Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Five
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Five
Author: agaryulnaer86 and Sarisa
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Still don't own. Alas.
Summary: More adjustment issues. And some boxing.
Spoilers: Movie?
Warnings: Still with the angst, and a decent hangover.
Word Count: 9,108
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part five. This is the last one I'm posting tonight.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
~~~~~
It doesn't register with Watson, at first, to what exactly Holmes is referring. His eyes are still huge, and once it hits him that the other man is simply referring to the wagers, is completely ignoring Watson's outburst of less than a moment before... he just gapes, face entirely red.
He had just exploded, lost his temper in a wave and snarled at his friend for several minutes, and Holmes' only response is that he should either keep the wagers or not... and not shout.
He stands, very still for a long minute, but then without warning rears back and punches his friend square in the face, fast enough that even Holmes with his baritsu training has no time to block it. Holmes stumbles backwards... and then an instant later, it is Watson who's stumbling, pain exploding from his nose.
His eyes are red as he lets out a wordless snarl of a yell and tackles his friend, slamming him back into the wall and clearly doing his level best to kill the other man.
All of this, Holmes knows how to handle, what to expect. After all, he had just been fighting, and despite Watson's many denials, it was not uncommon before his departure for the two men to engage in physical violence to solve their problems. Holmes has no illusions about his own violent tendencies any more than he has illusions about his other pursuits in the realm of the physical (and by pursuits, he means what Watson would call "vices").
But Watson is wading in what appears to be a river of denial, and seems to have not only been completely suppressing his anger and frustration but also any violent inclinations he might have had... whatsoever. So that he should lose his grip on his temper in so violent and sudden a burst comes as as much of a shock to Holmes as the sun rising in the morning.
Of course, he had already fought five matches tonight, while Watson had done no such thing, and is already bruised and bleeding before Watson hits him, putting him at a slight disadvantage. On the other hand, Watson is thinking about as clearly as a child throwing a tantrum, whereas Holmes' mind remains clear as per usual, fueled only slightly by his own (not insubstantial) anger. Unfortunately, that doesn't save him from being tackled to the wall when Watson lunges at him, either trying to actually rip his head off or to break his neck, Holmes isn't quite certain that Watson himself knows what he is attempting.
It doesn't seem to matter, though, in terms of how much it hurts, so after a moment's struggling, Holmes grabs only one of Watson's arms, throwing what body weight he can into it and turning forcing Watson to let go or have his arm broken; he does, releasing Holmes' neck, but only long enough to throw another punch, which connects with Holmes' face. Yet at the same time, it gives the detective enough space between them to turn the tables, throwing his weight this time at the doctor in a lunge that knocks them both backwards into a chair, which unfortunately breaks under their combined weight when Watson lands on it.
He lands hard, his bad shoulder slamming into the broken pieces of the back of the chair, but he ignores this (as well as the air having gone out of him when Holmes had landed on him), choosing instead to attempt a knee to Holmes' groin, and failing that, to get a leg around the back of the other man's and flip them over. He gets a fist in the side for his troubles but manages a rather weakened punch with his left arm, his shoulder not as strong as it normally would be after colliding with the chair.
This continues on for several minutes, neither man able to get the upper hand over the other; they're normally fairly evenly matched, but with Watson's temper getting the better of him his greater strength doesn't account for much, and Holmes is already tired out from his bouts. Still, Watson had suppressed his temper for far too long and it doesn't appear to be running out any time soon. But it causes him to make stupid mistakes, such as when Holmes knocks him off balance and flips them back over, pinning him down.
Watson snarls, bucking and twisting and trying to get the other man off of him, but Holmes won't budge, and so he contents himself with glowering and swearing. "Impossible bastard," he grates out. In his right mind, he would not have resorted to insults, as Holmes is usually complimented by them, but just now... he's not exactly thinking clearly.
"Every day, and to the best of my not inconsiderable abilities," Holmes agrees roughly, fighting to keep Watson from throwing him off and trying to kill him again; it's far too satisfying to have Watson completely at his mercy for Holmes to give in and let him go, no matter how tired he might be. Tenacity is one of Holmes' virtues (so few and far between as they are), so much so that he often hits not only the point of stubbornness, but the point where it becomes unhealthy for him.
Still, he is unable to keep from making quips, which he would probably also call a virtue but most people do not agree with him on that point, Watson included. It's a bit difficult to breathe, however; Holmes determines thus that Watson's grip on his throat must have caused some damage. He can only hope it won't affect his ability to speak.
He does manage though, somehow, as he holds Watson down roughly; the doctor is glaring up at him and snarling, but Holmes' temper does not show in that manner. Holmes' temper, when it exists at all, is shown in fits of sullenness and through his actions. "You have a very interesting way of indicating your happiness, Watson," he manages, his voice as close to cool and composed as a man could be while holding down another man who is trying to strangle the life from him.
And yet, the tone of his words is very at odds with the look in his eyes, intense as usual and focused on Watson, but with a hint of something darker than usual there, an anger that he has not or will not explain the source of. The look is unusual enough in Holmes that even in his current state of fury, Watson is able to notice it. "If you are sick of pleasing everyone, then don't. If you cannot sleep, determine why that is so before attempting to fix it. Help me with the case or stay home and be a good husband, because that is your choice. But stop blaming me for every inconsistency in the life you are so determined must make you happy, because I am not the one who left."
"I wish I hadn't!"
Watson freezes, his head falling back onto the floor; it had been lifted up as he'd strained up against Holmes. But all the fight drains out of him very suddenly, to be replaced with bitterness, the intensity of which almost frightens him. He stares up at Holmes, who is, without a doubt, more enraged than Watson has ever seen him. Not in any sort of explosive way, but although Watson isn't quite certain what he's feeling just now (anger still, yes, but that's beneath something else he doesn't recognize), he knows he does not like the look in Holmes' eyes.
And the confession is out, now, the words said. He can't take them back. He turns, looks away, over at the door, helpless to do anything else, pinned as he is. "But it doesn't matter." He fixes his gaze on the small mouse hole near the doorframe, refusing to look away from it. "I've only been back a week and a half. I've been acting childishly. I should not have blamed you for my tantrums."
His jaw tightens, but there is no other visible reaction on his face, or on the side Holmes can see. "I'll settle in. It's... expected."
"Yes," Holmes says flatly after a moment, still staring down at Watson but now only able to see half of his face. That doesn't seem to matter, however, because whatever it is that had made him lash out so at Watson, not in his usual careless way of disregarding emotion, but rather a real reaction to some real or imagined offense, it disappears again after a long moment of regarding the doctor, still there but locked away as quickly as it had appeared.
He is not given to expressing emotions any more than Watson is, aside from immaturely and with very little tact. And Watson's admission has derailed him as much as his own words had taken the fight from the doctor, leaving Holmes uncertain what it is he should do now, still fighting back anger but unable to see the use in lashing out any more than he already had.
That's the crux of it all, he supposes. It's expected. Such things have never matter to Holmes, who is at best "bohemian" as Watson calls it or "eccentric" as other, less kind men do, and at worst borderline mad, a thing many men have called him. Holmes knows this, too, and could care less. He would rather be mad than an idiot. But Watson has always cared about things like that, things that are expected of him, what he should be doing rather than what it is he wants to do or what it is that would be reasonable.
It is a worldview that Holmes has never quite been able to reconcile with his own. But he knows it is true. Watson wants what he wants because he thinks he is supposed to want it, and he's too stubborn and unobservant to see his own moods and reactions betrayed him all along.
Holmes is happy to take a beating to help Watson work out his anger. He even tried to help Watson adjust as much as he could to his new life, once he'd given up trying to convince him that it was a mistake. But as much as Watson is tired of trying to please anyone and everyone, Holmes is tired of Watson assuming that he can reappear in Holmes' life and it will all be just the same because Holmes is just that desperate for any attention Watson will give to him.
"It is expected," he continues just as flatly, utterly monotone. "I know that is important to you." He pauses, letting that sink in for a moment, and the continues on, not looking at Watson any longer but rather off at something else. "I'm going to let you go now. Don't hit me again. I have a case to solve and enough bruises already."
Watson nods slowly, and Holmes rolls off of him. Watson sits up, and they end up next to each other on the floor, nursing their bruises and, in Watson's case, a bloody nose. In any other situation, he'd mutter something about that having been a good hit, but something keeps him from trying to move past all this with a joke.
"You have a case to solve?" he asks after a moment, his voice much quieter than usual. "Not we?"
He looks away again, knowing that's not a fair question to ask Holmes. The other man is right. Watson has been unfair to him. "I'm sorry. That was unfair." But still hurts. "I shouldn't have blamed you," he repeats, the guilt hitting him even more strongly than it had with Mary the week before. He'd made his decision months ago but hadn't wanted to live with it. That's the truth, isn't it? His inability to handle all of it, to take responsibility for his own actions, his own choices. It's not fair at all to blame Holmes when he, Watson, is the one who can't stay away.
Where is the determination he'd had months ago, the insistence that he'd set himself on the right course, the way things had to be? The knowledge that he'd made the right choice, and both he and Holmes had to grow up. Where is that decisiveness? He needs it now, and it has deserted him. He's given his word to Mary, taken vows he cannot break. His duty is to her, now, above himself, and she would be furious with him not because he'd stepped foot in this place (though that would certainly bring disappointment and anger over funds lost), but because he'll no doubt hide it from her.
"Of course it's important to me," he says finally, staring down at his boots and at the tear in the knee of his trousers. "It has to be." It's how things are done, after all. He'd done everything correctly, fallen in love, gotten married, a new home, a successful job... and yet the only time he truly finds satisfaction is with his friend on a case. His practice brings him a sort of similar feeling, but not nearly to the same extent. And all he's done is disappoint his wife over the past few weeks.
He'd thought he could have both. Thought he could manage it. But clearly, his psyche cannot.
