Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Twelve
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Twelve
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: More snogging of the slash variety. A bit of PTSD.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Angst still abounds. Some language.
Word Count: 8,557
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 12/??.
Parts Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
~~~~~~~
Very slowly, Watson turns to look at Holmes. He doesn't miss the thoughtful tone, nor does he miss the expression that goes along with it. Both are familiar, and both consistently lead to him getting into trouble of some kind or other. And yet, in this case... well. He can't say that he's upset to see them. It's a good sign that Holmes is plotting. Reassuring... and yet not at all at the same time.
"I would say that it's extremely important," he says after a moment, amused. But then he sobers. "I'm quite serious,* Holmes. If you sleep while still under the fairly recent effects of a concussion, you could fall into a coma and linger there, or die. You're bloody lucky you didn't do so earlier, before I arrived."
He's no fool. He knows the game Holmes is playing. And he'll likely go along with everything, as always. But he'd like for Holmes to understand his reasons for torturing the detective, after all, so he knows why he shouldn't just give in and fall asleep.
Of course, none of this is news to Holmes, who has had more than his fair share of concussions over the years. In fact, he might have known that even before he fell asleep upstairs, but he doesn't actually remember even coming back to Baker Street the night before, let alone Watson's room, so that's just a suspicion on his part, a suspicion Holmes will never share with anyone, least of all Watson. Watson had been right, the day he'd broken Holmes' solution and then... well, attacked him, kissed him, Holmes doesn't really know or care. There is something in him intent on self-destruction, and he doesn't have the slightest why or how long he has before it wins (although he has no doubt that it will in the end). But some nights are worse than others by far. And last night... was bad.
But now... today, things are different. Vastly different, monumentally different, so much so that even concussed and miserable as he is in the physical sense, Holmes has almost completely forgotten that he has no case to focus on. Right now, he is strangely content to simply focus on Watson, in any sense Watson will allow him (or can be cajoled into allowing him). This will of course not last, Holmes has no expectations otherwise, but it will certainly help. It had helped before, in those horrible but unavoidable periods of nothing, blankness in between cases, had helped more than he thinks Watson knows or will ever know, and it's suddenly different now between them and yet... not.
"I have no intention of dying," Holmes says, very nearly serious. Well, just serious* enough that he lets Watson know that he understands without being too solemn. He does not plan on dying today, nor does he plan on falling into a coma. He doesn't care much for sleep unless he is bored, and so a coma would be a monumental waste of time. And death is nothing if not sleeping forever.
So. Extremely important, the physician says. Holmes considers this for a long moment quite obviously, staring up at the ceiling deliberately and thinking logically as always. "So, as it is vitally important for me to remain awake, I'd imagine it would be the responsible thing to keep active."
No intention of dying. Holmes could have fooled Watson, just judging by what he’d done the night before, letting however many men beat him. It’s an entirely unhealthy way of dealing with anything, and Watson is aware… well, now he knows it’s because of him that Holmes had done that. He remembers what the other man had looked like when he’d escorted Mary out of the alley (had that only been the night before?), knows now what Holmes had gone off and done. Knows he’d done it because of him, Watson.
And if Holmes had died, it would have been his fault, as well.
But this isn’t the time to think about all of that, and he knows it. Because first of all, he has enough truly sad things to think about to add more to the list at the present moment, and that particular one makes him want to bash his head in for being such an imbecile. But in addition, he doesn’t feel the need to get into an argument with Holmes, who is not in any sort of shape for that.
So he plays along, smiling slightly. “Activity would be wise, so long as it isn’t too very active. You’ve broken ribs, after all.” He pauses, miming deep thought. “I’d advise against rugby, even though you’re still in possession of my rugby ball. Did you have something else in mind?”
After all, he’d been the one to initiate… well, the first attack. And then again, a few minutes ago, on the floor. It’s Holmes’ turn, he thinks.
"Your rugby ball- who said that I am in possession of your rugby ball?" Holmes asks, turning now to look at Watson, expression somewhere between incredulous and innocent, neither of which is believable in the least despite how wide his eyes are. "I distinctly recall informing you that I have no idea where it is."
This was, of course, a lie, but it's the principle of the thing, isn't it? Holmes told him that he has no idea where his rugby ball is, and thus Watson should not simply assume that he has it. In fact, at the time he had told Watson that he didn't know where his rugby ball was, he didn't know. Later, he recalled that he'd been using it for something, but by that point he couldn't tell Watson, could he?
But even being accused of having Watson's rugby ball, Holmes can't be distracted from his actual goal for long. Especially not since Watson is obviously mentioning things like rugby in order to distract him. Still, Holmes does not believe that Watson truly wants him to be distracted. If he did, he wouldn't have smiled a moment ago. And so, quite happy to move on (before Watson can argue with him), Holmes considers the doctor very thoroughly for a moment before responding. He raises an eyebrow before very deliberately and slowly, almost experimentally, leans back over to do exactly what he'd done before Mrs. Hudson had appeared, running his tongue up the line of Watson's jaw to just underneath his ear- only this time, he doesn't pull back right away, but pauses for a moment, considering, and then very deliberately bites down, and hard.
And then he pulls back, completely unable to keep from smirking. "Perhaps the violin."
Watson would swear his inner temperature had abruptly risen at least ten degrees, and he has to clamp down hard on his jaw to keep from emitting what would have been an extremely loud noise, and one that Mrs. Hudson would definitely have heard. But he doesn't move from where he's sitting, refusing to give in to the torture.
"That--would also be less than advisable," he says in a strained voice, finally opening his eyes and glaring a little over at Holmes, although there's no venom behind it at all, only play. "You'd strain your ribs." But then it's his turn to lean over, finding the spot on Holmes' shoulder that he'd noticed before, and to bite down equally hard, meaning to bruise.
When he lifts his head slightly, he's smirking again. "I recommend something slightly quieter." But only slightly. A hand that is not his own appears on his thigh a moment later, squeezing the long muscles there experimentally, and he nearly draws blood on his lip to stifle the noise he'd almost made automatically. Grunting, he reaches over and returns the treatment, returning to Holmes' neck with a mutter.
"Slightly quieter," Holmes gasps, certain he would be annoyed at the way his voice sounds rough already if he wasn't also quite pleased with himself for provoking this sort of reaction from Watson. It's the sort of thing he'd dreamed about, yes, but had never let himself imagine if he could help it... even though sometimes he couldn't help it, and then he would imagine for hours and then come back to reality to realize it wasn't real (and couldn't ever be real) and that would be about when he'd go looking for his solution.
But Watson destroyed all of his bottles, and this is real. For the first time, Holmes is finding it difficult to make his mind take in and believe what his eyes are seeing and what he's feeling, even though he knows it's happening, knows this can't be a hallucination of some sort. Which somehow makes the fact that Watson just bit him hard enough that he's not feeling any of his other bruises about a thousand times worse (or better?) than it would have been. If Holmes wasn't far too manly and pleased with himself, he would probably pass out within the minute.
Watson's hand is then on his thigh and dangerously close to other areas he would not mind Watson's hand being, and Holmes' eyes close against his will, and probably roll back into his head. He bites his tongue again to keep himself quiet, but he's not very good at being quiet and all that does is muffle the moan he inevitably does let out. "If that is what my physician advises," he agrees, voice strained (he can't breathe and it has nothing to do with his ribs), but that does give him time to latch on to Watson's arm with his free hand, which he uses to pull the other man closer whether he likes it or not. Holmes might have begun this with a game but Watson is not getting away now and that is all there is to it.
Well, not all there is to it. There is also Holmes' other hand, which in true Holmes fashion refuses to stay still and begins very quickly to test the doctor's limits while Watson is otherwise occupied at Holmes' neck, which Holmes discovers quickly is either much more sensitive than he had previously known or is particularly susceptible to Watson. Either is quite possible. Holmes finds that he doesn't care which it is.
Watson breathes in sharply, more of a hiss than anything else, when Holmes' hand ends up on his stomach, moving slowly down to his belt, which he'd had no trouble unbuckling in the past without Watson's permission, but this is entirely different and new and Watson didn't even know it was possible to feel like this with another man.
Hell, who is he kidding? He loves women, he'll admit that freely, but this is in an entirely different league than that had been. Holmes has his belt undone, is slowly unbuttoning his trousers, and Watson freezes in place, drawing in a sharp breath, his hands forgetting themselves and clenching, one on Holmes' shoulder and the other on the other man's thigh.
"Holmes," he says weakly, "I don't... I have to stop. This is too fast." He can feel Holmes freeze, half underneath him, and he lifts his head to stare down at him. "I don't... I want to, Christ, I need... but I left my wife two hours ago." And his current state, which Holmes couldn't possibly miss, attests to the fact that he does in fact desperately want this. But he needs some time, first. "I'm only asking for a brief time, so that I can process everything that's happened, today."
That is sensible. Holmes will allow that that is perfectly sensible, recalling that Watson had indeed left his wife only hours ago, and how horrible he'd looked when he'd returned. And once he allows himself to remember that, some of the tension that he'd suddenly been feeling dissipates. Even so, he does pull back enough to look up at Watson, expression unreadable- and searching, because Holmes can't help but feel as though he's waiting for the part where Watson runs away or tells him this was a mistake.
Even though he'd taken what had happened before, when Watson had kissed him, as a sign of hope, he had also been unable to forget the part afterwards, when Watson had fled. And after the past few months... well, it's simply difficult to forget the lessons learned over the space of a few months in the space of a couple of hours. Even Holmes is able to learn some lessons, if you beat it into his head hard enough. And this one was certainly beaten into his head.
