fic - the mind is a terrible thing to taste Holmes/Watson
TITLE: The mind is a terrible thing to taste
AUTHOR: Kichi
PAIRING: Holmes/Watson
WARNINGS: none for this chapter
NOTES: E G B D F
ARCHIVE: my LJ and fanfiction.net
SUMMARY: ch 5 - Watson remembers a few things
He woke the moment Watson stirred. His back was in knots from his awkward position. He sat up with a wince. He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes, grimacing at the sunlight that poured into the room.
“Are you alright? Watson voice was deep and rasping as it usually was the morning after he woke screaming his heart out.
“Fine, dear boy. Just not used to this tiny bed. Do not worry about me anyway.” He admonished with a small smile. “You need rest more than I do. I am used to going days without it. Speaking of which-“ he tried to keep his tone light. “No more dreams?” Watson paled and then flushed before nodding. “Good!” Holmes said, rising from the bed with a yawn. “Let us eat, then.” He was nearly at the door when Watson’s voice stopped him.
“Holmes… Thank you.” He said, his smooth face still a lovely shade of pink. Holmes smile was brilliant.
“You are most welcome! Now come on, get up!”
*
Watson wished to go to Regent’s park. Or more specifically he’d said:
“I need to get out of these damned rooms already!” Holmes had no desire to move from his spot. But he dared not let Watson go alone. Not after last time.
“Well I am afraid I cannot let you go alone.” Holmes sighed, rising to his feet. Watson’s eyes narrowed briefly. “You were attacked there.” Holmes stated gruffly, not liking the suspicion in Watson’s eyes one bit. He thought they had gotten past that.
“Oh.” Watson murmured, eyes downcast.
“Do you… not wish me to go?” Holmes asked in a small voice.
“No, that is not it. I just.. I just want to get out, that’s all.” He replied. Holmes sighed again and stretched, groaning as his back cracked.
“Very well then. Shall we take Gladstone?” Watson smiled.
“Yes.”
*
The walk was pleasant. But Holmes would have been lying if he had said he had no ulterior motive as he steered their course. Lestrade had told him where Watson had been found. The actual assault had taken place a few feet off the path, in a well-known lovers’ hideaway. It was a tiny, but beautiful grove where young couples snuck off the path to kiss and share endearments (and a few other things besides).
Lestrade had also assured him that only he had crossed the ground. That meant nothing now, of course. Over a week had passed since then. And the ground had been frozen to begin with. Holmes doubted there would be any footprints visible.
Not only that, he was hoping to trigger a memory in Watson. In fact Regents Park was only the first stop of many he planned. He knew all of Watson’s favorite places, and he intended to visit as many as possible. If even one place helped him to remember one tiny thing, even if it had nothing to do with Holmes or their relationship, he would consider it a success.
He chatted amiably as they walked, describing a case that had once led them on a mad chase through the park. Gladstone’s little stump of a tail waved madly as he crossed their path again and again to sniff at every little clump of grass.
“…I followed the blackguard through the hills on foot. You were with Lestrade, thankfully, as I fell in a ditch and sprained my ankle so badly I couldn’t walk for a week. You told me the blackguard ran out right in front of your hansom. Lestrade made the arrest, and you came to find me.” He stopped a moment, chuckling quietly. Watson smiled. “You found me crawling through the mud, trying to make my way to the road. I don’t know how we made it back. I couldn’t walk, and your leg had been bothering you all day as it was raining. The next day you and Mrs. Hudson did nothing but run up and down the stairs to the cellar and back getting ice for me. I commented that perhaps I should just go down to the cellar myself and I thought the two of you were going to slap me.” Watson laughed. “It was June after all and the ice was melting as you brought it up.”
As they neared the little grove Watson’s pace slowed. Holmes darted glances at him every few moments as Watson’s expression grew more confused. “Is something the matter, dear boy?” He asked when he saw Watson’s hand rise to hover over the wound on his head, which still had stitches holding it closed.
“I… I am not sure. I think this place seems very familiar.” Holmes said nothing as Watson made his way off the path and into the grove. Holmes could see footprints in the snow, furrows where Watson had clearly been dragged off the path. And just in front of where Watson stood, his brow furrowed, the shape left behind from a body lying in the snow. Black blood still lay frozen upon the ground. “This.. is this..?” he trailed off.
“Do you remember anything?”
“My head hurts.” Watson replied, his expression clearly puzzled. Holmes stared at the footprints, identifying their size and the probable height and weight of the attackers. The smooth worn soles spoke of men of less fortune and then his eyes caught a faint glitter in the dying sunlight. He stooped down and found a badly rusted silver watch. He opened it with some difficulty and found the initials H.G. engraved within. He slipped it into his pocket with a sneer. Trust Lestrade to be completely incompetent.
“Do you wish to go home?” Holmes said, when Watson winced, rubbing his temple. Watson merely nodded.
*
By the time they hailed a hansom and returned to Baker Street Watson was hunched over, clutching at his head. Holmes had one arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“Should we call a doctor?” he asked when he urged Watson to sit up straight and saw his face was dead white.
“Bed.” He snapped through grit teeth. Holmes bit his lip and nodded, helping Watson out of the hansom and into the house.
“Nanny, some tea and cold water please, and hurry!” Holmes shouted as they stumbled inside. Watson groaned at his side.