"It has to be because it is expected or it is expected because it has to be?" Holmes asks, almost musing aloud now more than actually asking Watson a question to which he requires an answer, which is normal and would be a much more encouraging step towards his usual demeanor if he had not also ignored Watson's first question, nor looked at him. He is instead inspecting a long cut on his arm that he vaguely recalls receiving when they fell on top of the chair and it broke beneath their combined weight. It's only a flesh wound, however, and the bleeding is already beginning to slow.
It is important to Watson that he do what is expected... because it is expected, is what Holmes hears. The detective turns that over several times in his mind before declaring that it is the least sensible thing Watson has ever said, and the man has quite a record (which Holmes has kept very thorough track of). And yet Watson hasn't the slightest, simply cannot step outside himself to see what little sense it makes, and Holmes feels no desire to explain it to him. Normally he would love nothing more than to explain something to Watson in great detail, especially something about Watson. Normally he can rely on Watson to follow his deductions; if not before he reveals them, Watson is at very least quite capable of following his logic after the fact.
Before Watson there had been no such person. Before Watson no one had bothered or tried to see the world through Holmes' eyes, to observe the world as he does unendingly, to make the constant deductions from every minute observation he makes with a mind that he cannot stop. No one had noticed when he would get so tangled in his own thoughts that he would have to do something, anything, to release the pressure, that discussing his cases with someone who did not inhabit his brain could help. No one could see that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
It had been very lonely, to be Holmes before Watson.
That thought almost makes Holmes sigh, but he manages not to. It was lonely, but he managed. It has still been lonely even with Watson, he reminds himself. His island of logic and deduction that he inhabits had been extended a bit to allow Watson access, but he always left in the end, back to his own world, the world most people inhabit, leaving Holmes alone in his mind. And, too, he reminds himself, he had a life before Watson. He did not depend on anyone. It can be that way again. But not if he continually tries to do what he's been doing for years, which is to force Watson to step back and look at what he would not otherwise see. Not in this case. Not if he continues to lead Watson along the way he always has. Eventually, he has to let Watson see for himself. If he chooses to also observe, that is Watson's choice.
So, after a moment, Holmes looks away from his arm over at Watson, whose trousers are torn and is looking a bit worse for wear in more ways than one. And though he'd been hoping for some sort of reaction, Holmes finds that he does not care for that guilt-stricken look on the doctor's face. Lord. How he manages to make even Holmes feel bad sometimes is undoubtedly a miracle. "It's not entirely your fault, Watson," he says after a moment, his tone much more normal suddenly, although subdued. He hands Watson a handkerchief when he spots the bleeding nose, since that was obviously his doing. "I've been taunting you into things you would not normally agree to. You make it easy."
Watson snorts at that, but they don’t fall into the same comfortable silence that they normally would have. Because what they’re both saying sound so… final, and he doesn’t think he can stand for it. But that sort of feeling, of not wanting to adhere to the choices he himself had made, is what had led them here, to be sitting on the floor after beating each other.
“I try my hardest,” he says drily, but his voice is just as subdued as Holmes’. “But you’re wrong, old boy. A few months ago… this would have been perfectly normal.”
They don’t move for a long few minutes, but finally Watson clears his throat and begins hauling himself to his feet, reaching down to offer Holmes his hand. He takes it, and Watson leans backward, lifting his friend to his feet as well. He doesn’t let go of his hand immediately, though, frowning down at the slice along Holmes’ forearm.
“You should clean that,” he says sternly, seeing that the bleeding has nearly stopped. Before Holmes can protest, he grabs the bottle of scotch and holds it out, still not relinquishing his grasp on the other man’s hand. It doesn’t escape his notice that Holmes is still gripping his hand, as well, and he pauses, looking up at the detective, worry etched into his forehead.
“Holmes?” he asks, frowning.
Holmes does not respond immediately, but slowly reaches out to take the bottle from Watson, who can never quite leave the doctor behind. For a moment, it seems as though Holmes is on the verge of saying something, something important, no doubt, from the way he clearly is taking his time about it, but in the end he seems to resolve not to, instead closing his hand around the bottle and letting go of Watson's hand with the other. Before Watson can stop him or attempt to do it himself, Holmes pours a not-insubstantial amount of the alcohol over the wound on his arm.
It hurts like hell, of course, and much as he tries, Holmes can't suppress the grunt of pain, though he does then grind his teeth together, his face scrunching together a little. The swearing comes after, muttered cursing that dies off quickly only because he then moves to drink a great deal more of the scotch, which had been his intention in the first damn place. He wanted alcohol in his bloodstream. Just not in that manner.
At least feeling a little bit relieved by something so normal, Holmes swallows and promptly shakes his head as if to clear it, which sprays sweat, blood, and some scotch on the floor beneath him. "It gets worse every month, and they charge more for it with each decrease in quality," he says, again almost to himself. He is no doubt baffled by the fact that he nevertheless buys it every time. Economics is a wonder and terrible psychological sort of science.
Not disagreeing, Watson reaches over to take the bottle from him, downing a not insubstantial amount himself, and his reaction is much the same as Holmes', albeit accompanied with a small grimace. But just now, he needs the fortification. Thirst quenched, he hands the bottle back to Holmes and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
"You drink free most nights anyway," he points out. But much as he might wish to split that bottle... he can't. Not after what had just happened. Not after that fight, and all that had been said.
A shot goes off downstairs, making them both look up at the door automatically, and finally Watson shakes his head. He knows what has to happen now. He's no longer a man of action, or whatever Holmes had called him that night at the Royale. He's going to have enough trouble explaining all of this as it is, even if the idea of having to explain his actions to anyone at all makes him want to punch something again.
"I'm heading home," he says finally, still staring at the door, but then he looks up at Holmes, knowing that there is a finality to this. He won't be coming back here. Nor will he be spending the rest of the night gallivanting off with his best friend. Hell, who is he kidding, his only real friend. He might want it, but it would be too short, too brief and would leave him only wanting more of it. This has to be the end, as the Blackwood affair should have been.
He clears his throat again, holding out his hand. "Goodnight, Holmes."
For a moment, Holmes stares down at Watson's hand, silent and obviously hesitating. This... he had not imagined this would happen when Watson appeared earlier. He had never imagined he would allow all of this without a fight, either, in the figurative sense of course as there had been a fight. Would never have imagined not wanting Watson to come with him while he is investigating a case. But at this particular moment in time... he does not want Watson along.
And so in the end, Holmes takes Watson's hand, forcing his grip to be no less firm than usual. His own anger has been firmly leashed, leaving only a hint of resignation that he is trying to keep to himself and a very strong desire to be anywhere but here. Quickly he forces his mind to the case, letting go of Watson's hand and also the other case, the one he had styled around the doctor.
He'd berated Watson for blaming him for his problems, but the truth is that Watson is at very least trying to let go, while Holmes has not only not even attempted, he has actively tried to prevent either of them from doing so. Watson's new life, ordered and proper as it is, has no real place in it for all that is Sherlock Holmes, which is something Holmes had seen from the beginning but Watson had only slowly begun to realize, until now.
Holmes returns his attention to the bottle, looking away from the doctor. Tomorrow night two more men will die, and that, Holmes decides, is much more worthy of his concentration than John Watson, his new life, or his denial. "Goodnight, Watson."
Watson remains, staring at Holmes' bare back, for a long few seconds before turning on his heel, pulling his hat onto his head in the same motion and stepping through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. And on this chapter of his life, he reminds himself silently. Not on Holmes, no, but on his role as the detective's colleague rather than just his friend.
And what part would you play in Holmes' life without allowing yourself to be involved with his cases? a quiet, traitorous voice asks in the back of his mind. But he pushes that away, making his way down the narrow staircase and slipping out the door, the loud noise from the current bout following him out into the alley, as if summoning him back.
He almost hopes to be mugged. Walks the entire way back home, through the worst paths he can find, but his ire must show in his demeanor because even the group of thugs on the corner turn away, clearly not wanting to bother. He'd give anything for the release of another physical confrontation, feels only worse after the one he'd had with Holmes, and his stomach is in knots of tension by the time he reaches Cavendish Place, reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat for his key.
But hiding the key is a thick lump of paper, one that crackles as he searches about... and he freezes, pulling out the notes and then looking up the steps to the front door. All the windows are already dark. He'd sent no note to Mary, but she's asleep now. Why should he wake her? In his current mood, he'd do nothing but upset them both.
He should restore his mood before returning to his wife. That will do everyone some good. So, turning, he makes his way back down the street and around several corners until he reaches a pub, ironically the same one he often frequents with Holmes, as it's rather close to Baker Street. "Gin," he mutters when the barkeeper comes over to take his order. He has one. And then he has another. And a third. By the time he finishes his fourth, he's been talked into a dice game in the back room by the usual hustlers, and he's too angry, at himself and Holmes and the painful feeling in his gut to say no, even though he's aware, even through an alcoholic haze, that it's a bad idea.
Several hours later, as the sky is beginning to lighten, Clarkey (who'd been on his way to Baker Street) finds Watson stumbling in the direction of Cavendish Place, pausing to vomit every few minutes. "Doctor Watson," he says, startled, and when Watson nearly topples over turning to see who'd addressed him, Clarkey slips a neat arm beneath the doctor's shoulders, supporting him down the street. "Let's get you home, sir."
Mary Watson opens the door before he even gets Watson up the stairs, looking exhausted and more than slightly angry. Clarkey decides that it's not worth male solidarity to take Watson's side in this, saying quickly, "Found him coming out of Greenway's Pub, Missus Watson. Thought I should make sure he made it home all right."
"Thank you," Mary says immediately, giving the officer a truly thankful glance very briefly before focusing solely on her husband, who receives the sort of glare that most husbands and all sons live in fear of. Clarkey, wisely, bids them a muttered goodnight and promptly vanishes.
This of course leaves only Mary to lead her husband up the stairs into their house; he makes every attempt to stumble his way in, but since he doesn't appear to be capable of walking in a straight line, Mary does her best to help. The only problem being that she is half the size of her husband, and when he stumbles he simply... takes her with him.