And so it's not surprising when Watson says that he has to stop, Holmes immediately freezes, readying himself for an emotional blow. Watson's continued explanation takes a moment to truly get through to him, and a moment longer for Holmes to comprehend and accept. Which he does, slowly, trying to regain control of his breathing. It's not working with Watson half on top of him. He really does want to do what he can to help- doesn't want to push Watson, not so soon anyway- he really does. But it's not Holmes' nature, it doesn't come easily, and despite the evidence to the contrary- the very obvious evidence at this point- he can't help but pull into himself, obviously preparing for some sort of disappointment, some sort of blow.
If he wasn't so completely logical (and pathetic, a voice in the back of his mind adds), he wouldn't be able to accept Watson's explanation at all. But it does make sense. He's right, of course. And even if this actually is too good to be true, Holmes knows he will go along with it as long as he can, just as pathetically as any voice in the back of his head wants to point out. And so it hardly matters whether Watson really will flee.
He isn't exactly going anywhere just yet. Actually, he's making it very difficult to do what he's asking, as his fingernails are currently embedded in Holmes' flesh, and if he wasn't so suddenly focused on this conversation and Watson (in a different manner), Holmes would squirm shamelessly. "All right, but you're going to have to let go of me."
Watson blinks, his mind still not entirely clear, and then he looks down at Holmes... and realizes how tightly he's clenching his friend. "Sorry," he mutters sheepishly, releasing him and moving back so that they're sitting next to each other on the settee again, rather than Watson half on top of Holmes.
He looks up at Holmes again, worried now, and doesn't particularly think he likes what he sees. "I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly, half pleading. "I’ve been cruel and thoughtless and self-absorbed, but I'm not leaving you, Holmes. It would kill me." There. Honesty. He prides himself on not lying, but as it turns out... he's rather been lying to everyone (including himself) for quite some time.
Holmes stares back at him for a moment, still working on evening his breathing, which had become... erratic would be a mild description. His expression remains the same, which is to say just about no expression, but he can't hide the intensity of his stare. Watson knows what each different form of staring at something or someone means, or at least typically he knows, when Holmes isn't completely off somewhere in his head where Watson can't follow.
After a moment, quite against his will, that does ease something in Holmes a little. Not near to completely, not yet. Not enough that he isn't still wary, pulled back into himself as he tends to when he gets uncomfortable with situations he doesn't have completely under control. But enough that he can pull himself up a little, attempting to even out his breathing (and stop his eyes trying to stare at Watson's belt, which is still undone), rather than just staying sort of half-sprawled as he was and undoubtedly allowing himself in a few minutes to drift off again.
"I didn't imply that you would," Holmes says, done staring at Watson for the time being, data gathered. He inspects the way his knuckles appear to have been split several times instead. "But you'll hear no arguments from me as to the rest."
Not really bothered by his state of dishabille for perhaps the first time in his life, Watson looks down, hearing that put so succinctly. "Yes, well, as already determined, it's my fault. All of it, in its entirety. I'm aware, Holmes." Honestly, he doesn't need the reminder. He'll no doubt be blaming himself for the guilt of it for years to come, for hurting the two people he cares about the most. And he's saved his relationship with one, now, but the other will forever hate him.
Standing, he moves over to the window, finally giving up and just throwing off his belt, leaving his bracers to hold up his trousers, although he does remember to make certain those are buttoned. Mrs. Hudson does enter at will for the most part, after all.
"Well, then," he says quietly. "Holmes... with all of this... I see it as an addition to the relationship we already have. An aspect of it that will enhance it. I shouldn't like to lose our friendship, only... to have it and then more, as well." He's too nervous to look back and see the other man's expression. "But that's... I've only had a few hours to consider this, you understand, so if you had another path in mind please tell me."
Holmes would like to say he's only had a few hours to considering this as well. He really would like to say that he hadn't been wondering and theorizing and generally obsessing over it for ages now. But that would be such a complete lie that even facing away from him, quite moping and nervous, Watson would be able to tell. Especially after Holmes lost his mind earlier that morning and shouted at him that he had been thinking about this for years. In retrospect, that might not have been the best idea he has ever had. Also in retrospect, he has no idea where his pipe landed and suddenly feels naked without it.
For a moment, Holmes seriously considers saying that he had indeed had a path in mind, but Watson had stopped him before he could get there, just to see and gauge Watson's reaction. But he had looked so forlorn a moment before that Holmes is very mildly repentant and keeps his response less shocking.
"I haven't," he assures Watson, now watching the other man through his lashes even though he appears to still be inspecting his knuckles. "That sounds remarkably comparable to a logical course of action, Watson, I'm quite impressed."
That gets a smirk out of Watson, although not so much of one as usual. But it's there, and that heartens him. "Thank you," he says, nodding and taking the insult in stride. If Holmes is back to insulting him so easily, and in an almost affectionate fashion, then things will return to normal. They've... frighteningly already started, even after what they'd just been doing on the couch.
"Thank God," he says finally. "I wouldn't know how to go about behaving any differently, and we’d hardly be able to in public, regardless." He snorts. "Christ, their faces, though. All the old biddies. It would be ridiculously amusing until we were sent to the work gangs."
"They would never take me alive," Holmes says, and the frightening thing is that he is quite serious. And yet, more frightening still is that fact that they actually wouldn't be able to take him if he set his mind against it. And even if they did by some miracle of God and man manage to catch him, Holmes is quite certain of his ability to liberate himself. Quite certain.
Watson, too, probably. He would undoubtedly need Holmes' help but he'd manage, he always does. Holmes would be more certain of the doctor's abilities if he wasn't still of the opinion that Watson is completely obtuse. Really, the man has been doing very little to make his case otherwise. And it is very difficult to argue with Holmes, especially on matters such as this. Granted, Watson (being the type of man to succumb easily to guilt) hasn't been arguing... Holmes isn't certain how long he'll allow that to go on, but it won't be very long.
Anyway, he is distracted by the image Watson had described, of behaving in such a manner in public, and a few moments later, Holmes can't help but laugh a little to himself. He often goes about in public doing things that shock and confuse the majority of society, but never to quite that degree. He spends a moment imagining Mrs. Hudson's face, as well as Lestrade's, and is quite cheered by the idea. Then he decides quite abruptly that this would be even more cheering if he had his pipe.
But it's all the way in Watson's office... and it had taken Watson's help just to get him here. Holmes can't help but sigh at that. He'll find it later. "Is it suppertime yet?" he asks, perilously close to whining. He can't help it. He's so tired that if he stares at one spot on the ceiling for too long, colors appear that are not actually there at all.
Watson sighs, moving over o the couch and reaching down to check Holmes' pulse without bothering to ask permission. His skin is warm, not clammy, and his pulse seems steady. This, of course, isn't as helpful when dealing with a concussion, but this isn't the first time Watson has had to deal with an exhausted Holmes and a concussion, not surprisingly. With the man's proclivity for going without rest when on a case combined with his investigations being the time when he is most likely to be injured... well, it's not an uncommon situation.
"No, Holmes," he says quietly, putting his stethoscope to the other man's chest and listening for a moment before checking beneath his eyelids. Pupils smaller, but not within the safe range yet. "I'm sorry, it's nowhere near it." He straightens, casting about for something to keep Holmes' tired (and yet still impatient) mind occupied.
"The post will arrive soon. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson will bring a potential new case," he suggests finally. "Or you could dictate responses to some of these; surely none of them would mind a letter containing their solutions."
That last suggestion gets a halfhearted, noncommittal noise from Holmes, who is not interested at all in helping any of those people with their problems. If he had been slightly interested at all, or if any of them had been in truly dire straights and not simply whining about problems they'd gotten themselves into, he might bother. But certainly not these "cases." And definitely not if he's dictating to Watson, because Watson edits what he says and that is unacceptable.
As for the post, well, he can only hope. A new case would be lovely. But the odds of a new case so soon after an old one are perilously low and Holmes knows it. He does realize that he turns down many viable cases a day, but for Holmes it's not the money or the work but the problem, the challenge to his mind. There is no point in taking a case if it's simple to solve. Watson of course knows this by now, but Holmes supposes he is more hopeful than Holmes himself is. More optimistic, maybe. Holmes has a difficult time trying to be optimistic between cases.
"Perhaps I'll read," Holmes says after a moment, glancing around the floor. There has to be something around here he hasn't read forty times. But then he glances up at Watson again, who is still nearby, having come over to check Holmes' pulse and eyes and all of that. Watson looks rather worse for wear himself, and Holmes can easily imagine why but has no simple way to diagnose it, as Watson has with him. It's not a concussion or a sickness of the body, and Holmes knows it. "You could rest, you know. I'll keep awake. On my honor."
Watson snorts then. "You who mock my professions of honor at every turn?" He eyes Holmes sidelong. "I don't believe you." Even so, the thought of sleep, of just being able to curl up in bed alone in as small a ball as his leg can manage and possibly just... react for a short time... rest does sound attractive, he'll admit that.
But he'll realize that desire after tea, perhaps. He could likely let Holmes sleep for a few hours, then, so long as he woke the other man up for dinner and forced him to eat. But after tea perhaps Watson could go up to his room and unpack, and lie down for a bit, leaving Holmes to rest quietly...
As he thinks he leans back against the settee cushion, dreading the dreams he knows will come as soon as he closes his eyes, the same dreams that have kept him from sleep for weeks. Dreams of being all alone, and despite the fact that he isn't, that he's here, in Baker Street, home and safe, he knows they'll still return.
