. I wasn't awake long enough to respond.
The third time I woke up, it was because we'd come to a dead stop. I sat up, rubbing my face; Holmes was in the passenger seat again. He turned around, giving me a smile that flickered and died so quickly I almost missed it.
"I was just about to wake you," he said. "We're here."
I looked at him; he looked drawn and exhausted and Miles, opening his door, just seemed resolved.
"I'm going to grab the bags," he said, climbing out. We followed, catching out bags as Miles tossed them to us. Holmes leaned against the car, playing nervously at the duffel strap.
"I knew I should have brought my violin," he said, nonsensically. "Not that I could play it, but I'd feel better just having it, you know?"
"What's wro--?" I started, but Holmes sighed heavily, sounding old and effectively shutting me up.
"There are some things I didn't tell you," he said, "about my family. I didn't want to--"
"Boys!" I heard someone calling. "Boys, over here! "
I glanced up as Holmes sighed again, turning around. But when he spoke, his voice was warm, not nearly as tired as it had been a moment before.
"Dad," he said, letting his father hug him. Mr. Holmes was tall like Miles, but thin like Holmes; I could see a bit of both of them in his face. His hair was a burnished gray, but he would be been something of a silver fox if not for his eyes, which looked closer to 90 than 65. He hugged Miles when Holmes released him, and then turned to me.
"And you must be John," he said, smiling warmly when I nodded. "Sherlock has told me so much about you; it's nice to finally put a face to the name. I'm Edward."
We shook hands; his grip was firm. I was at a loss as to what all the distress had been about, but I figured I'd find out soon enough. Edward led us back toward the house, and it was then that I actually took in the sheer size of the place; a massive house on sprawling grounds that seemed to go on forever.
"Jesus, man," I said in a good-natured undertone, "you might have told me you were the heir to a vast fortune. See if I ever let you bum my cigarettes again."
I felt his hand close on my arm before I turned to see his face; it was white, almost panicked. "Watson," he said, "I really should have told you about--you know, we can just get out of here, man, we can turn around right now--"
In that same moment, I heard Miles say "How is she today," to his father; widening my eyes, I noticed the signs of a regular medical presence in the home. Things I recognized from the house I'd left behind when I lost my grandfather. My heart sank, realizing and wishing I hadn't.
"Holmes," I said, wanting to reassure him that I wasn't going anywhere; I was cut off by the front door opening. The woman who walked out was polished, beautiful for her age--but looked considerably older than Edward, now that I thought about it. The line of her jaw resembled Holmes' to an almost shocking degree, and her eyes were identical to Miles'; clearly their mother. Aside from the fact that her lipstick was a little off, she looked completely fine.
I'd already started to feel the sweet relief of being wrong when she opened her mouth. "Edward," she said, looking over us and sounding confused. "I didn't know we were having guests for dinner. Clients?"
Miles' jaw was set and Holmes' grip on my arm went achingly tight. "No, love," Edward said, sounding resigned. "Not clients."
"Well," she said, still sounding confused but clearly trying to breeze by it. "It's lovely to meet you, in any case. Do come in. Could I possibly get your names…?"
Holmes grip got inexplicably tighter for a second; the he released me and stepped forward, holding his hand out to shake. "I'm Sherlock," he said, his voice admirably even even if his eyes were shining. "It's so nice to meet you."
--
The table was set for five, though the staff presence in the house was considerably larger. Compared to my own remembered Thanksgivings, which usually involved my grandfather and I tucking in to a rotisserie chicken from the place up the street, the spread was magnificent. Still, I could see by the way Holmes was twitching that it had one been a much grander affair. The house bore a number of signs of worn-down extravagance, now that I bothered to look; paintings were crooked on the walls, and there were strange scratches on the antique furniture. As though someone long since had stopped caring about the upkeep, another thing that I recognized from my own childhood.
It was obvious what was wrong with Mrs. Holmes. Her son, much later, would show me her medical charts and let me see for myself, but even as a first year med-student Alzheimer's is easy enough to diagnose. By my guess she'd been in the throes of it for 7 or 8 years, maybe more--and, fuck, this is making me sound like I'm the one of the two of us who's good at reading people. I'm not; that's always been Holmes' arena. But my grandfather spent three months dying in a ward of a hospital filled with people over eighty, and he was only awake about half the time I was there. I'd spent a fair amount of time with the condition, even then.
"So," I said, fifteen minutes into the first course, "Mrs. Holmes. What do you do?"
She smiled at me, charming, if a little lost. It was clear that she'd once been a self-possessed woman, good with people--brilliant, even. Considering her sons, that wouldn't have surprised me. She chatted amiably with me, discussing the literature class she was teaching, her husband's fledgling architecture firm. They were going to spend sixth months in England, she told me, once the baby was old enough to travel.