Still, she does manage to at the very least get him inside and the door shut behind him; that was really all she was hoping for. And although she continues to watch him, the glare she had affixed on him has by this time become more a disappointed, perhaps even slightly resigned stare. There will be no talking to him tonight... or rather, this morning, she supposes. She might not even speak to him after he's managed to sleep this off. Frankly... Mary has no idea what to make of this, or what it is she could possibly say.
Watson wakes on the couch around nine later that morning, having gotten some four hours of unconscious rest. At some point he'd dragged himself from the hallway to the parlor and the couch, but he doesn't recall that. He doesn't recall coming home. Or anything after he'd gone into Greenway's, actually. But he doesn't have time to try to jog his memory, because he wakes to Charly standing over him, holding out a small package wrapped in brown paper.
"Housekeeper let me in," he says cheerfully. "'Imself sent me. I'm owed a shilling from you, Doctor Sir."
Watson, whose head is apparently melting, waves him off for a moment and sits up, unwrapping the package and staring blearily at the small folded paper tied around a syringe filled with green-blue liquid. It takes his hungover brain a moment to realize what that is, and then he rips the twine from the small paper, seeing only two words in Holmes' scrawl.
Do hurry.
Without putting on more than his shoes, Watson is sprinting out of the house in his shirtsleeves and trousers, leaving behind t even his walking stick as he bolts towards Baker Street, his heart pounding in time with the throbbing in his skull. But he pays neither any attention, shouldering open the front door to 221B and sprinting up the stairs, nearly bowling over Mrs. Hudson with her laundry basket.
"Doctor--" she calls. He ignores her, slamming the door to the rooms open and peering frantically about in the gloom. He can't see Holmes and turns to hurry towards his bedroom, but instead trips over a large lump lying on the tiger skin in front of the fire. A lump that is far too big to be Gladstone.
"Holmes!" He drops to his knees without even a grunt of discomfort in his leg (not that he notices anyway), unclenching his hand from around the syringe and checking his friend's pulse. Thready, his breathing uneven. Only his eyes are moving, and display no surprise to see Watson there and in a panic.
Taking a deep breath and praying Holmes had been right as ever, Watson finds a vein and injects the contents of the syringe immediately before sitting back and starting to pray, his body slowly recovering from his half-mile sprint. "I'm going--to--kill you," he manages weakly. "You damned idiot, if this doesn't work..."
A moment later, there is a finger twitch in response, and Watson's still-panicked eyes catch a movement of Holmes' leg. Not waiting for anything more, he lunges forward, his arms suddenly wrapped around his friend's torso in tight bands, his face buried in Holmes' rather messy hair. The terror that had hit him just a few moments before, when he'd seen that syringe and had immediately realized what Holmes had done... He can't manage speech, not now. Wordlessly, he just sits there, propping up the other man by way of an embrace that's more of a strangling than anything else.
It is taking rather longer than he had hoped for the antidote to do its work, but then again, when he had done the calculations with Gladstone, he had injected the antidote immediately as soon as the dog had been fully paralyzed. He, on the other hand, had lied there for some time (Holmes does not know how long).
It had been an interesting exercise, seeing exactly the route the paralytic took as he quickly lost the ability to move one limb after another. Now it is the same in reverse, but much slower. And yet Holmes finds that interested though he is in the chemical and anatomical conclusions one could draw from firsthand experience of the paralytic and antidote... his mind will not focus on the matter at hand, not after Watson... either is holding on to him for dear life or trying to kill him, Holmes hasn't decided.
What exactly he is doing doesn't matter, however, because even paralyzed, Holmes' eyes had been open and had seen everything. The fact that Watson is here and lacking... just about everything but his shirt and shoes, along with the fact that said shirt, trousers, and shoes are all last night's, indicate that he had been woken up by Holmes' missive. His disheveled appearance added to the way his eyes had stopped squinting so much when he had wandered into the gloom of these rooms and the rather overpowering smell of alcohol in his sweat (no doubt from the sprint over here) indicate his whereabouts the night before, once he had left Holmes' company. The fact that he had gone drinking rather than home the night before suggests something entirely different, and that added to the fact that he had run here without his walking stick and is now trying to smother Holmes to death all indicate... well.
The night before, Holmes had told himself he wasn't going to do something like this. He had told himself that if Watson was through with him, then so would he be with Watson. And then the morning had dawned and Holmes had realized that he needed to test this antidote before the grand finale tonight... and he had no one to help him. He'd told himself it was in the name of science and saving lives that he called upon Watson one last time, that this was not dragging the doctor into his case but rather calling upon his expertise as a physician. He told himself that the case and the possibility that men would die if he did not perfect this antidote was why he had done this.
And that's all true, Holmes allows as he feels his toes and fingers start to tingle in a most interesting sort of manner, all at once. And though he very well would have done this regardless of Watson's presence or lack thereof, the fact remains that he still sent Watson the note, literally trusting the doctor with his life. And it's about as Holmes begins to have feeling in his face again that he realizes that the reason he had done this- not taken the paralytic, because he certainly would have done that no matter the circumstances, but rather he had taken it and then called upon Watson- has nothing to do with science or the case but everything to do with proving to himself that Watson would still come save him.
For a long time, Holmes cannot move. For a few minutes after that, he pretends not to be able to move, telling himself that he is simply waiting to be certain so that he doesn't fall over or harm himself. It's hard to breathe, but he isn't entirely convinced that's simply due to the physical constraints Watson's arms are providing. Holmes knows he's not entirely recovered from the paralytic just yet, too, because he feels weak enough that should Watson not be there, he would not be able to lift himself. The entire situation feels strangely like a metaphor in one of Watson's romantic recountings of their adventures, at least until Holmes realizes he had thought that and berates himself until the thought goes away.
Eventually, though, Holmes can no longer allow that he isn't recovered enough. Or rather... the need to say something outweighs the desire to stay as he is, being slightly smothered and very nearly enveloped by Watson. Of course it is the need to say something that outweighs everything. "Please wait... until tomorrow," he finally manages, exceedingly weakly. Not only is it hard to breathe, but it's hard to move... anything, his jaw and tongue included. He has to very deliberately force everything to work, and so his voice comes out feeble. "To kill me."
At this, Watson immediately releases Holmes from his grasp, feeling his friend's limpness in his arms and carefully lowering him back down to the tiger skin. He convinces himself that it's entirely the fact that he's a doctor that he's strangely not uncomfortable, even considering their close contact a moment before. Instead, he busies himself continuing to check Holmes' pulse and breathing every moment or so; not having a stethoscope, he rolls up a nearby piece of parchment and leans down, putting one end to Holmes' chest and the other to his ear.
His breathing is slowly returning to normal, and his pulse is beginning to increase to a normal rate again, but it's still not where Watson is comfortable, and he glares down at Holmes. "Move and I'll thrash you." He wants so desperately to grasp his friend by the shoulders and shake him, to ask him what had possessed him to do that all on his own in the apartment. But to ask would be pointless, as he knows what answer he'll receive, and so he doesn't bother wasting the breath, hit suddenly by the desire to pass out all on his own.
But he forces himself to stay awake, and it's not as hard as it might have been, knowing Holmes is recovering from the paralytic. He doesn't say a word, just reaches up and sets the syringe on the side table so it won't be broken, and reaches down to take Holmes' pulse again, his fingers pressed lightly on the other man's carotid artery. "I'll only be repeating myself if I tell you how much of an arse you are."
To that, Holmes makes a noncommittal noise that can probably be taken as an assent. At the moment, he is not so very inclined to move. Not really because Watson had told him he would thrash him, although he believes that Watson would certainly try, he is too very obviously under the weather himself to succeed. More because his limbs still tingle and his first and only real attempt to move his head had produced interesting spots in his vision.
While he would like to document all of this, Holmes however does not particularly wish to pass out. He has things he must accomplish today, and he is half convinced that if he did lose consciousness, Watson might very well have an aneurysm.
"It works," is all Holmes manages to say in response, and it amazes no one that even with those two words his priorities and outlook on life are clearly demonstrated. He doesn't mind being an arse at all, so long as he is a correct arse.
That gets a snort out of his best friend, who is very tempted to just lie down next to Holmes and sleep until he wakes all on his own... but these plans are thwarted when Mrs. Hudson enters the room, followed by Charly, who is carrying Watson's coat, jacket, hat, and walking stick, and sets them down on the chaise, eyeing the two men curiously. "Somebody owes me two shillings," he says loudly, making them both wince. "For the carryin'."
Watson just closes his eyes, not wanting to deal with it, but then hauls himself to his knees with a groan, digging into his pocket for some change as he recalls exactly how he'd left the house. "An extra shilling if you go back to Cavendish Place and tell my wife..." He trails off, not really having anything specific to tell her. He's already in trouble; waking up on the couch with a hangover had secured that, even without sprinting out with no warning. He finds that he no longer cares. She can be angry and/or disappointed with him all she wants, he's not going to move more than a foot before he passes out.
"Tell her I'm sorry for leaving without speaking to her, but it was an emergency. I'll be back later." Message thus composed, he manages a nod for Mrs. Hudson while his eyes are closing even as he's sitting up.
Luckily, neither Mrs. Hudson nor Charly is ever startled by anything that goes on here, and so Mrs. Hudson kindly leads the boy out of the room once he has been paid. She shuts the door behind them a little too loudly for both men; Holmes winces, but Watson's wince is much worse, and Holmes (who can understand that feeling quite well) finds himself feeling just a little bad about that. Just slightly. He would never, ever, tell Watson that, however, because he'd be unbearably smug to have wrung some small sign of human sympathy from the detective.
He's distracted enough by how severely pathetic Watson appears at the moment that he doesn't even make a single quip about his leaving without speaking to his wife. Certainly he will mull that over in great detail later, but just now Holmes is rather focused on his hung-over friend.
"Watson," he says once Mrs. Hudson's footsteps fade; some strength is beginning to return to his voice, although he has not progressed to blinking his eyes repeatedly in an attempt to clear them. He also doesn't attempt to sit up yet, but he does manage to move his head enough to stare up at the doctor. Watson looks very strange from this upside-down angle. Watson looks very strange as hung-over and miserable as he is no matter what angle you look at him from. Certainly the fact that he is sporting bruises on his face from their fight the night before does not help. "Lie down before you pass out, I cannot catch you."