"I'm not sleeping," he tries to threaten, but it comes out as more of a mumble than anything else. He's gone without sleep for nearly as long as has Holmes... But he's not sleeping..........
Exactly seven-point-two minutes later, he snores once, quietly, and then settles, completely out.
Watson's mumbled protest receives only a raised eyebrow from Holmes, not that Watson is awake enough to notice. Minutes later, he's completely asleep, snoring actually, and Holmes doesn't bother holding in a sigh. Well, at least one of them is allowed to have some rest. He knows very well that Watson needs it, has watched for months as the other man did not sleep well or much at all. Considering what had had happened today... well, he can imagine sleep might be one of the only ways to react.
Of course, now that Watson's asleep, Holmes is quite aware that no one is watching him, and so he could fall asleep if he wanted. He is considering it seriously after Watson has slept for a few minutes, knowing very well that Watson would kill him but quickly reaching the point at which he no longer cares... and then Watson shifts, and as Holmes watches, falls sideways (whereas before he had been sprawled back on the settee's back), head landing on Holmes' shoulder where it proceeds to stay as he sleeps.
Holmes spends at least five minutes simply staring down at the sleeping Watson, eyes wide. This has happened before- although typically Holmes is more prone to falling asleep in strange places- and yet with Watson asleep, every time Holmes can't help himself. He ends up staring at the doctor the way he can't while the man is awake; of course he stares often at Watson, but not the way he wants to, not taking him in instead of his movements and the meaning behind his words, data and conclusions, but just... looking at Watson.
He looks very young when he's asleep. And, Holmes decides, strangely vulnerable with his head on Holmes' shoulder, not wearing his typically disapproving expression. And that reminds Holmes of a few minutes before, of the look on Watson's face when Holmes had said he'd had no intention of dying, and they'd both known that that was not so the night before. Watson would never say anything, because Holmes would deny it until the end of time so it would be useless, but they both knew he might have died and they both knew too that Watson would have blamed himself for it.
Thinking of that, Holmes swears quietly, letting his own head fall back so that he is staring at the ceiling again. How the hell is Watson capable of making him feel guilty enough to stay awake even when he's sleeping? It's unnatural.
An hour or two later, Mrs. Hudson appears, finding them still in this position, although now Holmes had managed to use a nearby chair to pull a book closer to him and is reading it without having moved Watson. She leaves the post for him, eyeing Watson, and Holmes raises his eyebrows at her before looking down at Watson, and then over to her.
"He's not sleeping," he informs her. She blinks back at him, too dignified to roll her eyes, and then turns to leave, missing the smirk on Holmes' face as she shuts the door behind herself.
~~~~~~~
Watson remains in complete unconsciousness for quite some time, not dreaming nor experiencing anything but blissful oblivion, the sort he hasn't reached in months even when he'd been able to find peace in his mind for long enough to slumber. But he finally gets some rest, and eventually his mind does move on to dreaming, which he really wishes it would avoid. And yet, sure enough, his nightmares return, the current one a polyglot of all his own personal horrors. It's not surprising, as that's how his dreams tend to take shape, never a singular storyline but always a mixture of his thoughts.
Once again, as always, he finds himself lying on hard sand, staring up at the sun, more a memory than a dream at this point. The sun is so bright that for a moment he thinks he's died and gone onward, to the place whose existence he had always questioned. His leg is bleeding out, hobbling him, and he knows if he hasn't died yet, it'll happen soon. His shoulder… well.
The doctor who remains cool and collected in the back of his mind evaluates his injuries with a cold detachment. Even if he survives this (he won't), his leg will likely have to be amputated to stave off the infection that will undoubtedly set in as a result of him lying here, dying. This assuming he grows wings and flies himself back to Candahar. He wouldn't want to live half a man, anyway... Men are still firing. There’s every chance he’ll be hit again, when he’s already taken two.
The sun continues to dominate his vision, but after a brief while even it is not enough to keep him conscious. He’d floated off, but before his head had slumped to the side he’d he'd seen Krieger lying there, dead with half his head blown off after he'd won half of Watson's money from him the night before, not to mention a lovely bottle of brandy.
But this time it isn't Krieger lying there dead, half his skull blown away, but rather Holmes, and before Watson can scream it suddenly isn't strangers dismembered and sliced to ribbons on the ground, but it's suddenly Mary, and his sister Lucy and his mother and his patient Ms. Whitby who's getting married next week--
But then Krieger's hand is on his shoulder, but when he turns around it's still not Krieger, it's still Holmes and his brains are still dripping from the open cavity of his skull and Watson can smell him from where he stands, pipe smoke and tar and chemicals and really just Holmes, but he's smiling with the half of his mouth he has left and his hand is pulling Watson closer, into an embrace--
Choking on what would have been something between a scream and a war cry, Watson's body jolts violently, and his eyes snap open as he promptly falls off the couch, shoving away from it and scrambling for the rifle he no longer possesses, long lost that day at Maiwand. A hand falls on his shoulder and he shouts, bringing the nearest object up to brain whoever had touched him... and barely pulling back in time when he sees Holmes, clearly worried but still whole.
After a long moment he lowers his hand, eyeing the astrolabe he'd grabbed so blindly and swallowing hard, his eyes snapping back up to the detective's, the wildness not gone yet as he seeks reassurance that his nightmare hadn't actually happened. "Forgive me," he manages, his voice strangled.
By this point Holmes knows that look in Watson's eyes quite well, though he wishes he didn't. Watson doesn't discuss what had happened to him when he went to war, and Holmes has never pushed the subject. But he knows, doesn't have to be told specifics to recognize Watson's reactions, to see how much it had truly traumatized the other man. Watson might be guilt-ridden and depressed by the events that had taken place in his life recently, but that is not what he'd been dreaming of and Holmes can tell, though he never says a word. He was there, after all, when Watson first returned to England. He remembers dreams like these happening every night, every day, until slowly it became less frequent and Watson became more Watson as he is today and less the slowly fading man he'd been then.
"Of course," Holmes says quietly, realizing he should have known better than to touch Watson when the doctor couldn't see him. A foolish mistake, but worry had overcome him when Watson had fallen off of the settee.
After that, he doesn't know what there is to say, because there really... is nothing one can say. But Holmes does hold Watson's nearly-panicked gaze, trying to reassure without words that he is home and safe and it's over now, wanting to soothe the wild look in his eyes but not knowing how. After another moment, he holds out a hand, wanting to help the doctor back up from the floor, wishing he could say that he's sorry and it's not real and he would never let that happen to him again but knowing Watson doesn't want to hear those things, not out loud.
Watson stares at Holmes' hand for a brief second, as though not sure exactly what it is, but then blinks at takes it, gripping it firmly as Holmes helps him clamber back up onto his feet, and then onto the couch again. "Hell," he groans, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. "I shouldn't have slept."
But it slowly occurs to him, as his brain continues to wake, that Holmes hadn't been asleep, that there is a book discarded on the floor from where it had fallen as Holmes had bent forward, down to him. Impressed, he reaches down to pick it up for his friend, handing it over without a word, although his expression betrays how relieved he is that Holmes hadn't followed his example.
They're silent for a good while, Watson staring at the empty fire grate while Holmes continues to read, the doctor's mind thousands of miles away and years in the past. He'd never discussed the specifics of his military career with Holmes beyond the very basics of telling him at which battle he'd been wounded, when he'd enlisted, et cetera. They'd never really spoken much about the past, to be honest. They know the skeletons of each others' histories, but had always preferred to live in the present. It had suited both of them. Watson had been unable to consider his immediate past when they'd first begun sharing digs, and by the time they'd become such close friends it hadn't seemed to matter.
Now, though... he doesn't know. He's never been able to talk about it, but just now it seems like something just as horrible but a different sort of horror than he'd experienced that day. It would certainly be a distraction, and he would give a great deal to be miserable about something, anything aside from the events of that morning.
"It was July," he says after a long period, almost a quarter of an hour of silence. There’s no preamble. He simply begins to speak, and doesn’t stop. "It was fucking hot, even in summer dress. We trekked across the mountains into Kabul in 1879, not long after I arrived, under Roberts. The Ghazis in the mountains... they were savages."
He doesn't move his gaze from the grate, clearly far off in his mind. "The Army remained in Kabul, despite the Ghazis' attempts to re-take it. I saw skirmishes, but remained in the hospital in Candahar for the most part. Then the 66th was dispatched with the brigade under Burrows to stop them from reaching Candahar. We engaged at Ayub, but they were already dug in."
He sees them falling in his mind, remembers... doesn't want to, but can't stop, now. At least with this, he can't see Mary's face any longer. "We were dragging the wounded under cover as fast as we could, but we couldn't reach them all.”
"I saw Krieger... a friend. A sergeant. We played cards, played the night before… he charged with them. I saw him fall, and Carlson, ran out to try to drag them in. Krieger..." He clenches his jaw. "Carlson was alive when they hit us again. They hit my leg while I was putting pressure on his wound, and he took a head shot. I fell back, they came in on foot, and one of them looked right at me and shot me, fairly close range. Poor aim, I suppose." He rubs his shoulder, remembering. It sounds so... damned impassionate when he says it, but he doesn't know any other way to put it into words without bursting into tears. He honestly doesn't.
"My orderly, Murray, threw me over the back of a horse, gathered up the wounded he could find, and got me to Candahar on foot. I've no idea how he managed it." He doesn't remember much of that time at all. Only the horse's hooves as it kept plodding, nearly done in itself, and the sand flying up into his eyes.