Miles' hands clenched tightly around his fork when she said that; he'd hardly spoken since we'd arrived. Holmes, for his part, refused to look at me, but smiled sadly when I went along with this. I remembered, thank god, what to do in these situations, and was able to speak where they couldn't.
And Holmes' poor father--she remembered him, clearly, knew who he was, but it was also clear that she didn't, some days. The joy that lit his face when she addressed him by name was heartbreaking, wrenching to watch. He told me about their wedding, and she laughed, soft peals that sounded like bells, as he recounted it. Miles and Holmes, who'd obviously both played this game with them before, nodded along as best they could.
First course was followed by a second, and then a third; Mrs. Holmes complained bitterly that attendance was so small this year, but apparently it couldn't be helped. "You'll have to come back next year, Mr. Watson," she said, her eyes glinting. "Normally this is quite a lavish affair, but I'm not quite myself this season."
"Please," I said, resisting the urge to take Holmes' hand in my own as he made a small, pained sound beside me, "call me John."
I won't say it was the worst two hours of my life; I've spent more time in worse circumstances, to say the least. But god, I can't remember the last time I felt so fucking helpless, watching my friend suffer through it. He'd twisted his napkin in his lap so many times that it was knotted and tangled when he spilled his wine down his shirt at his mother's inquiry into where he'd grown up; I handed mine over wordlessly, smiled as best I could when he caught my eye.
I won't say it was the worst two hours of my life. I was still relieved when it was over, when a round-faced nurse led an exhausted Mrs. Holmes--Amanda, as she'd told me to call her--up to her bedroom. Then it was just me and the Holmes men, Miles and his father and my roommate, who'd trained me not to call him by his first name long before.
"Shit," Miles said, pouring himself a large glass of the brandy that had been laid out on the table. He downed half of it in one go. "Was she this bad last year?"
Holmes laughed dryly. "She was worse this summer, not that you were here for that. Thought Dad was a burglar one night, that was a good time. Fuck."
"It's not so bad, boys," Edward said, trying for joviality and coming out flat. He turned to me. "And thank you, John. You were very good with her--she's better than this some days. I'd hoped--anyway, I'm very sorry."
"Please don't apologize," I said, feeling sick to my stomach. "Really, it's--"
"Watson," Holmes said suddenly. I looked up; his face was drawn and haggard, that same look he'd had before we went camping. Now that I saw it again I realized that the quality hadn't really left him--he'd just gotten better at hiding it from me, I guess, or hiding it from himself. He was too thin, I realized, and the circles under his eyes were darker than ever. I wondered what else I'd been missing as his mouth worked soundlessly for a second.
Then: "You shouldn't have to be here for this part," he sighed, the edge of his lip quirking up in a strange, bitter half-smile. "There are some thing we've got to talk about, I don't want to make you sit through it."
"Holmes," I said, surprising, "really, I don't--"
"Please," he said quietly. "Please leave. My room is right upstairs, and I really don't want you here for this."
"Sherlock," Edward snapped, "I understand that this is trying for you, but that conversation can wait. There's no need to be rude to our guest--"
"It's fine," I said at once, standing. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off with a smile; I've always prided myself on my ability to be achingly polite when necessary. "Really. It's fine. I'm not offended, I swear. I'd actually love to take a walk around the grounds; this is a gorgeous estate, Edward. Anything in particular I should check out while I'm out there?"
He stared at me. Miles, however, smiled. "There's a garden out behind the left wing," he said. "Sherlock and I used to climb the trees out there. You'd like it, I think."
"It's freezing out," Edward protested. "You'd be more comfortable--"
"I'll be fine," I repeated firmly. God forbid I be trapped inside without the ability to smoke a sorely needed cigarette. And then I turned to Holmes, who was staring at the table. He met my gaze after a second. "I'll be out there if you need me, okay?"
"Yeah," he said softly, managing a slight grin. "I'll come get you when we're done."
I wandered out, leaving them to it. Miles was right; there was a lovely garden, with a flat, unbacked bench that I stretched out on, staring up at the sky. I hadn't been so far from the city lights in months, so I entertained myself with counting constellations. I worked my way through half a pack of cigarettes like that, trying to distinguish between the smoke and my breath, visible in the chilled night air.
It had been about an hour when Holmes came out of the house and joined me. He sat down facing my prone form, legs crossed--his back was stiff and straight. We must have painted quite the picture of opposites in that moment, me flat on my back with my legs straddled, him a tight sketch of tension.
I handed him my half smoked cigarette. He took it, busied himself with finishing it while I righted myself, facing him. Then he sighed.