Watson starts to shake his head, but then thinks better of that idea when pain lances behind his eyes, and immediately stills himself again, responding verbally instead. "Not until I'm certain you've recovered safely." For once, his brain is too pained and exhausted to make excuses to himself that the doctor in him insists on caring for Holmes after one of his stunts. He simply won't be able to sleep until he knows his friend is safe.
"So hurry up." It's said in a more humorous tone than he'd thought he'd be able to manage in his current state, but to his surprise he does succeed. Carefully, he leans back against the settee, reaching over to take Holmes' pulse again, his fingers not so businesslike as usual but much more clumsy as he searches beneath Holmes' collar for his pulse. Steadier. Less feathering, but not enough, not yet. His hand stays resting on his friend's shoulder until he can summon the strength to move it, a few seconds too late.
He clears his throat, letting the erstwhile appendage fall next to his side. "I think," he manages in a weak voice a moment later, "I may have let Pete and his boys cheat me out of a hundred pound last night." He swallows hard, recalling the feeling that had driven him to the pub in the first place, and decides immediately that he desperately does not want to think about that just now.
He manages to lighten his voice, not that it would be possible to tell considering how pained it sounds. "How do you feel?"
How does he feel? Holmes actually does spend a moment to ruminate on that before responding; to questions like that, he is bound to either give an off-the-cuff, possibly unrelated, answer or one that is far too detailed. Right now, though, he is not quite sure how he feels.
A moment before, Holmes had been concentrating on Watson's hangover in equal measure with his own state, feeling his strength returning and measuring it in his own manner. Now he is considering the fact that Watson had said he would not pass out until Holmes had recovered... and the fact that he is half-sprawled himself next to the detective. Not to mention the very dawdling checking of his pulse.
What Watson says about losing his money, followed by the slight change in his demeanor, does not surprise Holmes in the least. But he does not respond to that, at least, not yet. It is still a bit difficult to speak.
So he lifts his arm a little, disregarding Watson's insistence that he not move and the threat that had come with it, in order to look at his hand for a moment, moving his fingers in a careful test before letting it fall again on the ground next to Watson's hand, so that they are just barely touching. "All limbs accounted for and capable of movement. I expect a full recovery." Of course, he had expected that from the beginning, but Watson worries even when it is unreasonable.
Closing his eyes as if in pain (although this time, it's not due to the hangover, difficult as it is to separate that from the other throbbing in his brain, now; this is more of the psychological sort), Watson refrains from shaking his head only because it would cause a feeling similar to the pounding of nails into his skull. "Of course you do," he mutters. "Forgive me if I intend to test that theory before seeking my own rest and leaving you to your own devices." Lord know what Holmes would get up to while Watson slept.
He noticed, of course, immediately when Holmes' hand dropped down next to his own. Of course, the entirety of him is rather sensitive at the moment, owing to the slow receding of the immense amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, and so the physical contact is magnified. He's not sure if that's a medical explanation, can't actually recall if it is or not, but everything else seems magnified at the moment, so that's clearly why he was jolted by Holmes' hand touching his own, obviously unintentionally... and then not moving.
Well, why should it? It's not as though they don't typically have a normal amount of physical contact. They clap each other's shoulders and shake hands all the time, not to mention hauling one another out of scrapes... or getting into them. So there really is no explanation as to why his mind has decided to dwell on one small, continuing half-touch. He blames his current headache.
And yet, when he reaches up to check Holmes' pulse again some ten minutes later, he has to convince himself to use that hand. To use the other would be ridiculous, would mean he would have to turn and twist sideways... which he'll have to do anyway to check the other man's breathing, so perhaps he should...
Sighing, he has to remove his hand anyway to roll up the paper, and he checks his pulse and breathing once more before falling back again, more or less satisfied. "A steady return to normal rates, although your breathing is more strained than I would like. But barring any sudden disaster, I believe you'll be all right, as well."
Keeping the information that his breathing is no doubt strained due to the fact that Watson had tried to strangle him the night before to himself, Holmes takes that to mean that he can now attempt to sit up. Which he does, blinking a few times and running a hand through his hair when the action makes him horrendously dizzy. Blood rushing to his head. Right.
Barring any sudden disasters. Well, Holmes does intend a few disasters today but they will not be sudden and since they are intended, he concludes that they cannot actually be deemed disasters. Thus, he does not share his intentions with Watson. Rather, now he is once again focused, having proven without a doubt that the antidote works as expected.
"Wonderful," he mutters, swaying a little now that he's sitting but not seeming to notice or mind in the slightest. "Then I shall have to produce more." Watson's eyes widen, and Holmes realizes quickly that he could think that he means to be injected with the paralytic again, or some such nonsense (actually, it might very well happen). Holmes tilts his head to the side, giving the doctor a patented look suggesting that Watson is being ridiculous as per usual, the effect of which is somehow not lessened by his swaying or continuous blinking. "As a fail-safe, Watson. You wouldn't expect me to face a murderer carrying a possibly deadly paralytic without an antidote."
No. No, Watson would not expect that. But Holmes is looking as though he plans to stand, and that, Watson will not be tolerating. So he waits, patient as ever, until the other man makes it to his knees before reaching up more quickly than he should have been able to while so violently hung-over, and grasping Holmes' arm, dragging him back down.
"You are not standing yet," he says firmly, ignoring the pounding in his skull. "Not just after waking up from a paralytic. If you're getting up again, it's only to lie down on the settee." Holmes collapses next to him again, this time so they're facing the same direction, and Watson does not relinquish his tight grip on the other man's arm, nor does he move aside when Holmes ends up rather closer to him than usual. He's not even tensed, but far too distracted by his headache, which is rapidly achieving monumental proportions, to care about much of anything at all beyond Holmes not giving himself enough time to recover.
Holmes' eyes widen almost comically as he is suddenly pulled back down to a seated position, unable to resist Watson's grip without having had some sort of forewarning. His eyes remain widened for a minute or so after while the world tilts a bit around him and then continues to sway no matter how many times he blinks to clear his vision.
Accustomed to this (and other strange physical reaction to chemicals) as he is, Holmes nevertheless spends a minute watching the room tilt and sway with widened eyes, until it slows and then stops and he turns to look at Watson. The doctor still has quite a firm grip on his arm, which is undoubtedly wise, considering the fact that they both know that if he did not, Holmes would roll away and scamper to his feet and out of Watson's reach just to prove that he could.
But he is holding on to Holmes' arm, and moving is thus made impossible until Watson does actually pass out, and so Holmes settles in where he is, next to the doctor and doing his level best to both ignore how closely they are seated and to impersonate a sullen child as he sits. "I could lie down on the settee," he mumbles after a moment, to a look from Watson suggesting that he knows very well that Holmes has no intention of getting up to do anything but hurry off and cause more trouble than he already has. The sullenness increases. "Science will not wait indefinitely for the room to stop spinning, and that is a fact." One he has tested many times.
"Nor will the murderer wait for you to recover if you lose your balance and hit your head on something," Watson points out quite logically, forcing his eyes open. "Nor if you mix anything incorrectly will your antidote help anyone at all." His hand tightens on Holmes' arm. "Stay put, old boy." Pause. "Please."
They remain there for nearly half an hour, unmoving but for Watson's head continually dropping towards Holmes' shoulder before he jerks it back up. This happens multiple times, Watson far too close to sleep to really care where he is anymore. He stares over at the table legs, their claw foots scuffed and scratched, one of them missing nearly all of its wooden stain as Gladstone had apparently used it as a chew toy.
He does, however, remember to shove the other man's shirt up to his elbow (on the arm he's holding, of course), checking the cut from the night before. It looks well enough, no redness or swelling, and it's not deep enough to need stitching, but he still mumbles an apology for it, the guilt never having left him even through all of his imbibing at the pub and his subsequent illness.
Finally, though, he loses the battle against sleep, his hand loosening from around Holmes' arm as his head hits his friend's shoulder and he drops into unconsciousness, his body unable to remain awake.
Of course Watson would find a way to keep him in place even after he drops off into unconsciousness, Holmes thinks, still a bit sullen. He would be much more sullen about all of this on any other day, but after the night before... well, despite his nearly overwhelming desire to get to work, to immerse himself in the case at hand as he always does, in Holmes' mind instead there exists a reel of images on repeat. Watson's anger the night before, the guilt written all over his face after their fight, the confused determination on it when he'd said goodnight and meant goodbye (and then the hesitation when Holmes had turned from him)... and then this morning, the panic and anger at finding the detective on the floor, having administered to himself the paralytic and the worry afterwards.
No matter the vague, impractical hope that Holmes had felt for a moment upon seeing Watson come rushing into the room, panicked and hung-over. The night before had still happened, and that is not rendered meaningless by any leftover worry on the doctor's part. Holmes finds his mood, having been somewhat improved for a brief period upon seeing Watson, deteriorates quickly once the doctor passes out and is no longer scowling or looking pathetic and distracting him.
And yet he stays were he is for some minutes, allowing Watson to sleep on shoulder, or rather to remain unconscious there, while Holmes stares across the room at the wall, no expression on his face because he cannot seem to find one that suits this situation. Watson is passed out on his shoulder, peaceful as Holmes has not seen him in a long time, and Holmes finds himself wishing unreasonably that they could just stay like this for the rest of the day.
But duty calls, and eventually Holmes slowly rolls the sleeve of his shirt back down over the wound from the night before, intending to get up and begin his work now that Watson cannot stop him... and then he stays where he is against all reason and the need for haste. If Holmes wasn't so busy trying not to disturb Watson (who looks so much more peaceful, and younger, when he sleeps)... and not to realize that this will undoubtedly be the very last time they ever sit like this, that he will ever have Watson lean on him in any sort of fashion, Holmes would be very angry with Watson for making him behave so irrationally.