“Too loud.” He growled. Holmes whispered an apology in his ear that brought a faint, if pained, smile to Watson’s face as they staggered up the stairs. Once in the sitting room, Watson swayed, his knees threatening to buckle.
Holmes barely managed to drag him to the settee and was in the process of pulling his shoes off when Mrs. Hudson came in.
“Is everything alright?” she said, setting the tea tray gently down. Watson had curled up on his side and only offered a pained grunt as Holmes made his way to her side and ushered her out to the hall.
“Send for a doctor, please Nanny.” Holmes said quietly. She paled slightly and nodded, hurrying downstairs. Holmes fled back to Watson’s side.
“Tell me what to do, Watson. What can I get you?” he said softly as he untied Watson’s cravat and undid his collar.
“Sleep.” He mumbled, his eyes shut tight. Holmes sighed deeply and ran a gentle finger down the curve of Watson’s cheek.
“Anything you wish.”
*
The doctor came and went with little in the way of good news.
“He is overtaxed. He is trying too hard to remember, I should say. He’s not feverish, which is a good sign, but he needs time. Trying to help might only confuse him. Let him go at his own pace. Once his memories start to return the rest should fall into place rather quickly. I studied a case of a young woman with this very affliction. For a year she could recall nothing and then one day it all came back in an instant. Rather a dramatic example, I must say, and quite rare, but nevertheless all hope had been lost at that point and yet, she recovered. He shall too, just give him time.” Holmes carefully schooled his features to remain impassive, as though the news were nothing he did not expect, but inside he was screaming.
A year. A Year. A YEAR!!! Whirled through his head in a sickening loop. How could he possibly endure it? A year spent watching the one he loved best as though he were a stranger. A year spent pining away in agony. The doctor left and Mrs. Hudson squeezed his shoulder gently as she made her way out.
Watson snored softly as he lay sprawled across the settee. It was dangerous with him so near, but he had little recourse. He snatched up the Morocco case, shooting one last glance at Watson. Even if he did wake, he probably wouldn’t even know he was supposed to get angry. He probably wouldn’t care at all.. He ignored his seven percent solution in favor of the morphine. He wanted to silence his thoughts. He wanted complete relaxation; he wanted to forget - if only for a while.
With a snarl of fury he stabbed the needle in. He pushed the plunger and let out a sigh of relief as he sank, boneless, to the floor.
*
He heard a shuffling noise some time later but dismissed it. He was drowning in bliss. His body was heavy and sluggish, and it seemed too much effort to even raise his head.
“My god!” he heard a familiar voice gasp and it sent a prickle of alarm racing down his spine. “Holmes are you alright? Wake up!” Oh no. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his gaze. “Wh-what is this?” he heard an edge of anger in that question and tried to sit up. He felt himself being pulled upright and gasped in shock as something struck his face rather hard. He blinked rapidly again, the fog slowly clearing from his vision. A gorgeous young man glared down at him, his face pink with fury. For a moment he thought the man was Watson, but that couldn’t be right. Watson had a mustache for one, and for another Watson never hit him. He felt another strike and realized that he had just been slapped rather forcefully.
“Stop.” He ground out.
“You fool! What in hell are you doing?” The world swam into focus. Watson towered over him, his face twisted in fury.
“Leave me be.” Holmes snarled.
“To what end? You think I shall sit here and watch you poison yourself?”
“What the hell do you care?” Holmes hissed, suddenly writhing to get away. Watson’s lips twisted into an angry grimace, which faltered immediately. He released Holmes and sat back, his expression decidedly wounded.
“You think I don’t care?” he said, his voice small. Holmes eyes shut as he winced, all the anger leaving him.
“I cannot imagine how you could. You do not even remember me.”
“I-it’s not my fault.” He said, his voice even softer. Holmes slowly sat up, groaning as the world heaved and spun.
“I did not say it was. Now kindly allow me my distractions. I have never begrudged you yours.” He winced at the sadness on Watson’s face. He slumped in defeat. “Watson, please. I just- this is difficult for me as well. I-“ he stopped. “I am utterly useless. People come to me for help and when the one person I care for needs help I can do nothing.” He heard more than saw Watson inch closer.
“But you are helping.” Holmes scoffed.
“I do not see how.” He admitted bitterly. Watson crawled closer still and sat right next to Holmes.
“It is hard to explain. All I can say is I feel safe here… With you. I feel like I belong here. I did not that first day, but every day I feel… more secure. I can feel like I should remember everything and all my memories are just outside of my grasp. But I am also certain one day I will remember. I do not want to wake and find you dead when that happens.”
“I know what I am doing.” He murmured crossly.
“Well forgive me, but I thought you were dead or dying.”
“I was doing no such thing!” he snapped and immediately regretted it. Watson’s gaze dropped to the floor as he frowned and began to chew his lower lip. Holmes sighed deeply “How is your head?” he asked decided to change the subject entirely.
“Fine.” Watson muttered, scooting away. Holmes scowled and latched onto his arm, pulling him close.
“Forgive me, dear boy. I do not like to make you worry, that is never my intent. You are-“ he stopped a moment to clear his throat. “You are all I have in this world. I do not try to hurt you.” Watson nodded. “I am.. not the best example of emotional stability I’m afraid. I have… black moods. I am ever being dragged down into them. It has long been one of my greatest failings. You have always tried to be patient with me and help, but you must understand:” he gazed at his Morocco case with dull eyes. “Sometimes the only way out is through the needle.” Watson sighed deeply. “Believe me I have tried many other things. But they still fall short. There is but one thing on this earth that can help me forsake my vices but only temporarily, much to my shame.” Watson nodded. Holmes shivered as the world tilted and heaved.