There doesn't seem to be anything more to say after that, though, and he can't risk a look over at Holmes. Doesn't know why he'd chosen now to reveal all of it. But he feels almost empty now that all of the words have flowed out, as though his head had been stuffed full for so long and now it's all been released, the sluices opened. But what will go in all that space now?
Next to him, Holmes is silent for a long minute after that, not certain what he could possibly say in response to that at all. His book still rests on his lap, but Holmes is not looking at it, can't look at anything but Watson, can't think about anything but... what Watson had just told him.
He feels certain, even hearing it now, now having an outline of the events and hearing what had happened for the first time, now knowing what Watson is remembering when he looks like that... well, knowing is a far cry from understanding, and Holmes feels quite certain that he will never understand it. He doesn't imagine anyone but Watson could. Another veteran, yes, perhaps. But no one quite the same.
It's horrendous, of course. Every bit as horrendous as Holmes had imagined and then some. Even with his years of experience as a detective, seeing death all the time and facing it just as often, it hasn't been like that and it never will be. And even with his mind, the mind that can see so clearly the answers to so many questions with so little data, Holmes cannot imagine what it would have been like to be there.
Watson hasn't spoken of the war... in the entire time Holmes has known him, except for a few bare facts. Holmes had never pushed, instinctively knowing better. After all, he prefers to keep his own past to himself, and his has nothing quite so traumatic. But suddenly Watson is talking and telling him these things and Holmes... doesn't know what that could mean, why Watson has chosen now or him to tell these things to, but he can't do anything but listen because that is literally all there is to do. He can't tell Watson it will be all right, he can't comfort him and say that it will get better, that he'll forget, because he won't. He can't say that he understands, because he doesn't. But he can listen, and that Holmes does with his whole being, silent and focused on what Watson is saying.
Watson doesn't look at him, but Holmes knows he's finished. And for a long minute, Holmes has no way to respond to that, silenced as surely as if Watson had covered his mouth. But he doesn't know, doesn't think words are necessary or possible in response to that. So instead, after a minute, he does all he can, which is to reach over and put a hand on the other man's shoulder, holding maybe a little too tightly. He wants to thank Watson for trusting him with this, but he can't speak yet. He wants to reassure him somehow, but he doesn't know how. And he wants to tell Watson that he, Holmes, will always listen at the very least, but he thinks Watson knows that.
In the end it's minutes before Holmes manages anything at all, but the entire time he is focused on Watson, his attention not wavering in the slightest. "I should like to thank Murray," he says very quietly, knowing that the rest will have to remain unspoken because there is no way to articulate it aloud.
Watson laughs quietly, somehow still able to find his good humor, even though it's so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, even though it's barely there, and not all that funny to begin with, really. "He lives in Finchley," he says finally. "Stayed in after the war, then left. He came to Standish's dinner last year."
He pauses. "I believe he's getting married. I'll probably go to the wedding." It seems so surreal that Murray would be engaged, that Standish could be married, that they're all so far moved on, and yet he knows none of them could possibly forget those days in the desert. That he can see one of them on the street or in a bar, as he had Standish, and they would recognize each other and it would be as though they'd never left Afghanistan, or had only just a few months before.
Swallowing, he finally manages to glance over at Holmes, although he doesn't resist the other man's grip on his shoulder at all. "I didn't tell you for pity. I don't know why I told you. I didn't plan on it." He lets out a long breath, the empty feeling still there; he wonders if it will ever go away, now. Doesn't particularly want to have to go through anything like that again in order to fill it up. "But you're the only person I would tell."
"I don't pity you," Holmes says, completely truthfully. He is not given to pity, is slightly less likely to feel it than the average man, although there do come moments during some of the more difficult, tragic cases he works when he pities the victims or their families. But he does not and has never pitied Watson. He has on occasion felt the sort of pity one feels for another man when he has a particularly bad hangover, or that sort of thing. But real pity, never. Not even now. Watson is not the sort of man one pities.
He doesn't know quite what he feels about all of this, towards Watson. Sad doesn't seem to cover it. He wishes Watson hadn't been there. But if he hadn't, Watson wouldn't be Watson, not who he is right now, in the present. They never would have met. Who knows what would have become of him, of either of them? Holmes can't imagine either of them would have ended up particularly well without the other, during that critical time that they met.
"I don't envy you either, that's a certainty," he adds quietly a moment later. "I don't pretend to understand. But I am happy to listen."
Watson nods slowly. He'd known that, really. Holmes isn't one given to pitying anyone at all. Watson wouldn't have told him at all if he'd thought he'd receive sympathy, or a pithy 'it will be all right, dear boy.' Because it won't be all right, and they both know it. Nothing could make his experiences in war all right. But having someone to listen... well, Holmes had always been there to listen. But to his shock, it does actually make it a bit more bearable to remember, knowing it's not locked up in his head anymore.
"Thank you," he says quietly, wondering where his stoicism has run off to. This entire day has turned everything upside down, and that is not an exaggeration in the least.
He sighs, rubbing his temples in a familiar gesture that's somehow a comfort. "I'm glad you'll never have to go through it. Looking back, I can't see how anyone would, voluntarily. But you've no idea when you enlist. No boy could begin to comprehend it."
He hadn't, finishing university and immediately entering the Army, a bright, athletic young man with the world at his feet. But instead of the world, he'd soon realized that the only thing at his feet had been a steadily-growing mountain of gangrenous amputated limbs. He touches his own bad leg, resting his hand on his thigh. He might be crippled, needing a cane for the remainder of his life, but at least he is a whole man, with nothing missing.
If they'd taken his leg or his arm, he doubts he would have allowed himself to survive the return journey to London. And he reminds himself of how lucky he is on the days when he cannot keep up with Holmes, cannot climb stairs or even leave his bed. Sometimes it's just more difficult to remember. But Holmes was the one who really made him into a whole man again, no longer a ghost, and for that he will be forever grateful. "It's terribly callous to say, but I'd take a grisly murder scene over another pile of amputated limbs at any offering. I'd rather never perform another amputation in my life if I have my druthers."
No, Holmes would not have done well in the Army, his penchant for ignoring orders aside. He doesn't want to think about it, honestly. With nothing to concentrate on but the task at hand, no mysteries or puzzles to keep his great mind busy... with nothing but bloodshed, men to be killed... Watson has no trouble envisioning Holmes in battle. None at all, and the thought frightens him, what his friend would have become had he been the one who'd enlisted, with nothing to concentrate on save killing. He really... doesn't want to think about it.
"Is that terribly callous?" Holmes asks, raising an eyebrow.
He, for one, is not certain that it is callous at all. But then, Holmes has come to understand that his own feelings regarding grisly murders are a bit atypical. Holmes would actually dearly appreciate a grisly murder right about now... provided it was done in such a way that his expertise would be required. No simple theft and murder in a back alleyway of London for Sherlock Holmes. And yes, it has occurred to him that it is not normal to wish for a murder or a grand theft of some sort. But if all the murderers should suddenly quit, Holmes would be quite out of a job, and bored out of his mind within a week. Undoubtedly in the very real sense. He depends upon the keen minds of criminals to keep himself sane. A precarious position, no doubt about it, but there you have it.
So his viewpoint, while certainly odd, is understandable. And Watson's more so; after all, Watson isn't wishing for a murder, merely saying he'd rather see one than deal with more amputations. Considering his occupation in the war, Holmes can't say he blames the man. It seems quite understandable to him. And he also can't say that he doesn't appreciate the sentiment that he's glad Holmes had never had to go through it. He is as well, he'd say. He is a deeply patriotic man, and yet he knew at a young age that his skills would be put to better use here, doing what he does, than in battle. And then in school he had finally learned what exactly it was that he could put his mind and then his skills to use doing.
Watson, he thinks too, has found that he has his own place in these investigations. He is a very good doctor, but that is hardly all he is and Holmes is convinced that that would not be enough for Watson. He thinks, too, that Watson is beginning to see as much himself. "If boys could comprehend war," Holmes says after a moment, "there would be no one enlisted at all." And they'd be doomed, he supposes, as the world is. But it seems so terrible, when one considers it. To draw young men in, in their prime of their lives, wanting nothing more than to do what is right for their country... and then to let them go years later, adults now by necessity and so many of them broken forever. It's wrong, and yet, there can be no changing the way of things.
"Would that there weren't," Watson agrees quietly, nodding. He pushes thoughts of what Holmes would have become right out of his mind, knowing that nothing will change now... and perhaps he's glad of it, he thinks, coming to the same conclusion as Holmes had only a moment or two behind. He doesn't know if he would change things, either. If he hadn't joined the army or hadn't been wounded, he likely never would have met Holmes at all. If he hadn't even enlisted, he'd have a successful practice, probably, but he'd be bored out of his bloody mind.
And if he'd stayed in the army without injury... well, he'd be dead by now, or else burnt out. Or he'd've discharged and started a practice then, too. Much as he hates his old injuries... they did probably save his life in both the physical and metaphorical senses.
Before they can continue this, however, there's another sharp knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson appears with no more preamble. "Still not sleeping, doctor?" she asks with an arched brow and an amused smile. Watson flushes slightly.
"No more sleep for me for a while, madam," he agrees, glancing sidelong at Holmes as the landlady sets down the tray. "You're eating." It's a statement, not a question. And there is an inches-thick stack of post on the tray, as well as the newspaper. Perfect.