~~~~~
Part Six
Author: agaryulnaer86 and Sarisa
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Still don't own. Alas.
Summary: More adjustment issues. And some boxing.
Spoilers: Movie?
Warnings: Still with the angst, and a decent hangover.
Word Count: 9,108
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part five. This is the last one I'm posting tonight.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
~~~~~
It doesn't register with Watson, at first, to what exactly Holmes is referring. His eyes are still huge, and once it hits him that the other man is simply referring to the wagers, is completely ignoring Watson's outburst of less than a moment before... he just gapes, face entirely red.
He had just exploded, lost his temper in a wave and snarled at his friend for several minutes, and Holmes' only response is that he should either keep the wagers or not... and not shout.
He stands, very still for a long minute, but then without warning rears back and punches his friend square in the face, fast enough that even Holmes with his baritsu training has no time to block it. Holmes stumbles backwards... and then an instant later, it is Watson who's stumbling, pain exploding from his nose.
His eyes are red as he lets out a wordless snarl of a yell and tackles his friend, slamming him back into the wall and clearly doing his level best to kill the other man.
All of this, Holmes knows how to handle, what to expect. After all, he had just been fighting, and despite Watson's many denials, it was not uncommon before his departure for the two men to engage in physical violence to solve their problems. Holmes has no illusions about his own violent tendencies any more than he has illusions about his other pursuits in the realm of the physical (and by pursuits, he means what Watson would call "vices").
But Watson is wading in what appears to be a river of denial, and seems to have not only been completely suppressing his anger and frustration but also any violent inclinations he might have had... whatsoever. So that he should lose his grip on his temper in so violent and sudden a burst comes as as much of a shock to Holmes as the sun rising in the morning.
Of course, he had already fought five matches tonight, while Watson had done no such thing, and is already bruised and bleeding before Watson hits him, putting him at a slight disadvantage. On the other hand, Watson is thinking about as clearly as a child throwing a tantrum, whereas Holmes' mind remains clear as per usual, fueled only slightly by his own (not insubstantial) anger. Unfortunately, that doesn't save him from being tackled to the wall when Watson lunges at him, either trying to actually rip his head off or to break his neck, Holmes isn't quite certain that Watson himself knows what he is attempting.
It doesn't seem to matter, though, in terms of how much it hurts, so after a moment's struggling, Holmes grabs only one of Watson's arms, throwing what body weight he can into it and turning forcing Watson to let go or have his arm broken; he does, releasing Holmes' neck, but only long enough to throw another punch, which connects with Holmes' face. Yet at the same time, it gives the detective enough space between them to turn the tables, throwing his weight this time at the doctor in a lunge that knocks them both backwards into a chair, which unfortunately breaks under their combined weight when Watson lands on it.
He lands hard, his bad shoulder slamming into the broken pieces of the back of the chair, but he ignores this (as well as the air having gone out of him when Holmes had landed on him), choosing instead to attempt a knee to Holmes' groin, and failing that, to get a leg around the back of the other man's and flip them over. He gets a fist in the side for his troubles but manages a rather weakened punch with his left arm, his shoulder not as strong as it normally would be after colliding with the chair.
This continues on for several minutes, neither man able to get the upper hand over the other; they're normally fairly evenly matched, but with Watson's temper getting the better of him his greater strength doesn't account for much, and Holmes is already tired out from his bouts. Still, Watson had suppressed his temper for far too long and it doesn't appear to be running out any time soon. But it causes him to make stupid mistakes, such as when Holmes knocks him off balance and flips them back over, pinning him down.
Watson snarls, bucking and twisting and trying to get the other man off of him, but Holmes won't budge, and so he contents himself with glowering and swearing. "Impossible bastard," he grates out. In his right mind, he would not have resorted to insults, as Holmes is usually complimented by them, but just now... he's not exactly thinking clearly.
"Every day, and to the best of my not inconsiderable abilities," Holmes agrees roughly, fighting to keep Watson from throwing him off and trying to kill him again; it's far too satisfying to have Watson completely at his mercy for Holmes to give in and let him go, no matter how tired he might be. Tenacity is one of Holmes' virtues (so few and far between as they are), so much so that he often hits not only the point of stubbornness, but the point where it becomes unhealthy for him.
Still, he is unable to keep from making quips, which he would probably also call a virtue but most people do not agree with him on that point, Watson included. It's a bit difficult to breathe, however; Holmes determines thus that Watson's grip on his throat must have caused some damage. He can only hope it won't affect his ability to speak.
He does manage though, somehow, as he holds Watson down roughly; the doctor is glaring up at him and snarling, but Holmes' temper does not show in that manner. Holmes' temper, when it exists at all, is shown in fits of sullenness and through his actions. "You have a very interesting way of indicating your happiness, Watson," he manages, his voice as close to cool and composed as a man could be while holding down another man who is trying to strangle the life from him.
And yet, the tone of his words is very at odds with the look in his eyes, intense as usual and focused on Watson, but with a hint of something darker than usual there, an anger that he has not or will not explain the source of. The look is unusual enough in Holmes that even in his current state of fury, Watson is able to notice it. "If you are sick of pleasing everyone, then don't. If you cannot sleep, determine why that is so before attempting to fix it. Help me with the case or stay home and be a good husband, because that is your choice. But stop blaming me for every inconsistency in the life you are so determined must make you happy, because I am not the one who left."
"I wish I hadn't!"
Watson freezes, his head falling back onto the floor; it had been lifted up as he'd strained up against Holmes. But all the fight drains out of him very suddenly, to be replaced with bitterness, the intensity of which almost frightens him. He stares up at Holmes, who is, without a doubt, more enraged than Watson has ever seen him. Not in any sort of explosive way, but although Watson isn't quite certain what he's feeling just now (anger still, yes, but that's beneath something else he doesn't recognize), he knows he does not like the look in Holmes' eyes.
And the confession is out, now, the words said. He can't take them back. He turns, looks away, over at the door, helpless to do anything else, pinned as he is. "But it doesn't matter." He fixes his gaze on the small mouse hole near the doorframe, refusing to look away from it. "I've only been back a week and a half. I've been acting childishly. I should not have blamed you for my tantrums."
His jaw tightens, but there is no other visible reaction on his face, or on the side Holmes can see. "I'll settle in. It's... expected."
"Yes," Holmes says flatly after a moment, still staring down at Watson but now only able to see half of his face. That doesn't seem to matter, however, because whatever it is that had made him lash out so at Watson, not in his usual careless way of disregarding emotion, but rather a real reaction to some real or imagined offense, it disappears again after a long moment of regarding the doctor, still there but locked away as quickly as it had appeared.
He is not given to expressing emotions any more than Watson is, aside from immaturely and with very little tact. And Watson's admission has derailed him as much as his own words had taken the fight from the doctor, leaving Holmes uncertain what it is he should do now, still fighting back anger but unable to see the use in lashing out any more than he already had.
That's the crux of it all, he supposes. It's expected. Such things have never matter to Holmes, who is at best "bohemian" as Watson calls it or "eccentric" as other, less kind men do, and at worst borderline mad, a thing many men have called him. Holmes knows this, too, and could care less. He would rather be mad than an idiot. But Watson has always cared about things like that, things that are expected of him, what he should be doing rather than what it is he wants to do or what it is that would be reasonable.
It is a worldview that Holmes has never quite been able to reconcile with his own. But he knows it is true. Watson wants what he wants because he thinks he is supposed to want it, and he's too stubborn and unobservant to see his own moods and reactions betrayed him all along.
Holmes is happy to take a beating to help Watson work out his anger. He even tried to help Watson adjust as much as he could to his new life, once he'd given up trying to convince him that it was a mistake. But as much as Watson is tired of trying to please anyone and everyone, Holmes is tired of Watson assuming that he can reappear in Holmes' life and it will all be just the same because Holmes is just that desperate for any attention Watson will give to him.
"It is expected," he continues just as flatly, utterly monotone. "I know that is important to you." He pauses, letting that sink in for a moment, and the continues on, not looking at Watson any longer but rather off at something else. "I'm going to let you go now. Don't hit me again. I have a case to solve and enough bruises already."
Watson nods slowly, and Holmes rolls off of him. Watson sits up, and they end up next to each other on the floor, nursing their bruises and, in Watson's case, a bloody nose. In any other situation, he'd mutter something about that having been a good hit, but something keeps him from trying to move past all this with a joke.
"You have a case to solve?" he asks after a moment, his voice much quieter than usual. "Not we?"
He looks away again, knowing that's not a fair question to ask Holmes. The other man is right. Watson has been unfair to him. "I'm sorry. That was unfair." But still hurts. "I shouldn't have blamed you," he repeats, the guilt hitting him even more strongly than it had with Mary the week before. He'd made his decision months ago but hadn't wanted to live with it. That's the truth, isn't it? His inability to handle all of it, to take responsibility for his own actions, his own choices. It's not fair at all to blame Holmes when he, Watson, is the one who can't stay away.
Where is the determination he'd had months ago, the insistence that he'd set himself on the right course, the way things had to be? The knowledge that he'd made the right choice, and both he and Holmes had to grow up. Where is that decisiveness? He needs it now, and it has deserted him. He's given his word to Mary, taken vows he cannot break. His duty is to her, now, above himself, and she would be furious with him not because he'd stepped foot in this place (though that would certainly bring disappointment and anger over funds lost), but because he'll no doubt hide it from her.
"Of course it's important to me," he says finally, staring down at his boots and at the tear in the knee of his trousers. "It has to be." It's how things are done, after all. He'd done everything correctly, fallen in love, gotten married, a new home, a successful job... and yet the only time he truly finds satisfaction is with his friend on a case. His practice brings him a sort of similar feeling, but not nearly to the same extent. And all he's done is disappoint his wife over the past few weeks.
He'd thought he could have both. Thought he could manage it. But clearly, his psyche cannot.
