Old Faithful
Title: Old Faithful
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters: S. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, J. Watson, M. Morstan-Watson
Table: Five
Prompt: #13. Stoic
Word Count: 669 words
Rating: PG
Summary: Holmes had always hated depending on someone else, as his flatmate had quickly discovered the first time the fiercely independent detective had fallen ill with a nasty strain of influenza that he'd picked up from one of his informants.
Author's Notes: Warnings, AU (empath), 2009 movieverse, supernatural elements.
Holmes had always hated depending on someone else, as his flatmate had quickly discovered the first time the fiercely independent detective had fallen ill with a nasty strain of influenza that he'd picked up from one of his informants.
But after seven years of the doctor's unwaivering devotion to the detective's well-being, Holmes had grown accustomed to Watson's badgering.
And so, as a result of the doctor's absence from Baker Street, Holmes lay on the floor of his room, slowly dying from an infected knife wound in his right thigh, desperately clinging to life by his formidable will alone for a few more days, because in about three or four more days (he wasn't entirely confident in his perception of the passage of time at present), Watson would return from his honeymoon in Sussex, and would most certainly stop by to check on his former flatmate and dear friend on his way home from the train station.
Especially if Mary Watson had her way....
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted his fevered thoughts on the near future and his health.
Nanny answered the door without any rude bidding on the detective's part.
Much to Holmes' annoyance, the unwelcome guests (a man and a woman, if Holmes' deductions were anything to go by, and they usually were) spoke too softly for him to observe more than a tiny handful of traits to fuel his preliminary deductions about them. And to add insult to injury, Nanny followed suit so that Holmes could not discern what she was saying either. Holmes was certain that Nanny was being so infuriating on purpose.
But instead of getting up and moving to a location much better suited to eavesdropping like he normally would have, Holmes remained where he was.
In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that he would have been able to had he tried, if Holmes was entirely honest with himself (which he currently wasn't).
The creaking of the hinges on his bedroom door was the only warning Holmes had before the calloused hands of a doctor cruelly began to search the detective's body for injuries.
As Holmes bit back a whimper of pain (the intruder had found the infected knife wound), a familiar voice began to lecture his unwilling patient about his trust issues.
"Watson," croaked Holmes, his voice raspy from disuse.
"Don't talk, Holmes, save what strength you have left to fight this infection," the doctor ordered.
The detective wondered why the doctor even tried to get him to shut up, he knew him well enough to know that nothing--and no one--could keep Sherlock Holmes quiet when he didn't want to be quiet, and this time was not an exception.
"Watson, you're here," Holmes rasped, in the hopes that by stating the obvious, he would get the doctor to be so concerned about his mind that he would be more tolerant about letting the detective speak.
There was a very good reason that Homes willingly relied on Watson, a reason that Holmes himself had taken for granted so many times that he had forgotten about it--the empathic link that tied the two of them together.
"Holmes, I could feel your pain from all the way in Sussex," the doctor informed him as he assessed the extent of the infection. "Mary insisted that we leave Sussex on the next train for London, but it had stormed the previous evening, knocking over several large trees onto the tracks. It took them three days to clear the rails enough for our train to safely reach London, and I spent every second of those days praying that you had had your leg seen by a doctor, even as I began to burn with the heat of your fever, Holmes."
As the doctor spoke of the pain he had endured in those three days of waiting, his wife entered Holmes' room unannounced, Watson's black bag in one hand, a pitcher of cool water in the other, several clean rags draped over either arm.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters: S. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, J. Watson, M. Morstan-Watson
Table: Five
Prompt: #13. Stoic
Word Count: 669 words
Rating: PG
Summary: Holmes had always hated depending on someone else, as his flatmate had quickly discovered the first time the fiercely independent detective had fallen ill with a nasty strain of influenza that he'd picked up from one of his informants.
Author's Notes: Warnings, AU (empath), 2009 movieverse, supernatural elements.
Holmes had always hated depending on someone else, as his flatmate had quickly discovered the first time the fiercely independent detective had fallen ill with a nasty strain of influenza that he'd picked up from one of his informants.
But after seven years of the doctor's unwaivering devotion to the detective's well-being, Holmes had grown accustomed to Watson's badgering.
And so, as a result of the doctor's absence from Baker Street, Holmes lay on the floor of his room, slowly dying from an infected knife wound in his right thigh, desperately clinging to life by his formidable will alone for a few more days, because in about three or four more days (he wasn't entirely confident in his perception of the passage of time at present), Watson would return from his honeymoon in Sussex, and would most certainly stop by to check on his former flatmate and dear friend on his way home from the train station.
Especially if Mary Watson had her way....
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted his fevered thoughts on the near future and his health.
Nanny answered the door without any rude bidding on the detective's part.
Much to Holmes' annoyance, the unwelcome guests (a man and a woman, if Holmes' deductions were anything to go by, and they usually were) spoke too softly for him to observe more than a tiny handful of traits to fuel his preliminary deductions about them. And to add insult to injury, Nanny followed suit so that Holmes could not discern what she was saying either. Holmes was certain that Nanny was being so infuriating on purpose.
But instead of getting up and moving to a location much better suited to eavesdropping like he normally would have, Holmes remained where he was.
In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that he would have been able to had he tried, if Holmes was entirely honest with himself (which he currently wasn't).
The creaking of the hinges on his bedroom door was the only warning Holmes had before the calloused hands of a doctor cruelly began to search the detective's body for injuries.
As Holmes bit back a whimper of pain (the intruder had found the infected knife wound), a familiar voice began to lecture his unwilling patient about his trust issues.
"Watson," croaked Holmes, his voice raspy from disuse.
"Don't talk, Holmes, save what strength you have left to fight this infection," the doctor ordered.
The detective wondered why the doctor even tried to get him to shut up, he knew him well enough to know that nothing--and no one--could keep Sherlock Holmes quiet when he didn't want to be quiet, and this time was not an exception.
"Watson, you're here," Holmes rasped, in the hopes that by stating the obvious, he would get the doctor to be so concerned about his mind that he would be more tolerant about letting the detective speak.
There was a very good reason that Homes willingly relied on Watson, a reason that Holmes himself had taken for granted so many times that he had forgotten about it--the empathic link that tied the two of them together.
"Holmes, I could feel your pain from all the way in Sussex," the doctor informed him as he assessed the extent of the infection. "Mary insisted that we leave Sussex on the next train for London, but it had stormed the previous evening, knocking over several large trees onto the tracks. It took them three days to clear the rails enough for our train to safely reach London, and I spent every second of those days praying that you had had your leg seen by a doctor, even as I began to burn with the heat of your fever, Holmes."
As the doctor spoke of the pain he had endured in those three days of waiting, his wife entered Holmes' room unannounced, Watson's black bag in one hand, a pitcher of cool water in the other, several clean rags draped over either arm.