~~~~~~~
Part Thirteen
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: More snogging of the slash variety. A bit of PTSD.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Angst still abounds. Some language.
Word Count: 8,557
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 12/??.
Parts Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
~~~~~~~
Very slowly, Watson turns to look at Holmes. He doesn't miss the thoughtful tone, nor does he miss the expression that goes along with it. Both are familiar, and both consistently lead to him getting into trouble of some kind or other. And yet, in this case... well. He can't say that he's upset to see them. It's a good sign that Holmes is plotting. Reassuring... and yet not at all at the same time.
"I would say that it's extremely important," he says after a moment, amused. But then he sobers. "I'm quite serious,* Holmes. If you sleep while still under the fairly recent effects of a concussion, you could fall into a coma and linger there, or die. You're bloody lucky you didn't do so earlier, before I arrived."
He's no fool. He knows the game Holmes is playing. And he'll likely go along with everything, as always. But he'd like for Holmes to understand his reasons for torturing the detective, after all, so he knows why he shouldn't just give in and fall asleep.
Of course, none of this is news to Holmes, who has had more than his fair share of concussions over the years. In fact, he might have known that even before he fell asleep upstairs, but he doesn't actually remember even coming back to Baker Street the night before, let alone Watson's room, so that's just a suspicion on his part, a suspicion Holmes will never share with anyone, least of all Watson. Watson had been right, the day he'd broken Holmes' solution and then... well, attacked him, kissed him, Holmes doesn't really know or care. There is something in him intent on self-destruction, and he doesn't have the slightest why or how long he has before it wins (although he has no doubt that it will in the end). But some nights are worse than others by far. And last night... was bad.
But now... today, things are different. Vastly different, monumentally different, so much so that even concussed and miserable as he is in the physical sense, Holmes has almost completely forgotten that he has no case to focus on. Right now, he is strangely content to simply focus on Watson, in any sense Watson will allow him (or can be cajoled into allowing him). This will of course not last, Holmes has no expectations otherwise, but it will certainly help. It had helped before, in those horrible but unavoidable periods of nothing, blankness in between cases, had helped more than he thinks Watson knows or will ever know, and it's suddenly different now between them and yet... not.
"I have no intention of dying," Holmes says, very nearly serious. Well, just serious* enough that he lets Watson know that he understands without being too solemn. He does not plan on dying today, nor does he plan on falling into a coma. He doesn't care much for sleep unless he is bored, and so a coma would be a monumental waste of time. And death is nothing if not sleeping forever.
So. Extremely important, the physician says. Holmes considers this for a long moment quite obviously, staring up at the ceiling deliberately and thinking logically as always. "So, as it is vitally important for me to remain awake, I'd imagine it would be the responsible thing to keep active."
No intention of dying. Holmes could have fooled Watson, just judging by what he’d done the night before, letting however many men beat him. It’s an entirely unhealthy way of dealing with anything, and Watson is aware… well, now he knows it’s because of him that Holmes had done that. He remembers what the other man had looked like when he’d escorted Mary out of the alley (had that only been the night before?), knows now what Holmes had gone off and done. Knows he’d done it because of him, Watson.
And if Holmes had died, it would have been his fault, as well.
But this isn’t the time to think about all of that, and he knows it. Because first of all, he has enough truly sad things to think about to add more to the list at the present moment, and that particular one makes him want to bash his head in for being such an imbecile. But in addition, he doesn’t feel the need to get into an argument with Holmes, who is not in any sort of shape for that.
So he plays along, smiling slightly. “Activity would be wise, so long as it isn’t too very active. You’ve broken ribs, after all.” He pauses, miming deep thought. “I’d advise against rugby, even though you’re still in possession of my rugby ball. Did you have something else in mind?”
After all, he’d been the one to initiate… well, the first attack. And then again, a few minutes ago, on the floor. It’s Holmes’ turn, he thinks.
"Your rugby ball- who said that I am in possession of your rugby ball?" Holmes asks, turning now to look at Watson, expression somewhere between incredulous and innocent, neither of which is believable in the least despite how wide his eyes are. "I distinctly recall informing you that I have no idea where it is."
This was, of course, a lie, but it's the principle of the thing, isn't it? Holmes told him that he has no idea where his rugby ball is, and thus Watson should not simply assume that he has it. In fact, at the time he had told Watson that he didn't know where his rugby ball was, he didn't know. Later, he recalled that he'd been using it for something, but by that point he couldn't tell Watson, could he?
But even being accused of having Watson's rugby ball, Holmes can't be distracted from his actual goal for long. Especially not since Watson is obviously mentioning things like rugby in order to distract him. Still, Holmes does not believe that Watson truly wants him to be distracted. If he did, he wouldn't have smiled a moment ago. And so, quite happy to move on (before Watson can argue with him), Holmes considers the doctor very thoroughly for a moment before responding. He raises an eyebrow before very deliberately and slowly, almost experimentally, leans back over to do exactly what he'd done before Mrs. Hudson had appeared, running his tongue up the line of Watson's jaw to just underneath his ear- only this time, he doesn't pull back right away, but pauses for a moment, considering, and then very deliberately bites down, and hard.
And then he pulls back, completely unable to keep from smirking. "Perhaps the violin."
Watson would swear his inner temperature had abruptly risen at least ten degrees, and he has to clamp down hard on his jaw to keep from emitting what would have been an extremely loud noise, and one that Mrs. Hudson would definitely have heard. But he doesn't move from where he's sitting, refusing to give in to the torture.
"That--would also be less than advisable," he says in a strained voice, finally opening his eyes and glaring a little over at Holmes, although there's no venom behind it at all, only play. "You'd strain your ribs." But then it's his turn to lean over, finding the spot on Holmes' shoulder that he'd noticed before, and to bite down equally hard, meaning to bruise.
When he lifts his head slightly, he's smirking again. "I recommend something slightly quieter." But only slightly. A hand that is not his own appears on his thigh a moment later, squeezing the long muscles there experimentally, and he nearly draws blood on his lip to stifle the noise he'd almost made automatically. Grunting, he reaches over and returns the treatment, returning to Holmes' neck with a mutter.
"Slightly quieter," Holmes gasps, certain he would be annoyed at the way his voice sounds rough already if he wasn't also quite pleased with himself for provoking this sort of reaction from Watson. It's the sort of thing he'd dreamed about, yes, but had never let himself imagine if he could help it... even though sometimes he couldn't help it, and then he would imagine for hours and then come back to reality to realize it wasn't real (and couldn't ever be real) and that would be about when he'd go looking for his solution.
But Watson destroyed all of his bottles, and this is real. For the first time, Holmes is finding it difficult to make his mind take in and believe what his eyes are seeing and what he's feeling, even though he knows it's happening, knows this can't be a hallucination of some sort. Which somehow makes the fact that Watson just bit him hard enough that he's not feeling any of his other bruises about a thousand times worse (or better?) than it would have been. If Holmes wasn't far too manly and pleased with himself, he would probably pass out within the minute.
Watson's hand is then on his thigh and dangerously close to other areas he would not mind Watson's hand being, and Holmes' eyes close against his will, and probably roll back into his head. He bites his tongue again to keep himself quiet, but he's not very good at being quiet and all that does is muffle the moan he inevitably does let out. "If that is what my physician advises," he agrees, voice strained (he can't breathe and it has nothing to do with his ribs), but that does give him time to latch on to Watson's arm with his free hand, which he uses to pull the other man closer whether he likes it or not. Holmes might have begun this with a game but Watson is not getting away now and that is all there is to it.
Well, not all there is to it. There is also Holmes' other hand, which in true Holmes fashion refuses to stay still and begins very quickly to test the doctor's limits while Watson is otherwise occupied at Holmes' neck, which Holmes discovers quickly is either much more sensitive than he had previously known or is particularly susceptible to Watson. Either is quite possible. Holmes finds that he doesn't care which it is.
Watson breathes in sharply, more of a hiss than anything else, when Holmes' hand ends up on his stomach, moving slowly down to his belt, which he'd had no trouble unbuckling in the past without Watson's permission, but this is entirely different and new and Watson didn't even know it was possible to feel like this with another man.
Hell, who is he kidding? He loves women, he'll admit that freely, but this is in an entirely different league than that had been. Holmes has his belt undone, is slowly unbuttoning his trousers, and Watson freezes in place, drawing in a sharp breath, his hands forgetting themselves and clenching, one on Holmes' shoulder and the other on the other man's thigh.
"Holmes," he says weakly, "I don't... I have to stop. This is too fast." He can feel Holmes freeze, half underneath him, and he lifts his head to stare down at him. "I don't... I want to, Christ, I need... but I left my wife two hours ago." And his current state, which Holmes couldn't possibly miss, attests to the fact that he does in fact desperately want this. But he needs some time, first. "I'm only asking for a brief time, so that I can process everything that's happened, today."
That is sensible. Holmes will allow that that is perfectly sensible, recalling that Watson had indeed left his wife only hours ago, and how horrible he'd looked when he'd returned. And once he allows himself to remember that, some of the tension that he'd suddenly been feeling dissipates. Even so, he does pull back enough to look up at Watson, expression unreadable- and searching, because Holmes can't help but feel as though he's waiting for the part where Watson runs away or tells him this was a mistake.
Even though he'd taken what had happened before, when Watson had kissed him, as a sign of hope, he had also been unable to forget the part afterwards, when Watson had fled. And after the past few months... well, it's simply difficult to forget the lessons learned over the space of a few months in the space of a couple of hours. Even Holmes is able to learn some lessons, if you beat it into his head hard enough. And this one was certainly beaten into his head.