"It has to be because it is expected or it is expected because it has to be?" Holmes asks, almost musing aloud now more than actually asking Watson a question to which he requires an answer, which is normal and would be a much more encouraging step towards his usual demeanor if he had not also ignored Watson's first question, nor looked at him. He is instead inspecting a long cut on his arm that he vaguely recalls receiving when they fell on top of the chair and it broke beneath their combined weight. It's only a flesh wound, however, and the bleeding is already beginning to slow.
It is important to Watson that he do what is expected... because it is expected, is what Holmes hears. The detective turns that over several times in his mind before declaring that it is the least sensible thing Watson has ever said, and the man has quite a record (which Holmes has kept very thorough track of). And yet Watson hasn't the slightest, simply cannot step outside himself to see what little sense it makes, and Holmes feels no desire to explain it to him. Normally he would love nothing more than to explain something to Watson in great detail, especially something about Watson. Normally he can rely on Watson to follow his deductions; if not before he reveals them, Watson is at very least quite capable of following his logic after the fact.
Before Watson there had been no such person. Before Watson no one had bothered or tried to see the world through Holmes' eyes, to observe the world as he does unendingly, to make the constant deductions from every minute observation he makes with a mind that he cannot stop. No one had noticed when he would get so tangled in his own thoughts that he would have to do something, anything, to release the pressure, that discussing his cases with someone who did not inhabit his brain could help. No one could see that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
It had been very lonely, to be Holmes before Watson.
That thought almost makes Holmes sigh, but he manages not to. It was lonely, but he managed. It has still been lonely even with Watson, he reminds himself. His island of logic and deduction that he inhabits had been extended a bit to allow Watson access, but he always left in the end, back to his own world, the world most people inhabit, leaving Holmes alone in his mind. And, too, he reminds himself, he had a life before Watson. He did not depend on anyone. It can be that way again. But not if he continually tries to do what he's been doing for years, which is to force Watson to step back and look at what he would not otherwise see. Not in this case. Not if he continues to lead Watson along the way he always has. Eventually, he has to let Watson see for himself. If he chooses to also observe, that is Watson's choice.
So, after a moment, Holmes looks away from his arm over at Watson, whose trousers are torn and is looking a bit worse for wear in more ways than one. And though he'd been hoping for some sort of reaction, Holmes finds that he does not care for that guilt-stricken look on the doctor's face. Lord. How he manages to make even Holmes feel bad sometimes is undoubtedly a miracle. "It's not entirely your fault, Watson," he says after a moment, his tone much more normal suddenly, although subdued. He hands Watson a handkerchief when he spots the bleeding nose, since that was obviously his doing. "I've been taunting you into things you would not normally agree to. You make it easy."
Watson snorts at that, but they don’t fall into the same comfortable silence that they normally would have. Because what they’re both saying sound so… final, and he doesn’t think he can stand for it. But that sort of feeling, of not wanting to adhere to the choices he himself had made, is what had led them here, to be sitting on the floor after beating each other.
“I try my hardest,” he says drily, but his voice is just as subdued as Holmes’. “But you’re wrong, old boy. A few months ago… this would have been perfectly normal.”
They don’t move for a long few minutes, but finally Watson clears his throat and begins hauling himself to his feet, reaching down to offer Holmes his hand. He takes it, and Watson leans backward, lifting his friend to his feet as well. He doesn’t let go of his hand immediately, though, frowning down at the slice along Holmes’ forearm.
“You should clean that,” he says sternly, seeing that the bleeding has nearly stopped. Before Holmes can protest, he grabs the bottle of scotch and holds it out, still not relinquishing his grasp on the other man’s hand. It doesn’t escape his notice that Holmes is still gripping his hand, as well, and he pauses, looking up at the detective, worry etched into his forehead.
“Holmes?” he asks, frowning.
Holmes does not respond immediately, but slowly reaches out to take the bottle from Watson, who can never quite leave the doctor behind. For a moment, it seems as though Holmes is on the verge of saying something, something important, no doubt, from the way he clearly is taking his time about it, but in the end he seems to resolve not to, instead closing his hand around the bottle and letting go of Watson's hand with the other. Before Watson can stop him or attempt to do it himself, Holmes pours a not-insubstantial amount of the alcohol over the wound on his arm.
It hurts like hell, of course, and much as he tries, Holmes can't suppress the grunt of pain, though he does then grind his teeth together, his face scrunching together a little. The swearing comes after, muttered cursing that dies off quickly only because he then moves to drink a great deal more of the scotch, which had been his intention in the first damn place. He wanted alcohol in his bloodstream. Just not in that manner.
At least feeling a little bit relieved by something so normal, Holmes swallows and promptly shakes his head as if to clear it, which sprays sweat, blood, and some scotch on the floor beneath him. "It gets worse every month, and they charge more for it with each decrease in quality," he says, again almost to himself. He is no doubt baffled by the fact that he nevertheless buys it every time. Economics is a wonder and terrible psychological sort of science.
Not disagreeing, Watson reaches over to take the bottle from him, downing a not insubstantial amount himself, and his reaction is much the same as Holmes', albeit accompanied with a small grimace. But just now, he needs the fortification. Thirst quenched, he hands the bottle back to Holmes and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
"You drink free most nights anyway," he points out. But much as he might wish to split that bottle... he can't. Not after what had just happened. Not after that fight, and all that had been said.
A shot goes off downstairs, making them both look up at the door automatically, and finally Watson shakes his head. He knows what has to happen now. He's no longer a man of action, or whatever Holmes had called him that night at the Royale. He's going to have enough trouble explaining all of this as it is, even if the idea of having to explain his actions to anyone at all makes him want to punch something again.
"I'm heading home," he says finally, still staring at the door, but then he looks up at Holmes, knowing that there is a finality to this. He won't be coming back here. Nor will he be spending the rest of the night gallivanting off with his best friend. Hell, who is he kidding, his only real friend. He might want it, but it would be too short, too brief and would leave him only wanting more of it. This has to be the end, as the Blackwood affair should have been.
He clears his throat again, holding out his hand. "Goodnight, Holmes."
For a moment, Holmes stares down at Watson's hand, silent and obviously hesitating. This... he had not imagined this would happen when Watson appeared earlier. He had never imagined he would allow all of this without a fight, either, in the figurative sense of course as there had been a fight. Would never have imagined not wanting Watson to come with him while he is investigating a case. But at this particular moment in time... he does not want Watson along.
And so in the end, Holmes takes Watson's hand, forcing his grip to be no less firm than usual. His own anger has been firmly leashed, leaving only a hint of resignation that he is trying to keep to himself and a very strong desire to be anywhere but here. Quickly he forces his mind to the case, letting go of Watson's hand and also the other case, the one he had styled around the doctor.
He'd berated Watson for blaming him for his problems, but the truth is that Watson is at very least trying to let go, while Holmes has not only not even attempted, he has actively tried to prevent either of them from doing so. Watson's new life, ordered and proper as it is, has no real place in it for all that is Sherlock Holmes, which is something Holmes had seen from the beginning but Watson had only slowly begun to realize, until now.
Holmes returns his attention to the bottle, looking away from the doctor. Tomorrow night two more men will die, and that, Holmes decides, is much more worthy of his concentration than John Watson, his new life, or his denial. "Goodnight, Watson."
Watson remains, staring at Holmes' bare back, for a long few seconds before turning on his heel, pulling his hat onto his head in the same motion and stepping through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. And on this chapter of his life, he reminds himself silently. Not on Holmes, no, but on his role as the detective's colleague rather than just his friend.
And what part would you play in Holmes' life without allowing yourself to be involved with his cases? a quiet, traitorous voice asks in the back of his mind. But he pushes that away, making his way down the narrow staircase and slipping out the door, the loud noise from the current bout following him out into the alley, as if summoning him back.
He almost hopes to be mugged. Walks the entire way back home, through the worst paths he can find, but his ire must show in his demeanor because even the group of thugs on the corner turn away, clearly not wanting to bother. He'd give anything for the release of another physical confrontation, feels only worse after the one he'd had with Holmes, and his stomach is in knots of tension by the time he reaches Cavendish Place, reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat for his key.
But hiding the key is a thick lump of paper, one that crackles as he searches about... and he freezes, pulling out the notes and then looking up the steps to the front door. All the windows are already dark. He'd sent no note to Mary, but she's asleep now. Why should he wake her? In his current mood, he'd do nothing but upset them both.
He should restore his mood before returning to his wife. That will do everyone some good. So, turning, he makes his way back down the street and around several corners until he reaches a pub, ironically the same one he often frequents with Holmes, as it's rather close to Baker Street. "Gin," he mutters when the barkeeper comes over to take his order. He has one. And then he has another. And a third. By the time he finishes his fourth, he's been talked into a dice game in the back room by the usual hustlers, and he's too angry, at himself and Holmes and the painful feeling in his gut to say no, even though he's aware, even through an alcoholic haze, that it's a bad idea.
Several hours later, as the sky is beginning to lighten, Clarkey (who'd been on his way to Baker Street) finds Watson stumbling in the direction of Cavendish Place, pausing to vomit every few minutes. "Doctor Watson," he says, startled, and when Watson nearly topples over turning to see who'd addressed him, Clarkey slips a neat arm beneath the doctor's shoulders, supporting him down the street. "Let's get you home, sir."
Mary Watson opens the door before he even gets Watson up the stairs, looking exhausted and more than slightly angry. Clarkey decides that it's not worth male solidarity to take Watson's side in this, saying quickly, "Found him coming out of Greenway's Pub, Missus Watson. Thought I should make sure he made it home all right."
"Thank you," Mary says immediately, giving the officer a truly thankful glance very briefly before focusing solely on her husband, who receives the sort of glare that most husbands and all sons live in fear of. Clarkey, wisely, bids them a muttered goodnight and promptly vanishes.
This of course leaves only Mary to lead her husband up the stairs into their house; he makes every attempt to stumble his way in, but since he doesn't appear to be capable of walking in a straight line, Mary does her best to help. The only problem being that she is half the size of her husband, and when he stumbles he simply... takes her with him.