“Perhaps you should sleep now.” Watson said, draping his arm across Holmes’ shoulders.
“Perhaps.” He allowed, his eyes closing of their own accord. Watson sighed again, this time with a faint note of irritation.
“Not on the floor.” Holmes groaned in annoyance. He was exhausted. He did not want to move an inch. Watson was warm and pressed against his side in a delicious way and he was loath to be parted from the small comfort.
“As you wish, mother hen.” He groaned as he staggered to his feet with Watson’s help.
He collapsed into bed with a sigh and was almost out when he heard Watson whisper: “I hate that I cannot remember. I do not wish to hurt you either.”
*
The weeks passed slowly. Each night was broken by Watson’s terrified screams. Holmes found himself unable to sleep until he had heard Watson’s cries and had gone to wake him. Sometimes Watson would awake with a start as Holmes bent over him and lash out violently in his terror. Holmes only failed to catch Watson’s fists before they connected once, and had a bloody lip to show for it.
It was heart-rending to Holmes, Watson knew the memories were from his time in Afghanistan, but had no frame of reference. It was all a jumble of confused horror.
Most times he woke and it only took a few words and a light touch to get him to calm. Sometimes he collapsed against Holmes, weeping. Those nights hurt more than when Watson attacked him. But as much as it hurt he cherished it as well. It was the only time he felt justified in putting his arms around his bien-aimé.
*
Holmes took a few cases and took Watson along to each one. He watched covertly as Watson studied everyone with almost frightening intensity. He said little or nothing unless he was spoken to first. Holmes was ever curious as to what was going on in his mind as he stared at everything and everyone.
Lestrade was the first to pull Homes aside and comment as they were filling out a report at Scotland Yard.
“Is he well? He gave me a look as though I were a fat, juicy mouse and he a cat.” Holmes shrugged, stifling laughter.
“More importantly,” he said, dismissing the Inspectors misgivings. “Howard Graves is a person of interest in the attack. I found his watch, but he is nowhere to be found.” Lestrade frowned, slight recognition dawning on his face.
“That name does ring a bell…”
“Indeed? Spill Lestrade! Tell me all! I have been searching high and low for the fiend!”
“Give me a moment to think.” Holmes barely swallowed a scoff as Lestrade waved Constable Clarkey over.
“Howard Graves. Why is that name so familiar?”
“We pulled his body from the Thames last week, sir. He had been stabbed to death.”
“What?!” Holmes exploded in fury. Clarkey flinched and stared at Holmes with wide eyes.
“Sir is everything-“
“Confound it!” he snarled, his face turning red in fury. Watson gazed at him in confusion. “And you’ve no clue as to the identity of any of his cohorts?” The look of annoyance on Lestrade’s face and guilt on Clarkey’s said it all. “Watson?! Let us go!” he nearly roared. Watson’s eyes widened, but he merely nodded and rose to his feet.
*
Holmes led Watson to the Punchbowl.
“What is this place?”
“Watson.” Holmes grit out. “I am not in the mood to speak. I am not angry with you, but I am nevertheless very angry. You will follow me inside and sit at the bar.” Watson nodded, his expression faintly worried.
“Good evening, sir.” The owner said as Holmes walked toward the back of the house after warning Watson to stay put. “I have not seen you in awhile, sir.”
“Is it too late to enter or not?” Holmes snapped. The owner smiled wickedly.
“Never too late for you, sir. I’ll be placing a wager on you.” He said with a wink. “Do enjoy yourself.” Holmes finally allowed a bitter smile.
“I shall.”
He spotted Watson instantly among the crowd and smiled reassuringly when he saw his eyes widen in alarm. His opponent was tall with lean muscles. He was cocky and perhaps a little inebriated, grinning at the crowd who howled cheers and drunken shouts. Holmes offered the man a smile that did not reach his eyes that grew to a manic grin as he saw his challenger’s composure falter for an instant.
The bell rang.
“I shall enjoy this.” Holmes muttered to no one in particular. He blocked a wild swing, driving his elbow into the man’s jaw. The man staggered back for only a moment before he lashed out with a left hook. Holmes ducked and lunged, catching the man about the waist. They both crashed to the dusty, blood-spattered floor. He began to rain blows down on the man with startling violence. A few to the face, a few to the ribs, then back to the face. There was no art, no finesse to his attack. Only pure rage. If his opponent landed any blows he could not feel them. He could barely see for the hot fury that burned him.
And then suddenly he was being dragged away. He was breathing hard. The world was hazy and confusing and he kicked out for a minute in alarm.
“Sir, you have won! The fight is over!” he began to laugh. When Watson approached him hesitantly his laughter stuck in his throat.
“Are you enjoying yourself, dear boy?”
“Are you alright?” Watson said as he lowered himself to Holmes’ side with a wince.
“Never better!” he chirped. If anything Watson’s uneasiness increased.
“May we go then?” he asked quickly. Holmes frowned and looked at Watson more carefully. He sat up in alarm. Watson was as white as a sheet and his hands were shaking badly.