And so it's not surprising when Watson says that he has to stop, Holmes immediately freezes, readying himself for an emotional blow. Watson's continued explanation takes a moment to truly get through to him, and a moment longer for Holmes to comprehend and accept. Which he does, slowly, trying to regain control of his breathing. It's not working with Watson half on top of him. He really does want to do what he can to help- doesn't want to push Watson, not so soon anyway- he really does. But it's not Holmes' nature, it doesn't come easily, and despite the evidence to the contrary- the very obvious evidence at this point- he can't help but pull into himself, obviously preparing for some sort of disappointment, some sort of blow.
If he wasn't so completely logical (and pathetic, a voice in the back of his mind adds), he wouldn't be able to accept Watson's explanation at all. But it does make sense. He's right, of course. And even if this actually is too good to be true, Holmes knows he will go along with it as long as he can, just as pathetically as any voice in the back of his head wants to point out. And so it hardly matters whether Watson really will flee.
He isn't exactly going anywhere just yet. Actually, he's making it very difficult to do what he's asking, as his fingernails are currently embedded in Holmes' flesh, and if he wasn't so suddenly focused on this conversation and Watson (in a different manner), Holmes would squirm shamelessly. "All right, but you're going to have to let go of me."
Watson blinks, his mind still not entirely clear, and then he looks down at Holmes... and realizes how tightly he's clenching his friend. "Sorry," he mutters sheepishly, releasing him and moving back so that they're sitting next to each other on the settee again, rather than Watson half on top of Holmes.
He looks up at Holmes again, worried now, and doesn't particularly think he likes what he sees. "I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly, half pleading. "I’ve been cruel and thoughtless and self-absorbed, but I'm not leaving you, Holmes. It would kill me." There. Honesty. He prides himself on not lying, but as it turns out... he's rather been lying to everyone (including himself) for quite some time.
Holmes stares back at him for a moment, still working on evening his breathing, which had become... erratic would be a mild description. His expression remains the same, which is to say just about no expression, but he can't hide the intensity of his stare. Watson knows what each different form of staring at something or someone means, or at least typically he knows, when Holmes isn't completely off somewhere in his head where Watson can't follow.
After a moment, quite against his will, that does ease something in Holmes a little. Not near to completely, not yet. Not enough that he isn't still wary, pulled back into himself as he tends to when he gets uncomfortable with situations he doesn't have completely under control. But enough that he can pull himself up a little, attempting to even out his breathing (and stop his eyes trying to stare at Watson's belt, which is still undone), rather than just staying sort of half-sprawled as he was and undoubtedly allowing himself in a few minutes to drift off again.
"I didn't imply that you would," Holmes says, done staring at Watson for the time being, data gathered. He inspects the way his knuckles appear to have been split several times instead. "But you'll hear no arguments from me as to the rest."
Not really bothered by his state of dishabille for perhaps the first time in his life, Watson looks down, hearing that put so succinctly. "Yes, well, as already determined, it's my fault. All of it, in its entirety. I'm aware, Holmes." Honestly, he doesn't need the reminder. He'll no doubt be blaming himself for the guilt of it for years to come, for hurting the two people he cares about the most. And he's saved his relationship with one, now, but the other will forever hate him.
Standing, he moves over to the window, finally giving up and just throwing off his belt, leaving his bracers to hold up his trousers, although he does remember to make certain those are buttoned. Mrs. Hudson does enter at will for the most part, after all.
"Well, then," he says quietly. "Holmes... with all of this... I see it as an addition to the relationship we already have. An aspect of it that will enhance it. I shouldn't like to lose our friendship, only... to have it and then more, as well." He's too nervous to look back and see the other man's expression. "But that's... I've only had a few hours to consider this, you understand, so if you had another path in mind please tell me."
Holmes would like to say he's only had a few hours to considering this as well. He really would like to say that he hadn't been wondering and theorizing and generally obsessing over it for ages now. But that would be such a complete lie that even facing away from him, quite moping and nervous, Watson would be able to tell. Especially after Holmes lost his mind earlier that morning and shouted at him that he had been thinking about this for years. In retrospect, that might not have been the best idea he has ever had. Also in retrospect, he has no idea where his pipe landed and suddenly feels naked without it.
For a moment, Holmes seriously considers saying that he had indeed had a path in mind, but Watson had stopped him before he could get there, just to see and gauge Watson's reaction. But he had looked so forlorn a moment before that Holmes is very mildly repentant and keeps his response less shocking.
"I haven't," he assures Watson, now watching the other man through his lashes even though he appears to still be inspecting his knuckles. "That sounds remarkably comparable to a logical course of action, Watson, I'm quite impressed."
That gets a smirk out of Watson, although not so much of one as usual. But it's there, and that heartens him. "Thank you," he says, nodding and taking the insult in stride. If Holmes is back to insulting him so easily, and in an almost affectionate fashion, then things will return to normal. They've... frighteningly already started, even after what they'd just been doing on the couch.
"Thank God," he says finally. "I wouldn't know how to go about behaving any differently, and we’d hardly be able to in public, regardless." He snorts. "Christ, their faces, though. All the old biddies. It would be ridiculously amusing until we were sent to the work gangs."
"They would never take me alive," Holmes says, and the frightening thing is that he is quite serious. And yet, more frightening still is that fact that they actually wouldn't be able to take him if he set his mind against it. And even if they did by some miracle of God and man manage to catch him, Holmes is quite certain of his ability to liberate himself. Quite certain.
Watson, too, probably. He would undoubtedly need Holmes' help but he'd manage, he always does. Holmes would be more certain of the doctor's abilities if he wasn't still of the opinion that Watson is completely obtuse. Really, the man has been doing very little to make his case otherwise. And it is very difficult to argue with Holmes, especially on matters such as this. Granted, Watson (being the type of man to succumb easily to guilt) hasn't been arguing... Holmes isn't certain how long he'll allow that to go on, but it won't be very long.
Anyway, he is distracted by the image Watson had described, of behaving in such a manner in public, and a few moments later, Holmes can't help but laugh a little to himself. He often goes about in public doing things that shock and confuse the majority of society, but never to quite that degree. He spends a moment imagining Mrs. Hudson's face, as well as Lestrade's, and is quite cheered by the idea. Then he decides quite abruptly that this would be even more cheering if he had his pipe.
But it's all the way in Watson's office... and it had taken Watson's help just to get him here. Holmes can't help but sigh at that. He'll find it later. "Is it suppertime yet?" he asks, perilously close to whining. He can't help it. He's so tired that if he stares at one spot on the ceiling for too long, colors appear that are not actually there at all.
Watson sighs, moving over o the couch and reaching down to check Holmes' pulse without bothering to ask permission. His skin is warm, not clammy, and his pulse seems steady. This, of course, isn't as helpful when dealing with a concussion, but this isn't the first time Watson has had to deal with an exhausted Holmes and a concussion, not surprisingly. With the man's proclivity for going without rest when on a case combined with his investigations being the time when he is most likely to be injured... well, it's not an uncommon situation.
"No, Holmes," he says quietly, putting his stethoscope to the other man's chest and listening for a moment before checking beneath his eyelids. Pupils smaller, but not within the safe range yet. "I'm sorry, it's nowhere near it." He straightens, casting about for something to keep Holmes' tired (and yet still impatient) mind occupied.
"The post will arrive soon. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson will bring a potential new case," he suggests finally. "Or you could dictate responses to some of these; surely none of them would mind a letter containing their solutions."
That last suggestion gets a halfhearted, noncommittal noise from Holmes, who is not interested at all in helping any of those people with their problems. If he had been slightly interested at all, or if any of them had been in truly dire straights and not simply whining about problems they'd gotten themselves into, he might bother. But certainly not these "cases." And definitely not if he's dictating to Watson, because Watson edits what he says and that is unacceptable.
As for the post, well, he can only hope. A new case would be lovely. But the odds of a new case so soon after an old one are perilously low and Holmes knows it. He does realize that he turns down many viable cases a day, but for Holmes it's not the money or the work but the problem, the challenge to his mind. There is no point in taking a case if it's simple to solve. Watson of course knows this by now, but Holmes supposes he is more hopeful than Holmes himself is. More optimistic, maybe. Holmes has a difficult time trying to be optimistic between cases.
"Perhaps I'll read," Holmes says after a moment, glancing around the floor. There has to be something around here he hasn't read forty times. But then he glances up at Watson again, who is still nearby, having come over to check Holmes' pulse and eyes and all of that. Watson looks rather worse for wear himself, and Holmes can easily imagine why but has no simple way to diagnose it, as Watson has with him. It's not a concussion or a sickness of the body, and Holmes knows it. "You could rest, you know. I'll keep awake. On my honor."
Watson snorts then. "You who mock my professions of honor at every turn?" He eyes Holmes sidelong. "I don't believe you." Even so, the thought of sleep, of just being able to curl up in bed alone in as small a ball as his leg can manage and possibly just... react for a short time... rest does sound attractive, he'll admit that.
But he'll realize that desire after tea, perhaps. He could likely let Holmes sleep for a few hours, then, so long as he woke the other man up for dinner and forced him to eat. But after tea perhaps Watson could go up to his room and unpack, and lie down for a bit, leaving Holmes to rest quietly...
As he thinks he leans back against the settee cushion, dreading the dreams he knows will come as soon as he closes his eyes, the same dreams that have kept him from sleep for weeks. Dreams of being all alone, and despite the fact that he isn't, that he's here, in Baker Street, home and safe, he knows they'll still return.