Still, she does manage to at the very least get him inside and the door shut behind him; that was really all she was hoping for. And although she continues to watch him, the glare she had affixed on him has by this time become more a disappointed, perhaps even slightly resigned stare. There will be no talking to him tonight... or rather, this morning, she supposes. She might not even speak to him after he's managed to sleep this off. Frankly... Mary has no idea what to make of this, or what it is she could possibly say.
Watson wakes on the couch around nine later that morning, having gotten some four hours of unconscious rest. At some point he'd dragged himself from the hallway to the parlor and the couch, but he doesn't recall that. He doesn't recall coming home. Or anything after he'd gone into Greenway's, actually. But he doesn't have time to try to jog his memory, because he wakes to Charly standing over him, holding out a small package wrapped in brown paper.
"Housekeeper let me in," he says cheerfully. "'Imself sent me. I'm owed a shilling from you, Doctor Sir."
Watson, whose head is apparently melting, waves him off for a moment and sits up, unwrapping the package and staring blearily at the small folded paper tied around a syringe filled with green-blue liquid. It takes his hungover brain a moment to realize what that is, and then he rips the twine from the small paper, seeing only two words in Holmes' scrawl.
Do hurry.
Without putting on more than his shoes, Watson is sprinting out of the house in his shirtsleeves and trousers, leaving behind t even his walking stick as he bolts towards Baker Street, his heart pounding in time with the throbbing in his skull. But he pays neither any attention, shouldering open the front door to 221B and sprinting up the stairs, nearly bowling over Mrs. Hudson with her laundry basket.
"Doctor--" she calls. He ignores her, slamming the door to the rooms open and peering frantically about in the gloom. He can't see Holmes and turns to hurry towards his bedroom, but instead trips over a large lump lying on the tiger skin in front of the fire. A lump that is far too big to be Gladstone.
"Holmes!" He drops to his knees without even a grunt of discomfort in his leg (not that he notices anyway), unclenching his hand from around the syringe and checking his friend's pulse. Thready, his breathing uneven. Only his eyes are moving, and display no surprise to see Watson there and in a panic.
Taking a deep breath and praying Holmes had been right as ever, Watson finds a vein and injects the contents of the syringe immediately before sitting back and starting to pray, his body slowly recovering from his half-mile sprint. "I'm going--to--kill you," he manages weakly. "You damned idiot, if this doesn't work..."
A moment later, there is a finger twitch in response, and Watson's still-panicked eyes catch a movement of Holmes' leg. Not waiting for anything more, he lunges forward, his arms suddenly wrapped around his friend's torso in tight bands, his face buried in Holmes' rather messy hair. The terror that had hit him just a few moments before, when he'd seen that syringe and had immediately realized what Holmes had done... He can't manage speech, not now. Wordlessly, he just sits there, propping up the other man by way of an embrace that's more of a strangling than anything else.
It is taking rather longer than he had hoped for the antidote to do its work, but then again, when he had done the calculations with Gladstone, he had injected the antidote immediately as soon as the dog had been fully paralyzed. He, on the other hand, had lied there for some time (Holmes does not know how long).
It had been an interesting exercise, seeing exactly the route the paralytic took as he quickly lost the ability to move one limb after another. Now it is the same in reverse, but much slower. And yet Holmes finds that interested though he is in the chemical and anatomical conclusions one could draw from firsthand experience of the paralytic and antidote... his mind will not focus on the matter at hand, not after Watson... either is holding on to him for dear life or trying to kill him, Holmes hasn't decided.
What exactly he is doing doesn't matter, however, because even paralyzed, Holmes' eyes had been open and had seen everything. The fact that Watson is here and lacking... just about everything but his shirt and shoes, along with the fact that said shirt, trousers, and shoes are all last night's, indicate that he had been woken up by Holmes' missive. His disheveled appearance added to the way his eyes had stopped squinting so much when he had wandered into the gloom of these rooms and the rather overpowering smell of alcohol in his sweat (no doubt from the sprint over here) indicate his whereabouts the night before, once he had left Holmes' company. The fact that he had gone drinking rather than home the night before suggests something entirely different, and that added to the fact that he had run here without his walking stick and is now trying to smother Holmes to death all indicate... well.
The night before, Holmes had told himself he wasn't going to do something like this. He had told himself that if Watson was through with him, then so would he be with Watson. And then the morning had dawned and Holmes had realized that he needed to test this antidote before the grand finale tonight... and he had no one to help him. He'd told himself it was in the name of science and saving lives that he called upon Watson one last time, that this was not dragging the doctor into his case but rather calling upon his expertise as a physician. He told himself that the case and the possibility that men would die if he did not perfect this antidote was why he had done this.
And that's all true, Holmes allows as he feels his toes and fingers start to tingle in a most interesting sort of manner, all at once. And though he very well would have done this regardless of Watson's presence or lack thereof, the fact remains that he still sent Watson the note, literally trusting the doctor with his life. And it's about as Holmes begins to have feeling in his face again that he realizes that the reason he had done this- not taken the paralytic, because he certainly would have done that no matter the circumstances, but rather he had taken it and then called upon Watson- has nothing to do with science or the case but everything to do with proving to himself that Watson would still come save him.
For a long time, Holmes cannot move. For a few minutes after that, he pretends not to be able to move, telling himself that he is simply waiting to be certain so that he doesn't fall over or harm himself. It's hard to breathe, but he isn't entirely convinced that's simply due to the physical constraints Watson's arms are providing. Holmes knows he's not entirely recovered from the paralytic just yet, too, because he feels weak enough that should Watson not be there, he would not be able to lift himself. The entire situation feels strangely like a metaphor in one of Watson's romantic recountings of their adventures, at least until Holmes realizes he had thought that and berates himself until the thought goes away.
Eventually, though, Holmes can no longer allow that he isn't recovered enough. Or rather... the need to say something outweighs the desire to stay as he is, being slightly smothered and very nearly enveloped by Watson. Of course it is the need to say something that outweighs everything. "Please wait... until tomorrow," he finally manages, exceedingly weakly. Not only is it hard to breathe, but it's hard to move... anything, his jaw and tongue included. He has to very deliberately force everything to work, and so his voice comes out feeble. "To kill me."
At this, Watson immediately releases Holmes from his grasp, feeling his friend's limpness in his arms and carefully lowering him back down to the tiger skin. He convinces himself that it's entirely the fact that he's a doctor that he's strangely not uncomfortable, even considering their close contact a moment before. Instead, he busies himself continuing to check Holmes' pulse and breathing every moment or so; not having a stethoscope, he rolls up a nearby piece of parchment and leans down, putting one end to Holmes' chest and the other to his ear.
His breathing is slowly returning to normal, and his pulse is beginning to increase to a normal rate again, but it's still not where Watson is comfortable, and he glares down at Holmes. "Move and I'll thrash you." He wants so desperately to grasp his friend by the shoulders and shake him, to ask him what had possessed him to do that all on his own in the apartment. But to ask would be pointless, as he knows what answer he'll receive, and so he doesn't bother wasting the breath, hit suddenly by the desire to pass out all on his own.
But he forces himself to stay awake, and it's not as hard as it might have been, knowing Holmes is recovering from the paralytic. He doesn't say a word, just reaches up and sets the syringe on the side table so it won't be broken, and reaches down to take Holmes' pulse again, his fingers pressed lightly on the other man's carotid artery. "I'll only be repeating myself if I tell you how much of an arse you are."
To that, Holmes makes a noncommittal noise that can probably be taken as an assent. At the moment, he is not so very inclined to move. Not really because Watson had told him he would thrash him, although he believes that Watson would certainly try, he is too very obviously under the weather himself to succeed. More because his limbs still tingle and his first and only real attempt to move his head had produced interesting spots in his vision.
While he would like to document all of this, Holmes however does not particularly wish to pass out. He has things he must accomplish today, and he is half convinced that if he did lose consciousness, Watson might very well have an aneurysm.
"It works," is all Holmes manages to say in response, and it amazes no one that even with those two words his priorities and outlook on life are clearly demonstrated. He doesn't mind being an arse at all, so long as he is a correct arse.
That gets a snort out of his best friend, who is very tempted to just lie down next to Holmes and sleep until he wakes all on his own... but these plans are thwarted when Mrs. Hudson enters the room, followed by Charly, who is carrying Watson's coat, jacket, hat, and walking stick, and sets them down on the chaise, eyeing the two men curiously. "Somebody owes me two shillings," he says loudly, making them both wince. "For the carryin'."
Watson just closes his eyes, not wanting to deal with it, but then hauls himself to his knees with a groan, digging into his pocket for some change as he recalls exactly how he'd left the house. "An extra shilling if you go back to Cavendish Place and tell my wife..." He trails off, not really having anything specific to tell her. He's already in trouble; waking up on the couch with a hangover had secured that, even without sprinting out with no warning. He finds that he no longer cares. She can be angry and/or disappointed with him all she wants, he's not going to move more than a foot before he passes out.
"Tell her I'm sorry for leaving without speaking to her, but it was an emergency. I'll be back later." Message thus composed, he manages a nod for Mrs. Hudson while his eyes are closing even as he's sitting up.
Luckily, neither Mrs. Hudson nor Charly is ever startled by anything that goes on here, and so Mrs. Hudson kindly leads the boy out of the room once he has been paid. She shuts the door behind them a little too loudly for both men; Holmes winces, but Watson's wince is much worse, and Holmes (who can understand that feeling quite well) finds himself feeling just a little bad about that. Just slightly. He would never, ever, tell Watson that, however, because he'd be unbearably smug to have wrung some small sign of human sympathy from the detective.
He's distracted enough by how severely pathetic Watson appears at the moment that he doesn't even make a single quip about his leaving without speaking to his wife. Certainly he will mull that over in great detail later, but just now Holmes is rather focused on his hung-over friend.
"Watson," he says once Mrs. Hudson's footsteps fade; some strength is beginning to return to his voice, although he has not progressed to blinking his eyes repeatedly in an attempt to clear them. He also doesn't attempt to sit up yet, but he does manage to move his head enough to stare up at the doctor. Watson looks very strange from this upside-down angle. Watson looks very strange as hung-over and miserable as he is no matter what angle you look at him from. Certainly the fact that he is sporting bruises on his face from their fight the night before does not help. "Lie down before you pass out, I cannot catch you."