“What is wrong?” he gasped, rising to his feet and pulling Watson to his as well. Watson’s gaze was elsewhere.
“I want to go home.” He said. Holmes nodded quickly; something in Watson’s expression worried him.
*
Watson was silent the entire trip home. He sat hunched forward as though in pain, but each time Holmes asked he said nothing. Holmes was beginning to grow nervous. Watson’s eyes were clenched shut by the time they reached Baker Street and Holmes had to nearly drag him up the stairs. He helped him to the settee and was in the process of tugging Watson’s shoes off when Watson hissed in a sharp breath.
“Are you in pain?” Holmes cried, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Please tell me if you are!”
“What you did- to that man-“ Holmes felt himself grow cold all over. “Someone did that to me! I- I remember!” Holmes shuddered. If there was one memory he prayed Watson would never recall it was this. Especially now, when he’d just found out the bastard was already dead. The cruel injustice of it all still enraged him. He’d been planning at least one more fight for the evening to spend the last of his aggression.
“Watson..” Holmes gasped; he did not want to hear more. But he dared not stop him.
“I think there were three men.. They said they wanted to send a message.. But to whom I do not know-” Holmes choked, he felt the world spin. “I thought I would die..” Watson gasped. He felt his eyes burning. He blinked sluggishly and felt burning warmth sliding down his face. “Holmes? My god, what is it?” He felt Watson grip his shoulders in shaking hands.
“The message… it was for me. This is all- it is all my doing! I have brought this down on you!” he surged wildly to his feet. “I did this to you. I-” his gaze darted wildly about the room. He staggered toward his bedroom.
“What?” he heard Watson breathe. But Holmes was past hearing. He had caused Watson to be hurt. Watson was hurting still, because of him. He stood in his room shaking wildly, tears dripping from his chin. The knowledge that Watson had been hurt because of him was unendurable. “I did this.” He gasped again and again.
“No, Holmes, stop, listen to me!” He heard Watson say. He spotted a looking glass and smashed his fist through it. He saw the blood, heard Watson’s cry of alarm and felt not a thing.
It wasn’t right. He had hurt the only one he loved. It was only right that he receive equal pain. He slammed his fist into the wall, feeling a sharp crack but nothing more. “What are you doing? Stop!” Watson grabbed his wrists. “Holmes! Stop!” he cried desperately.
“This is my fault.” He heard himself reply woodenly.
“No it is not, please stop, I beg you!” He wrenched away from Watson, he heard his blood hit the floor.
“I deserve to die for what I’ve done.” He said in a frightening monotone.
“What?! No!” Watson fairly shrieked. Suddenly he was knocked to the floor with Watson on top of him. He did not struggle; he could not bear to hurt Watson any more. “Stop this! Calm down. Breathe, Holmes!”
“I hurt you.”
“You did not!”
“The message, it was for me.”
“Stop it, now! You did not attack me! You did not hurt me! Be silent! Look what you have done to yourself!” There was blood on Watson’s shirt. He keened and turned his face away. “That is YOUR blood Holmes, not mine! Relax!” He lay breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. “Are you calm?” Watson asked slowly after several moments. Holmes nodded rapidly and Watson sighed. “If I get off of you are you going to hurt yourself again?” Holmes squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace. He felt gentle hands cup his cheeks. He shivered. “You are NOT to blame, do you hear me?” Holmes nodded only after Watson shook him. “You will NOT move from this spot, will you?” Holmes shook his head. “I will be back in a moment. Do not. Move.” Holmes nodded, sniffling. He felt Watson gently ruffle his hair and heard him rise to his feet. The moment his footsteps receded Holmes rolled onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut tight, biting back a groan as more tears seeped out.
Watson was only gone a minute and soon he was gently rolling Holmes onto his back and urging his to sit up.
“Come on now, up you get.” Holmes sat up with a wince and refused to meet Watson’s gaze. He felt Watson pull shards of glass from his hand, arm, and wrist. “You must not get so worked up.” Watson said softly. “You cannot believe this is your fault, I won’t allow it.”
“How can you say it isn’t?” Holmes croaked.
“Shh.” Watson admonished softly. “Because you did not hire them, did you?”
“Of course not!” Holmes snarled.
“Well then, no need to carry on so. What is done is done and you could not have stopped it. Everything will be alright, you will see.” He was silent for a long time as he cleaned and dressed Holmes’ wounds with his usual competence.
“But your memory-”
“I meant to tell you I have remembered something else very important.” Holmes stiffened, unsure whether he wanted to know what other horrors Watson could recall. “Look at me, Holmes.” Watson said in a soft voice he despaired of ever hearing again. It was a soft tone that never failed to arouse him and he whimpered as he felt himself grow hard in response. “Please.” Watson whispered. He could do naught else but obey.
He felt soft lips press against his own and he gasped in shock, going impossibly rigid. He kept his eyes shut as he felt Watson press kisses all over his face. “I remember you.” He breathed in Holmes ear.
“What?” Holmes gasped, his eyes opening wide. He stared at Watson, barely daring to hope. Watson smiled beautifully.
“Not everything, unfortunately, but I remember the way you smiled at me the first time I told you I loved you.”
TBC!