"I'm not sleeping," he tries to threaten, but it comes out as more of a mumble than anything else. He's gone without sleep for nearly as long as has Holmes... But he's not sleeping..........
Exactly seven-point-two minutes later, he snores once, quietly, and then settles, completely out.
Watson's mumbled protest receives only a raised eyebrow from Holmes, not that Watson is awake enough to notice. Minutes later, he's completely asleep, snoring actually, and Holmes doesn't bother holding in a sigh. Well, at least one of them is allowed to have some rest. He knows very well that Watson needs it, has watched for months as the other man did not sleep well or much at all. Considering what had had happened today... well, he can imagine sleep might be one of the only ways to react.
Of course, now that Watson's asleep, Holmes is quite aware that no one is watching him, and so he could fall asleep if he wanted. He is considering it seriously after Watson has slept for a few minutes, knowing very well that Watson would kill him but quickly reaching the point at which he no longer cares... and then Watson shifts, and as Holmes watches, falls sideways (whereas before he had been sprawled back on the settee's back), head landing on Holmes' shoulder where it proceeds to stay as he sleeps.
Holmes spends at least five minutes simply staring down at the sleeping Watson, eyes wide. This has happened before- although typically Holmes is more prone to falling asleep in strange places- and yet with Watson asleep, every time Holmes can't help himself. He ends up staring at the doctor the way he can't while the man is awake; of course he stares often at Watson, but not the way he wants to, not taking him in instead of his movements and the meaning behind his words, data and conclusions, but just... looking at Watson.
He looks very young when he's asleep. And, Holmes decides, strangely vulnerable with his head on Holmes' shoulder, not wearing his typically disapproving expression. And that reminds Holmes of a few minutes before, of the look on Watson's face when Holmes had said he'd had no intention of dying, and they'd both known that that was not so the night before. Watson would never say anything, because Holmes would deny it until the end of time so it would be useless, but they both knew he might have died and they both knew too that Watson would have blamed himself for it.
Thinking of that, Holmes swears quietly, letting his own head fall back so that he is staring at the ceiling again. How the hell is Watson capable of making him feel guilty enough to stay awake even when he's sleeping? It's unnatural.
An hour or two later, Mrs. Hudson appears, finding them still in this position, although now Holmes had managed to use a nearby chair to pull a book closer to him and is reading it without having moved Watson. She leaves the post for him, eyeing Watson, and Holmes raises his eyebrows at her before looking down at Watson, and then over to her.
"He's not sleeping," he informs her. She blinks back at him, too dignified to roll her eyes, and then turns to leave, missing the smirk on Holmes' face as she shuts the door behind herself.
~~~~~~~
Watson remains in complete unconsciousness for quite some time, not dreaming nor experiencing anything but blissful oblivion, the sort he hasn't reached in months even when he'd been able to find peace in his mind for long enough to slumber. But he finally gets some rest, and eventually his mind does move on to dreaming, which he really wishes it would avoid. And yet, sure enough, his nightmares return, the current one a polyglot of all his own personal horrors. It's not surprising, as that's how his dreams tend to take shape, never a singular storyline but always a mixture of his thoughts.
Once again, as always, he finds himself lying on hard sand, staring up at the sun, more a memory than a dream at this point. The sun is so bright that for a moment he thinks he's died and gone onward, to the place whose existence he had always questioned. His leg is bleeding out, hobbling him, and he knows if he hasn't died yet, it'll happen soon. His shoulder… well.
The doctor who remains cool and collected in the back of his mind evaluates his injuries with a cold detachment. Even if he survives this (he won't), his leg will likely have to be amputated to stave off the infection that will undoubtedly set in as a result of him lying here, dying. This assuming he grows wings and flies himself back to Candahar. He wouldn't want to live half a man, anyway... Men are still firing. There’s every chance he’ll be hit again, when he’s already taken two.
The sun continues to dominate his vision, but after a brief while even it is not enough to keep him conscious. He’d floated off, but before his head had slumped to the side he’d he'd seen Krieger lying there, dead with half his head blown off after he'd won half of Watson's money from him the night before, not to mention a lovely bottle of brandy.
But this time it isn't Krieger lying there dead, half his skull blown away, but rather Holmes, and before Watson can scream it suddenly isn't strangers dismembered and sliced to ribbons on the ground, but it's suddenly Mary, and his sister Lucy and his mother and his patient Ms. Whitby who's getting married next week--
But then Krieger's hand is on his shoulder, but when he turns around it's still not Krieger, it's still Holmes and his brains are still dripping from the open cavity of his skull and Watson can smell him from where he stands, pipe smoke and tar and chemicals and really just Holmes, but he's smiling with the half of his mouth he has left and his hand is pulling Watson closer, into an embrace--
Choking on what would have been something between a scream and a war cry, Watson's body jolts violently, and his eyes snap open as he promptly falls off the couch, shoving away from it and scrambling for the rifle he no longer possesses, long lost that day at Maiwand. A hand falls on his shoulder and he shouts, bringing the nearest object up to brain whoever had touched him... and barely pulling back in time when he sees Holmes, clearly worried but still whole.
After a long moment he lowers his hand, eyeing the astrolabe he'd grabbed so blindly and swallowing hard, his eyes snapping back up to the detective's, the wildness not gone yet as he seeks reassurance that his nightmare hadn't actually happened. "Forgive me," he manages, his voice strangled.
By this point Holmes knows that look in Watson's eyes quite well, though he wishes he didn't. Watson doesn't discuss what had happened to him when he went to war, and Holmes has never pushed the subject. But he knows, doesn't have to be told specifics to recognize Watson's reactions, to see how much it had truly traumatized the other man. Watson might be guilt-ridden and depressed by the events that had taken place in his life recently, but that is not what he'd been dreaming of and Holmes can tell, though he never says a word. He was there, after all, when Watson first returned to England. He remembers dreams like these happening every night, every day, until slowly it became less frequent and Watson became more Watson as he is today and less the slowly fading man he'd been then.
"Of course," Holmes says quietly, realizing he should have known better than to touch Watson when the doctor couldn't see him. A foolish mistake, but worry had overcome him when Watson had fallen off of the settee.
After that, he doesn't know what there is to say, because there really... is nothing one can say. But Holmes does hold Watson's nearly-panicked gaze, trying to reassure without words that he is home and safe and it's over now, wanting to soothe the wild look in his eyes but not knowing how. After another moment, he holds out a hand, wanting to help the doctor back up from the floor, wishing he could say that he's sorry and it's not real and he would never let that happen to him again but knowing Watson doesn't want to hear those things, not out loud.
Watson stares at Holmes' hand for a brief second, as though not sure exactly what it is, but then blinks at takes it, gripping it firmly as Holmes helps him clamber back up onto his feet, and then onto the couch again. "Hell," he groans, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. "I shouldn't have slept."
But it slowly occurs to him, as his brain continues to wake, that Holmes hadn't been asleep, that there is a book discarded on the floor from where it had fallen as Holmes had bent forward, down to him. Impressed, he reaches down to pick it up for his friend, handing it over without a word, although his expression betrays how relieved he is that Holmes hadn't followed his example.
They're silent for a good while, Watson staring at the empty fire grate while Holmes continues to read, the doctor's mind thousands of miles away and years in the past. He'd never discussed the specifics of his military career with Holmes beyond the very basics of telling him at which battle he'd been wounded, when he'd enlisted, et cetera. They'd never really spoken much about the past, to be honest. They know the skeletons of each others' histories, but had always preferred to live in the present. It had suited both of them. Watson had been unable to consider his immediate past when they'd first begun sharing digs, and by the time they'd become such close friends it hadn't seemed to matter.
Now, though... he doesn't know. He's never been able to talk about it, but just now it seems like something just as horrible but a different sort of horror than he'd experienced that day. It would certainly be a distraction, and he would give a great deal to be miserable about something, anything aside from the events of that morning.
"It was July," he says after a long period, almost a quarter of an hour of silence. There’s no preamble. He simply begins to speak, and doesn’t stop. "It was fucking hot, even in summer dress. We trekked across the mountains into Kabul in 1879, not long after I arrived, under Roberts. The Ghazis in the mountains... they were savages."
He doesn't move his gaze from the grate, clearly far off in his mind. "The Army remained in Kabul, despite the Ghazis' attempts to re-take it. I saw skirmishes, but remained in the hospital in Candahar for the most part. Then the 66th was dispatched with the brigade under Burrows to stop them from reaching Candahar. We engaged at Ayub, but they were already dug in."
He sees them falling in his mind, remembers... doesn't want to, but can't stop, now. At least with this, he can't see Mary's face any longer. "We were dragging the wounded under cover as fast as we could, but we couldn't reach them all.”
"I saw Krieger... a friend. A sergeant. We played cards, played the night before… he charged with them. I saw him fall, and Carlson, ran out to try to drag them in. Krieger..." He clenches his jaw. "Carlson was alive when they hit us again. They hit my leg while I was putting pressure on his wound, and he took a head shot. I fell back, they came in on foot, and one of them looked right at me and shot me, fairly close range. Poor aim, I suppose." He rubs his shoulder, remembering. It sounds so... damned impassionate when he says it, but he doesn't know any other way to put it into words without bursting into tears. He honestly doesn't.
"My orderly, Murray, threw me over the back of a horse, gathered up the wounded he could find, and got me to Candahar on foot. I've no idea how he managed it." He doesn't remember much of that time at all. Only the horse's hooves as it kept plodding, nearly done in itself, and the sand flying up into his eyes.