"I'm sorry I was an asshole back there. We were just--Miles wants Dad to get her put in a nursing home because the 24/7 care is going to bleed him dry, no matter how much fucking money they've got. He's not wrong, but--ah, I don't know. It's a big fucking mess," he said, rolling the cigarette across his fingers. He was going to burn himself, so I took it from him gently, handing him a fresh one. He smiled at me and lit it, then rubbed his face with the palm of his hand.
"I should have told you before," he said, at great length.
"Holmes, it's--"
"Shut up!" he snapped. Immediately regret washed over his face and he winced, looking up at me through hooded eyes. "Sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to--I just, you know. Don't want to fucking talk about this."
"You don't have to," I said. He sighed again.
"Yeah, I do." He took a long drag from the cigarette, tipping his head back to stare at the sky. "She wasn't always like this, you know. When I was a kid she was fun--funny. They named us after Doyle characters because they met at a costume party. My dad was rocking a deerstalker and Mom was trying to pull off--heh. A female doctor Watson, actually. They thought it was hilarious."
"They were always--well. They both came from really old money, especially my dad. He still thinks I'm wasting my life going into chemistry; his firm is one of the top in the country, not that he does much beside consult and sign the papers anymore. When Miles moved out he decided that I was going to take up the family business, and he's never really let go of it. He loves me, of course, but he told me when I graduated from school that I'd have to pay my own way if I was going to--"
"Ah, fuck. I'm not going to explain them right, you know? It's too much to just--I should have told you before, there's--they're not bad people, they've never been bad people, just eccentric." He paused, laughing dryly. "It was weird, though. I was that kid who lived in the giant house, the one whose parents whisked him off to England every couple years, the one who was sent to school in three piece suits. Miles did what he could, but there was no helping it. Not that I wasn't weird enough on my own, I guess."
He laughed again, humorlessly. "She started losing it when I was in high school. Did you know that early onset Alzheimer's is genetic? Three genes, three little fucking genes that can make you lose your mind at 50. And I guess I thought--god, it sounds so stupid. I mean, by the time I started working on the concept for my thesis she was too far gone for any help, but there's Miles, you know, and me, and I just--"
He stopped and shuddered, a full-body tremor. "I'd risk anything," he said, fierce but afraid too, like I had a gun to his head. "I would, I fucking would, but things have gotten--it's so fucked up, Watson, I've--"
His voice broke at the same time that my control did. With every instinct in my body screaming violently against it, I scooted forward and put my arms around him, pulling him close. I guess I expected him to shove back, to punch me, to run--instead he clung to me, his hands going to fists around my jacket.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was clipped with strain, thick with some emotion that sounded more like fear than grief.
"It's okay," I said, because I had no idea what else to say. He laughed into my neck, that horrible humorless laugh that I'd already realized was my least favorite sound in the world.
"It's not," he said, and his voice trembled. "It's not, it's--I've done it all wrong, I've made--it's all choices and I should have--I can't keep hold of it, I can't, I need--"
And then he was crying--and fuck, if that's not the worst description in the world of what was happening, I don't know what is. There were tears, I know that, because I could feel them against my neck, dripping down under my shirt. And he was trembling, his back heaving with the sobs, but--but. Crying is normally an expression of grief, and this wasn't like that. He shook against me like he was drowning, like he was fighting something, like he was frustrated, and I sat there, rubbing his back and not wanting to pry.
Goddamn it, if I'd only--but I guess it doesn't matter now. I let him ride it out instead of pushing him to tell me, instead of pushing him like I should have done. I think, in retrospect, that he wanted to tell me that night. That he would have, if I'd only pressed the point a little harder, and then maybe I could have helped him, could have stopped the tide of the inevitable.
He says I'm being ridiculous when I ask him about it now, but he's always cared too much about my fucking feelings.
He pulled away from me that night after a long, long time, and apologized for himself. I told him not to, told him he was being stupid--and then I told him other things. About my grandfather's bad habit of leaving the stove on when he was drunk, and how I'd burned myself on it one time. About how my brother and I had built a treehouse in my backyard when I was six, right before my parents died. About how many shots I did on my 21st birthday; about some of the crazy nights I'd had while I was on leave. About whatever I could think of, really, to distract him. He laughed and smoked my cigarettes and, after a few hours, complained of the cold.
We went inside. There was an air mattress set up on the floor of his room that I collapsed onto; he crawled into the bed he'd spent his childhood sleeping in and flipped off the light. It must have been a few hours later that I woke up to the mattress shifting, opened my eyes to see him climbing in next to me.
"Not a fucking word, John," he said, turning away from me and pulling the blanket up over himself. "This is not something I want to fucking talk about."
"Okay," I agreed softly. He fell asleep a few minutes later, his breathing deepening and evening out. I don't want to think about how long I laid awake that night, relishing the feeling of him next to me, platonic comfort or no.