A/N: Yes I know, evil cliffhanger, but this has been finished for nearly two weeks and I haven’t posted because I was too lazy to proofread and too busy trying to catch up with my emails! So sorry, I will do my best to post the last chapter ASAP
AUTHOR: Kichi
PAIRING: Holmes/Watson
WARNINGS: none for this chapter
NOTES: E G B D F
ARCHIVE: my LJ and fanfiction.net
SUMMARY: ch 5 - Watson remembers a few things
He woke the moment Watson stirred. His back was in knots from his awkward position. He sat up with a wince. He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes, grimacing at the sunlight that poured into the room.
“Are you alright? Watson voice was deep and rasping as it usually was the morning after he woke screaming his heart out.
“Fine, dear boy. Just not used to this tiny bed. Do not worry about me anyway.” He admonished with a small smile. “You need rest more than I do. I am used to going days without it. Speaking of which-“ he tried to keep his tone light. “No more dreams?” Watson paled and then flushed before nodding. “Good!” Holmes said, rising from the bed with a yawn. “Let us eat, then.” He was nearly at the door when Watson’s voice stopped him.
“Holmes… Thank you.” He said, his smooth face still a lovely shade of pink. Holmes smile was brilliant.
“You are most welcome! Now come on, get up!”
*
Watson wished to go to Regent’s park. Or more specifically he’d said:
“I need to get out of these damned rooms already!” Holmes had no desire to move from his spot. But he dared not let Watson go alone. Not after last time.
“Well I am afraid I cannot let you go alone.” Holmes sighed, rising to his feet. Watson’s eyes narrowed briefly. “You were attacked there.” Holmes stated gruffly, not liking the suspicion in Watson’s eyes one bit. He thought they had gotten past that.
“Oh.” Watson murmured, eyes downcast.
“Do you… not wish me to go?” Holmes asked in a small voice.
“No, that is not it. I just.. I just want to get out, that’s all.” He replied. Holmes sighed again and stretched, groaning as his back cracked.
“Very well then. Shall we take Gladstone?” Watson smiled.
“Yes.”
*
The walk was pleasant. But Holmes would have been lying if he had said he had no ulterior motive as he steered their course. Lestrade had told him where Watson had been found. The actual assault had taken place a few feet off the path, in a well-known lovers’ hideaway. It was a tiny, but beautiful grove where young couples snuck off the path to kiss and share endearments (and a few other things besides).
Lestrade had also assured him that only he had crossed the ground. That meant nothing now, of course. Over a week had passed since then. And the ground had been frozen to begin with. Holmes doubted there would be any footprints visible.
Not only that, he was hoping to trigger a memory in Watson. In fact Regents Park was only the first stop of many he planned. He knew all of Watson’s favorite places, and he intended to visit as many as possible. If even one place helped him to remember one tiny thing, even if it had nothing to do with Holmes or their relationship, he would consider it a success.
He chatted amiably as they walked, describing a case that had once led them on a mad chase through the park. Gladstone’s little stump of a tail waved madly as he crossed their path again and again to sniff at every little clump of grass.
“…I followed the blackguard through the hills on foot. You were with Lestrade, thankfully, as I fell in a ditch and sprained my ankle so badly I couldn’t walk for a week. You told me the blackguard ran out right in front of your hansom. Lestrade made the arrest, and you came to find me.” He stopped a moment, chuckling quietly. Watson smiled. “You found me crawling through the mud, trying to make my way to the road. I don’t know how we made it back. I couldn’t walk, and your leg had been bothering you all day as it was raining. The next day you and Mrs. Hudson did nothing but run up and down the stairs to the cellar and back getting ice for me. I commented that perhaps I should just go down to the cellar myself and I thought the two of you were going to slap me.” Watson laughed. “It was June after all and the ice was melting as you brought it up.”
As they neared the little grove Watson’s pace slowed. Holmes darted glances at him every few moments as Watson’s expression grew more confused. “Is something the matter, dear boy?” He asked when he saw Watson’s hand rise to hover over the wound on his head, which still had stitches holding it closed.
“I… I am not sure. I think this place seems very familiar.” Holmes said nothing as Watson made his way off the path and into the grove. Holmes could see footprints in the snow, furrows where Watson had clearly been dragged off the path. And just in front of where Watson stood, his brow furrowed, the shape left behind from a body lying in the snow. Black blood still lay frozen upon the ground. “This.. is this..?” he trailed off.
“Do you remember anything?”
“My head hurts.” Watson replied, his expression clearly puzzled. Holmes stared at the footprints, identifying their size and the probable height and weight of the attackers. The smooth worn soles spoke of men of less fortune and then his eyes caught a faint glitter in the dying sunlight. He stooped down and found a badly rusted silver watch. He opened it with some difficulty and found the initials H.G. engraved within. He slipped it into his pocket with a sneer. Trust Lestrade to be completely incompetent.
“Do you wish to go home?” Holmes said, when Watson winced, rubbing his temple. Watson merely nodded.
*
By the time they hailed a hansom and returned to Baker Street Watson was hunched over, clutching at his head. Holmes had one arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“Should we call a doctor?” he asked when he urged Watson to sit up straight and saw his face was dead white.
“Bed.” He snapped through grit teeth. Holmes bit his lip and nodded, helping Watson out of the hansom and into the house.
“Nanny, some tea and cold water please, and hurry!” Holmes shouted as they stumbled inside. Watson groaned at his side.