There doesn't seem to be anything more to say after that, though, and he can't risk a look over at Holmes. Doesn't know why he'd chosen now to reveal all of it. But he feels almost empty now that all of the words have flowed out, as though his head had been stuffed full for so long and now it's all been released, the sluices opened. But what will go in all that space now?
Next to him, Holmes is silent for a long minute after that, not certain what he could possibly say in response to that at all. His book still rests on his lap, but Holmes is not looking at it, can't look at anything but Watson, can't think about anything but... what Watson had just told him.
He feels certain, even hearing it now, now having an outline of the events and hearing what had happened for the first time, now knowing what Watson is remembering when he looks like that... well, knowing is a far cry from understanding, and Holmes feels quite certain that he will never understand it. He doesn't imagine anyone but Watson could. Another veteran, yes, perhaps. But no one quite the same.
It's horrendous, of course. Every bit as horrendous as Holmes had imagined and then some. Even with his years of experience as a detective, seeing death all the time and facing it just as often, it hasn't been like that and it never will be. And even with his mind, the mind that can see so clearly the answers to so many questions with so little data, Holmes cannot imagine what it would have been like to be there.
Watson hasn't spoken of the war... in the entire time Holmes has known him, except for a few bare facts. Holmes had never pushed, instinctively knowing better. After all, he prefers to keep his own past to himself, and his has nothing quite so traumatic. But suddenly Watson is talking and telling him these things and Holmes... doesn't know what that could mean, why Watson has chosen now or him to tell these things to, but he can't do anything but listen because that is literally all there is to do. He can't tell Watson it will be all right, he can't comfort him and say that it will get better, that he'll forget, because he won't. He can't say that he understands, because he doesn't. But he can listen, and that Holmes does with his whole being, silent and focused on what Watson is saying.
Watson doesn't look at him, but Holmes knows he's finished. And for a long minute, Holmes has no way to respond to that, silenced as surely as if Watson had covered his mouth. But he doesn't know, doesn't think words are necessary or possible in response to that. So instead, after a minute, he does all he can, which is to reach over and put a hand on the other man's shoulder, holding maybe a little too tightly. He wants to thank Watson for trusting him with this, but he can't speak yet. He wants to reassure him somehow, but he doesn't know how. And he wants to tell Watson that he, Holmes, will always listen at the very least, but he thinks Watson knows that.
In the end it's minutes before Holmes manages anything at all, but the entire time he is focused on Watson, his attention not wavering in the slightest. "I should like to thank Murray," he says very quietly, knowing that the rest will have to remain unspoken because there is no way to articulate it aloud.
Watson laughs quietly, somehow still able to find his good humor, even though it's so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, even though it's barely there, and not all that funny to begin with, really. "He lives in Finchley," he says finally. "Stayed in after the war, then left. He came to Standish's dinner last year."
He pauses. "I believe he's getting married. I'll probably go to the wedding." It seems so surreal that Murray would be engaged, that Standish could be married, that they're all so far moved on, and yet he knows none of them could possibly forget those days in the desert. That he can see one of them on the street or in a bar, as he had Standish, and they would recognize each other and it would be as though they'd never left Afghanistan, or had only just a few months before.
Swallowing, he finally manages to glance over at Holmes, although he doesn't resist the other man's grip on his shoulder at all. "I didn't tell you for pity. I don't know why I told you. I didn't plan on it." He lets out a long breath, the empty feeling still there; he wonders if it will ever go away, now. Doesn't particularly want to have to go through anything like that again in order to fill it up. "But you're the only person I would tell."
"I don't pity you," Holmes says, completely truthfully. He is not given to pity, is slightly less likely to feel it than the average man, although there do come moments during some of the more difficult, tragic cases he works when he pities the victims or their families. But he does not and has never pitied Watson. He has on occasion felt the sort of pity one feels for another man when he has a particularly bad hangover, or that sort of thing. But real pity, never. Not even now. Watson is not the sort of man one pities.
He doesn't know quite what he feels about all of this, towards Watson. Sad doesn't seem to cover it. He wishes Watson hadn't been there. But if he hadn't, Watson wouldn't be Watson, not who he is right now, in the present. They never would have met. Who knows what would have become of him, of either of them? Holmes can't imagine either of them would have ended up particularly well without the other, during that critical time that they met.
"I don't envy you either, that's a certainty," he adds quietly a moment later. "I don't pretend to understand. But I am happy to listen."
Watson nods slowly. He'd known that, really. Holmes isn't one given to pitying anyone at all. Watson wouldn't have told him at all if he'd thought he'd receive sympathy, or a pithy 'it will be all right, dear boy.' Because it won't be all right, and they both know it. Nothing could make his experiences in war all right. But having someone to listen... well, Holmes had always been there to listen. But to his shock, it does actually make it a bit more bearable to remember, knowing it's not locked up in his head anymore.
"Thank you," he says quietly, wondering where his stoicism has run off to. This entire day has turned everything upside down, and that is not an exaggeration in the least.
He sighs, rubbing his temples in a familiar gesture that's somehow a comfort. "I'm glad you'll never have to go through it. Looking back, I can't see how anyone would, voluntarily. But you've no idea when you enlist. No boy could begin to comprehend it."
He hadn't, finishing university and immediately entering the Army, a bright, athletic young man with the world at his feet. But instead of the world, he'd soon realized that the only thing at his feet had been a steadily-growing mountain of gangrenous amputated limbs. He touches his own bad leg, resting his hand on his thigh. He might be crippled, needing a cane for the remainder of his life, but at least he is a whole man, with nothing missing.
If they'd taken his leg or his arm, he doubts he would have allowed himself to survive the return journey to London. And he reminds himself of how lucky he is on the days when he cannot keep up with Holmes, cannot climb stairs or even leave his bed. Sometimes it's just more difficult to remember. But Holmes was the one who really made him into a whole man again, no longer a ghost, and for that he will be forever grateful. "It's terribly callous to say, but I'd take a grisly murder scene over another pile of amputated limbs at any offering. I'd rather never perform another amputation in my life if I have my druthers."
No, Holmes would not have done well in the Army, his penchant for ignoring orders aside. He doesn't want to think about it, honestly. With nothing to concentrate on but the task at hand, no mysteries or puzzles to keep his great mind busy... with nothing but bloodshed, men to be killed... Watson has no trouble envisioning Holmes in battle. None at all, and the thought frightens him, what his friend would have become had he been the one who'd enlisted, with nothing to concentrate on save killing. He really... doesn't want to think about it.
"Is that terribly callous?" Holmes asks, raising an eyebrow.
He, for one, is not certain that it is callous at all. But then, Holmes has come to understand that his own feelings regarding grisly murders are a bit atypical. Holmes would actually dearly appreciate a grisly murder right about now... provided it was done in such a way that his expertise would be required. No simple theft and murder in a back alleyway of London for Sherlock Holmes. And yes, it has occurred to him that it is not normal to wish for a murder or a grand theft of some sort. But if all the murderers should suddenly quit, Holmes would be quite out of a job, and bored out of his mind within a week. Undoubtedly in the very real sense. He depends upon the keen minds of criminals to keep himself sane. A precarious position, no doubt about it, but there you have it.
So his viewpoint, while certainly odd, is understandable. And Watson's more so; after all, Watson isn't wishing for a murder, merely saying he'd rather see one than deal with more amputations. Considering his occupation in the war, Holmes can't say he blames the man. It seems quite understandable to him. And he also can't say that he doesn't appreciate the sentiment that he's glad Holmes had never had to go through it. He is as well, he'd say. He is a deeply patriotic man, and yet he knew at a young age that his skills would be put to better use here, doing what he does, than in battle. And then in school he had finally learned what exactly it was that he could put his mind and then his skills to use doing.
Watson, he thinks too, has found that he has his own place in these investigations. He is a very good doctor, but that is hardly all he is and Holmes is convinced that that would not be enough for Watson. He thinks, too, that Watson is beginning to see as much himself. "If boys could comprehend war," Holmes says after a moment, "there would be no one enlisted at all." And they'd be doomed, he supposes, as the world is. But it seems so terrible, when one considers it. To draw young men in, in their prime of their lives, wanting nothing more than to do what is right for their country... and then to let them go years later, adults now by necessity and so many of them broken forever. It's wrong, and yet, there can be no changing the way of things.
"Would that there weren't," Watson agrees quietly, nodding. He pushes thoughts of what Holmes would have become right out of his mind, knowing that nothing will change now... and perhaps he's glad of it, he thinks, coming to the same conclusion as Holmes had only a moment or two behind. He doesn't know if he would change things, either. If he hadn't joined the army or hadn't been wounded, he likely never would have met Holmes at all. If he hadn't even enlisted, he'd have a successful practice, probably, but he'd be bored out of his bloody mind.
And if he'd stayed in the army without injury... well, he'd be dead by now, or else burnt out. Or he'd've discharged and started a practice then, too. Much as he hates his old injuries... they did probably save his life in both the physical and metaphorical senses.
Before they can continue this, however, there's another sharp knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson appears with no more preamble. "Still not sleeping, doctor?" she asks with an arched brow and an amused smile. Watson flushes slightly.
"No more sleep for me for a while, madam," he agrees, glancing sidelong at Holmes as the landlady sets down the tray. "You're eating." It's a statement, not a question. And there is an inches-thick stack of post on the tray, as well as the newspaper. Perfect.
~~~~~~~
Part Thirteen