Watson starts to shake his head, but then thinks better of that idea when pain lances behind his eyes, and immediately stills himself again, responding verbally instead. "Not until I'm certain you've recovered safely." For once, his brain is too pained and exhausted to make excuses to himself that the doctor in him insists on caring for Holmes after one of his stunts. He simply won't be able to sleep until he knows his friend is safe.
"So hurry up." It's said in a more humorous tone than he'd thought he'd be able to manage in his current state, but to his surprise he does succeed. Carefully, he leans back against the settee, reaching over to take Holmes' pulse again, his fingers not so businesslike as usual but much more clumsy as he searches beneath Holmes' collar for his pulse. Steadier. Less feathering, but not enough, not yet. His hand stays resting on his friend's shoulder until he can summon the strength to move it, a few seconds too late.
He clears his throat, letting the erstwhile appendage fall next to his side. "I think," he manages in a weak voice a moment later, "I may have let Pete and his boys cheat me out of a hundred pound last night." He swallows hard, recalling the feeling that had driven him to the pub in the first place, and decides immediately that he desperately does not want to think about that just now.
He manages to lighten his voice, not that it would be possible to tell considering how pained it sounds. "How do you feel?"
How does he feel? Holmes actually does spend a moment to ruminate on that before responding; to questions like that, he is bound to either give an off-the-cuff, possibly unrelated, answer or one that is far too detailed. Right now, though, he is not quite sure how he feels.
A moment before, Holmes had been concentrating on Watson's hangover in equal measure with his own state, feeling his strength returning and measuring it in his own manner. Now he is considering the fact that Watson had said he would not pass out until Holmes had recovered... and the fact that he is half-sprawled himself next to the detective. Not to mention the very dawdling checking of his pulse.
What Watson says about losing his money, followed by the slight change in his demeanor, does not surprise Holmes in the least. But he does not respond to that, at least, not yet. It is still a bit difficult to speak.
So he lifts his arm a little, disregarding Watson's insistence that he not move and the threat that had come with it, in order to look at his hand for a moment, moving his fingers in a careful test before letting it fall again on the ground next to Watson's hand, so that they are just barely touching. "All limbs accounted for and capable of movement. I expect a full recovery." Of course, he had expected that from the beginning, but Watson worries even when it is unreasonable.
Closing his eyes as if in pain (although this time, it's not due to the hangover, difficult as it is to separate that from the other throbbing in his brain, now; this is more of the psychological sort), Watson refrains from shaking his head only because it would cause a feeling similar to the pounding of nails into his skull. "Of course you do," he mutters. "Forgive me if I intend to test that theory before seeking my own rest and leaving you to your own devices." Lord know what Holmes would get up to while Watson slept.
He noticed, of course, immediately when Holmes' hand dropped down next to his own. Of course, the entirety of him is rather sensitive at the moment, owing to the slow receding of the immense amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, and so the physical contact is magnified. He's not sure if that's a medical explanation, can't actually recall if it is or not, but everything else seems magnified at the moment, so that's clearly why he was jolted by Holmes' hand touching his own, obviously unintentionally... and then not moving.
Well, why should it? It's not as though they don't typically have a normal amount of physical contact. They clap each other's shoulders and shake hands all the time, not to mention hauling one another out of scrapes... or getting into them. So there really is no explanation as to why his mind has decided to dwell on one small, continuing half-touch. He blames his current headache.
And yet, when he reaches up to check Holmes' pulse again some ten minutes later, he has to convince himself to use that hand. To use the other would be ridiculous, would mean he would have to turn and twist sideways... which he'll have to do anyway to check the other man's breathing, so perhaps he should...
Sighing, he has to remove his hand anyway to roll up the paper, and he checks his pulse and breathing once more before falling back again, more or less satisfied. "A steady return to normal rates, although your breathing is more strained than I would like. But barring any sudden disaster, I believe you'll be all right, as well."
Keeping the information that his breathing is no doubt strained due to the fact that Watson had tried to strangle him the night before to himself, Holmes takes that to mean that he can now attempt to sit up. Which he does, blinking a few times and running a hand through his hair when the action makes him horrendously dizzy. Blood rushing to his head. Right.
Barring any sudden disasters. Well, Holmes does intend a few disasters today but they will not be sudden and since they are intended, he concludes that they cannot actually be deemed disasters. Thus, he does not share his intentions with Watson. Rather, now he is once again focused, having proven without a doubt that the antidote works as expected.
"Wonderful," he mutters, swaying a little now that he's sitting but not seeming to notice or mind in the slightest. "Then I shall have to produce more." Watson's eyes widen, and Holmes realizes quickly that he could think that he means to be injected with the paralytic again, or some such nonsense (actually, it might very well happen). Holmes tilts his head to the side, giving the doctor a patented look suggesting that Watson is being ridiculous as per usual, the effect of which is somehow not lessened by his swaying or continuous blinking. "As a fail-safe, Watson. You wouldn't expect me to face a murderer carrying a possibly deadly paralytic without an antidote."
No. No, Watson would not expect that. But Holmes is looking as though he plans to stand, and that, Watson will not be tolerating. So he waits, patient as ever, until the other man makes it to his knees before reaching up more quickly than he should have been able to while so violently hung-over, and grasping Holmes' arm, dragging him back down.
"You are not standing yet," he says firmly, ignoring the pounding in his skull. "Not just after waking up from a paralytic. If you're getting up again, it's only to lie down on the settee." Holmes collapses next to him again, this time so they're facing the same direction, and Watson does not relinquish his tight grip on the other man's arm, nor does he move aside when Holmes ends up rather closer to him than usual. He's not even tensed, but far too distracted by his headache, which is rapidly achieving monumental proportions, to care about much of anything at all beyond Holmes not giving himself enough time to recover.
Holmes' eyes widen almost comically as he is suddenly pulled back down to a seated position, unable to resist Watson's grip without having had some sort of forewarning. His eyes remain widened for a minute or so after while the world tilts a bit around him and then continues to sway no matter how many times he blinks to clear his vision.
Accustomed to this (and other strange physical reaction to chemicals) as he is, Holmes nevertheless spends a minute watching the room tilt and sway with widened eyes, until it slows and then stops and he turns to look at Watson. The doctor still has quite a firm grip on his arm, which is undoubtedly wise, considering the fact that they both know that if he did not, Holmes would roll away and scamper to his feet and out of Watson's reach just to prove that he could.
But he is holding on to Holmes' arm, and moving is thus made impossible until Watson does actually pass out, and so Holmes settles in where he is, next to the doctor and doing his level best to both ignore how closely they are seated and to impersonate a sullen child as he sits. "I could lie down on the settee," he mumbles after a moment, to a look from Watson suggesting that he knows very well that Holmes has no intention of getting up to do anything but hurry off and cause more trouble than he already has. The sullenness increases. "Science will not wait indefinitely for the room to stop spinning, and that is a fact." One he has tested many times.
"Nor will the murderer wait for you to recover if you lose your balance and hit your head on something," Watson points out quite logically, forcing his eyes open. "Nor if you mix anything incorrectly will your antidote help anyone at all." His hand tightens on Holmes' arm. "Stay put, old boy." Pause. "Please."
They remain there for nearly half an hour, unmoving but for Watson's head continually dropping towards Holmes' shoulder before he jerks it back up. This happens multiple times, Watson far too close to sleep to really care where he is anymore. He stares over at the table legs, their claw foots scuffed and scratched, one of them missing nearly all of its wooden stain as Gladstone had apparently used it as a chew toy.
He does, however, remember to shove the other man's shirt up to his elbow (on the arm he's holding, of course), checking the cut from the night before. It looks well enough, no redness or swelling, and it's not deep enough to need stitching, but he still mumbles an apology for it, the guilt never having left him even through all of his imbibing at the pub and his subsequent illness.
Finally, though, he loses the battle against sleep, his hand loosening from around Holmes' arm as his head hits his friend's shoulder and he drops into unconsciousness, his body unable to remain awake.
Of course Watson would find a way to keep him in place even after he drops off into unconsciousness, Holmes thinks, still a bit sullen. He would be much more sullen about all of this on any other day, but after the night before... well, despite his nearly overwhelming desire to get to work, to immerse himself in the case at hand as he always does, in Holmes' mind instead there exists a reel of images on repeat. Watson's anger the night before, the guilt written all over his face after their fight, the confused determination on it when he'd said goodnight and meant goodbye (and then the hesitation when Holmes had turned from him)... and then this morning, the panic and anger at finding the detective on the floor, having administered to himself the paralytic and the worry afterwards.
No matter the vague, impractical hope that Holmes had felt for a moment upon seeing Watson come rushing into the room, panicked and hung-over. The night before had still happened, and that is not rendered meaningless by any leftover worry on the doctor's part. Holmes finds his mood, having been somewhat improved for a brief period upon seeing Watson, deteriorates quickly once the doctor passes out and is no longer scowling or looking pathetic and distracting him.
And yet he stays were he is for some minutes, allowing Watson to sleep on shoulder, or rather to remain unconscious there, while Holmes stares across the room at the wall, no expression on his face because he cannot seem to find one that suits this situation. Watson is passed out on his shoulder, peaceful as Holmes has not seen him in a long time, and Holmes finds himself wishing unreasonably that they could just stay like this for the rest of the day.
But duty calls, and eventually Holmes slowly rolls the sleeve of his shirt back down over the wound from the night before, intending to get up and begin his work now that Watson cannot stop him... and then he stays where he is against all reason and the need for haste. If Holmes wasn't so busy trying not to disturb Watson (who looks so much more peaceful, and younger, when he sleeps)... and not to realize that this will undoubtedly be the very last time they ever sit like this, that he will ever have Watson lean on him in any sort of fashion, Holmes would be very angry with Watson for making him behave so irrationally.
~~~~~
Part Six