“Too loud.” He growled. Holmes whispered an apology in his ear that brought a faint, if pained, smile to Watson’s face as they staggered up the stairs. Once in the sitting room, Watson swayed, his knees threatening to buckle.
Holmes barely managed to drag him to the settee and was in the process of pulling his shoes off when Mrs. Hudson came in.
“Is everything alright?” she said, setting the tea tray gently down. Watson had curled up on his side and only offered a pained grunt as Holmes made his way to her side and ushered her out to the hall.
“Send for a doctor, please Nanny.” Holmes said quietly. She paled slightly and nodded, hurrying downstairs. Holmes fled back to Watson’s side.
“Tell me what to do, Watson. What can I get you?” he said softly as he untied Watson’s cravat and undid his collar.
“Sleep.” He mumbled, his eyes shut tight. Holmes sighed deeply and ran a gentle finger down the curve of Watson’s cheek.
“Anything you wish.”
*
The doctor came and went with little in the way of good news.
“He is overtaxed. He is trying too hard to remember, I should say. He’s not feverish, which is a good sign, but he needs time. Trying to help might only confuse him. Let him go at his own pace. Once his memories start to return the rest should fall into place rather quickly. I studied a case of a young woman with this very affliction. For a year she could recall nothing and then one day it all came back in an instant. Rather a dramatic example, I must say, and quite rare, but nevertheless all hope had been lost at that point and yet, she recovered. He shall too, just give him time.” Holmes carefully schooled his features to remain impassive, as though the news were nothing he did not expect, but inside he was screaming.
A year. A Year. A YEAR!!! Whirled through his head in a sickening loop. How could he possibly endure it? A year spent watching the one he loved best as though he were a stranger. A year spent pining away in agony. The doctor left and Mrs. Hudson squeezed his shoulder gently as she made her way out.
Watson snored softly as he lay sprawled across the settee. It was dangerous with him so near, but he had little recourse. He snatched up the Morocco case, shooting one last glance at Watson. Even if he did wake, he probably wouldn’t even know he was supposed to get angry. He probably wouldn’t care at all.. He ignored his seven percent solution in favor of the morphine. He wanted to silence his thoughts. He wanted complete relaxation; he wanted to forget - if only for a while.
With a snarl of fury he stabbed the needle in. He pushed the plunger and let out a sigh of relief as he sank, boneless, to the floor.
*
He heard a shuffling noise some time later but dismissed it. He was drowning in bliss. His body was heavy and sluggish, and it seemed too much effort to even raise his head.
“My god!” he heard a familiar voice gasp and it sent a prickle of alarm racing down his spine. “Holmes are you alright? Wake up!” Oh no. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his gaze. “Wh-what is this?” he heard an edge of anger in that question and tried to sit up. He felt himself being pulled upright and gasped in shock as something struck his face rather hard. He blinked rapidly again, the fog slowly clearing from his vision. A gorgeous young man glared down at him, his face pink with fury. For a moment he thought the man was Watson, but that couldn’t be right. Watson had a mustache for one, and for another Watson never hit him. He felt another strike and realized that he had just been slapped rather forcefully.
“Stop.” He ground out.
“You fool! What in hell are you doing?” The world swam into focus. Watson towered over him, his face twisted in fury.
“Leave me be.” Holmes snarled.
“To what end? You think I shall sit here and watch you poison yourself?”
“What the hell do you care?” Holmes hissed, suddenly writhing to get away. Watson’s lips twisted into an angry grimace, which faltered immediately. He released Holmes and sat back, his expression decidedly wounded.
“You think I don’t care?” he said, his voice small. Holmes eyes shut as he winced, all the anger leaving him.
“I cannot imagine how you could. You do not even remember me.”
“I-it’s not my fault.” He said, his voice even softer. Holmes slowly sat up, groaning as the world heaved and spun.
“I did not say it was. Now kindly allow me my distractions. I have never begrudged you yours.” He winced at the sadness on Watson’s face. He slumped in defeat. “Watson, please. I just- this is difficult for me as well. I-“ he stopped. “I am utterly useless. People come to me for help and when the one person I care for needs help I can do nothing.” He heard more than saw Watson inch closer.
“But you are helping.” Holmes scoffed.
“I do not see how.” He admitted bitterly. Watson crawled closer still and sat right next to Holmes.
“It is hard to explain. All I can say is I feel safe here… With you. I feel like I belong here. I did not that first day, but every day I feel… more secure. I can feel like I should remember everything and all my memories are just outside of my grasp. But I am also certain one day I will remember. I do not want to wake and find you dead when that happens.”
“I know what I am doing.” He murmured crossly.
“Well forgive me, but I thought you were dead or dying.”
“I was doing no such thing!” he snapped and immediately regretted it. Watson’s gaze dropped to the floor as he frowned and began to chew his lower lip. Holmes sighed deeply “How is your head?” he asked decided to change the subject entirely.
“Fine.” Watson muttered, scooting away. Holmes scowled and latched onto his arm, pulling him close.
“Forgive me, dear boy. I do not like to make you worry, that is never my intent. You are-“ he stopped a moment to clear his throat. “You are all I have in this world. I do not try to hurt you.” Watson nodded. “I am.. not the best example of emotional stability I’m afraid. I have… black moods. I am ever being dragged down into them. It has long been one of my greatest failings. You have always tried to be patient with me and help, but you must understand:” he gazed at his Morocco case with dull eyes. “Sometimes the only way out is through the needle.” Watson sighed deeply. “Believe me I have tried many other things. But they still fall short. There is but one thing on this earth that can help me forsake my vices but only temporarily, much to my shame.” Watson nodded. Holmes shivered as the world tilted and heaved.
“Perhaps you should sleep now.” Watson said, draping his arm across Holmes’ shoulders.
“Perhaps.” He allowed, his eyes closing of their own accord. Watson sighed again, this time with a faint note of irritation.
“Not on the floor.” Holmes groaned in annoyance. He was exhausted. He did not want to move an inch. Watson was warm and pressed against his side in a delicious way and he was loath to be parted from the small comfort.
“As you wish, mother hen.” He groaned as he staggered to his feet with Watson’s help.
He collapsed into bed with a sigh and was almost out when he heard Watson whisper: “I hate that I cannot remember. I do not wish to hurt you either.”
*
The weeks passed slowly. Each night was broken by Watson’s terrified screams. Holmes found himself unable to sleep until he had heard Watson’s cries and had gone to wake him. Sometimes Watson would awake with a start as Holmes bent over him and lash out violently in his terror. Holmes only failed to catch Watson’s fists before they connected once, and had a bloody lip to show for it.
It was heart-rending to Holmes, Watson knew the memories were from his time in Afghanistan, but had no frame of reference. It was all a jumble of confused horror.
Most times he woke and it only took a few words and a light touch to get him to calm. Sometimes he collapsed against Holmes, weeping. Those nights hurt more than when Watson attacked him. But as much as it hurt he cherished it as well. It was the only time he felt justified in putting his arms around his bien-aimé.
*
Holmes took a few cases and took Watson along to each one. He watched covertly as Watson studied everyone with almost frightening intensity. He said little or nothing unless he was spoken to first. Holmes was ever curious as to what was going on in his mind as he stared at everything and everyone.
Lestrade was the first to pull Homes aside and comment as they were filling out a report at Scotland Yard.
“Is he well? He gave me a look as though I were a fat, juicy mouse and he a cat.” Holmes shrugged, stifling laughter.
“More importantly,” he said, dismissing the Inspectors misgivings. “Howard Graves is a person of interest in the attack. I found his watch, but he is nowhere to be found.” Lestrade frowned, slight recognition dawning on his face.
“That name does ring a bell…”
“Indeed? Spill Lestrade! Tell me all! I have been searching high and low for the fiend!”
“Give me a moment to think.” Holmes barely swallowed a scoff as Lestrade waved Constable Clarkey over.
“Howard Graves. Why is that name so familiar?”
“We pulled his body from the Thames last week, sir. He had been stabbed to death.”
“What?!” Holmes exploded in fury. Clarkey flinched and stared at Holmes with wide eyes.
“Sir is everything-“
“Confound it!” he snarled, his face turning red in fury. Watson gazed at him in confusion. “And you’ve no clue as to the identity of any of his cohorts?” The look of annoyance on Lestrade’s face and guilt on Clarkey’s said it all. “Watson?! Let us go!” he nearly roared. Watson’s eyes widened, but he merely nodded and rose to his feet.
*
Holmes led Watson to the Punchbowl.
“What is this place?”
“Watson.” Holmes grit out. “I am not in the mood to speak. I am not angry with you, but I am nevertheless very angry. You will follow me inside and sit at the bar.” Watson nodded, his expression faintly worried.
“Good evening, sir.” The owner said as Holmes walked toward the back of the house after warning Watson to stay put. “I have not seen you in awhile, sir.”
“Is it too late to enter or not?” Holmes snapped. The owner smiled wickedly.
“Never too late for you, sir. I’ll be placing a wager on you.” He said with a wink. “Do enjoy yourself.” Holmes finally allowed a bitter smile.
“I shall.”
He spotted Watson instantly among the crowd and smiled reassuringly when he saw his eyes widen in alarm. His opponent was tall with lean muscles. He was cocky and perhaps a little inebriated, grinning at the crowd who howled cheers and drunken shouts. Holmes offered the man a smile that did not reach his eyes that grew to a manic grin as he saw his challenger’s composure falter for an instant.
The bell rang.
“I shall enjoy this.” Holmes muttered to no one in particular. He blocked a wild swing, driving his elbow into the man’s jaw. The man staggered back for only a moment before he lashed out with a left hook. Holmes ducked and lunged, catching the man about the waist. They both crashed to the dusty, blood-spattered floor. He began to rain blows down on the man with startling violence. A few to the face, a few to the ribs, then back to the face. There was no art, no finesse to his attack. Only pure rage. If his opponent landed any blows he could not feel them. He could barely see for the hot fury that burned him.
And then suddenly he was being dragged away. He was breathing hard. The world was hazy and confusing and he kicked out for a minute in alarm.
“Sir, you have won! The fight is over!” he began to laugh. When Watson approached him hesitantly his laughter stuck in his throat.
“Are you enjoying yourself, dear boy?”
“Are you alright?” Watson said as he lowered himself to Holmes’ side with a wince.
“Never better!” he chirped. If anything Watson’s uneasiness increased.
“May we go then?” he asked quickly. Holmes frowned and looked at Watson more carefully. He sat up in alarm. Watson was as white as a sheet and his hands were shaking badly.
“What is wrong?” he gasped, rising to his feet and pulling Watson to his as well. Watson’s gaze was elsewhere.
“I want to go home.” He said. Holmes nodded quickly; something in Watson’s expression worried him.
*
Watson was silent the entire trip home. He sat hunched forward as though in pain, but each time Holmes asked he said nothing. Holmes was beginning to grow nervous. Watson’s eyes were clenched shut by the time they reached Baker Street and Holmes had to nearly drag him up the stairs. He helped him to the settee and was in the process of tugging Watson’s shoes off when Watson hissed in a sharp breath.
“Are you in pain?” Holmes cried, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Please tell me if you are!”
“What you did- to that man-“ Holmes felt himself grow cold all over. “Someone did that to me! I- I remember!” Holmes shuddered. If there was one memory he prayed Watson would never recall it was this. Especially now, when he’d just found out the bastard was already dead. The cruel injustice of it all still enraged him. He’d been planning at least one more fight for the evening to spend the last of his aggression.
“Watson..” Holmes gasped; he did not want to hear more. But he dared not stop him.
“I think there were three men.. They said they wanted to send a message.. But to whom I do not know-” Holmes choked, he felt the world spin. “I thought I would die..” Watson gasped. He felt his eyes burning. He blinked sluggishly and felt burning warmth sliding down his face. “Holmes? My god, what is it?” He felt Watson grip his shoulders in shaking hands.
“The message… it was for me. This is all- it is all my doing! I have brought this down on you!” he surged wildly to his feet. “I did this to you. I-” his gaze darted wildly about the room. He staggered toward his bedroom.
“What?” he heard Watson breathe. But Holmes was past hearing. He had caused Watson to be hurt. Watson was hurting still, because of him. He stood in his room shaking wildly, tears dripping from his chin. The knowledge that Watson had been hurt because of him was unendurable. “I did this.” He gasped again and again.
“No, Holmes, stop, listen to me!” He heard Watson say. He spotted a looking glass and smashed his fist through it. He saw the blood, heard Watson’s cry of alarm and felt not a thing.
It wasn’t right. He had hurt the only one he loved. It was only right that he receive equal pain. He slammed his fist into the wall, feeling a sharp crack but nothing more. “What are you doing? Stop!” Watson grabbed his wrists. “Holmes! Stop!” he cried desperately.
“This is my fault.” He heard himself reply woodenly.
“No it is not, please stop, I beg you!” He wrenched away from Watson, he heard his blood hit the floor.
“I deserve to die for what I’ve done.” He said in a frightening monotone.
“What?! No!” Watson fairly shrieked. Suddenly he was knocked to the floor with Watson on top of him. He did not struggle; he could not bear to hurt Watson any more. “Stop this! Calm down. Breathe, Holmes!”
“I hurt you.”
“You did not!”
“The message, it was for me.”
“Stop it, now! You did not attack me! You did not hurt me! Be silent! Look what you have done to yourself!” There was blood on Watson’s shirt. He keened and turned his face away. “That is YOUR blood Holmes, not mine! Relax!” He lay breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. “Are you calm?” Watson asked slowly after several moments. Holmes nodded rapidly and Watson sighed. “If I get off of you are you going to hurt yourself again?” Holmes squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace. He felt gentle hands cup his cheeks. He shivered. “You are NOT to blame, do you hear me?” Holmes nodded only after Watson shook him. “You will NOT move from this spot, will you?” Holmes shook his head. “I will be back in a moment. Do not. Move.” Holmes nodded, sniffling. He felt Watson gently ruffle his hair and heard him rise to his feet. The moment his footsteps receded Holmes rolled onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut tight, biting back a groan as more tears seeped out.
Watson was only gone a minute and soon he was gently rolling Holmes onto his back and urging his to sit up.
“Come on now, up you get.” Holmes sat up with a wince and refused to meet Watson’s gaze. He felt Watson pull shards of glass from his hand, arm, and wrist. “You must not get so worked up.” Watson said softly. “You cannot believe this is your fault, I won’t allow it.”
“How can you say it isn’t?” Holmes croaked.
“Shh.” Watson admonished softly. “Because you did not hire them, did you?”
“Of course not!” Holmes snarled.
“Well then, no need to carry on so. What is done is done and you could not have stopped it. Everything will be alright, you will see.” He was silent for a long time as he cleaned and dressed Holmes’ wounds with his usual competence.
“But your memory-”
“I meant to tell you I have remembered something else very important.” Holmes stiffened, unsure whether he wanted to know what other horrors Watson could recall. “Look at me, Holmes.” Watson said in a soft voice he despaired of ever hearing again. It was a soft tone that never failed to arouse him and he whimpered as he felt himself grow hard in response. “Please.” Watson whispered. He could do naught else but obey.
He felt soft lips press against his own and he gasped in shock, going impossibly rigid. He kept his eyes shut as he felt Watson press kisses all over his face. “I remember you.” He breathed in Holmes ear.
“What?” Holmes gasped, his eyes opening wide. He stared at Watson, barely daring to hope. Watson smiled beautifully.
“Not everything, unfortunately, but I remember the way you smiled at me the first time I told you I loved you.”
TBC!
A/N: Yes I know, evil cliffhanger, but this has been finished for nearly two weeks and I haven’t posted because I was too lazy to proofread and too busy trying to catch up with my emails! So sorry, I will do my best to post the last chapter ASAP