Sherlock Holmes - White Flags
Title White Flags
Author Kiwi
Fandom Sherlock Holmes 09
Rating PG
Characters, Pairing Holmes, Watson, Mary
Summary For the kink meme prompt, "Holmes has early onset dementia. Watson vows to look after him, but it begins to strain his relationships, especially with Mary. It's a struggle, but he gets on with it for Holmes' sake. Even though every day his heart breaks a little bit more at seeing his friend being reduced to what he is." link.
Warnings Angst.
Disclaimer This is a work of fiction, and is in no way affiliated with the Sherlock Holmes franchise.
A/N Way to go ahead and write total angst for a kink meme, self. Not beta'd.
It started with an E natural.
Holmes had been in his bedroom, musing over his most recent case to a personal rendition of Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Each note floated through the air with clean precision, rising and falling in melodious contemplation. His thoughts manifested themselves in the music, twisting and crescendoing to his inevitable epiphany. That was until a tricky grace note gave way to an E natural, seemingly jolting the world out of rotation. Sherlock Holmes did not play wrong notes, especially obvious fermatas he'd played a hundred times over.
Watson had looked up from his newspaper at the jarring note and subsequent crash of violin meeting floorboard. He'd rushed up from the kitchen to Holmes' bedroom to find the man with his head in his hands, gripping at his hair in frustration. They'd put away his violin together, written it off as a momentary lapse and gone to have tea, all whilst Watson assured his friend the mistake meant nothing.
But Watson had learned to lie. And Holmes had learned to believe him.
Every day since then, Watson had rushed to Baker Street in the morning and reluctantly returned to Mary at Cavendish Place in the evening, knowing that this routine was tearing Mary away from him. But he loved them both, Holmes and Mary, so dearly that he made it a point to discover a way to take care of both of them. As Holmes became progressively worse, however, this gallant effort became increasingly difficult.
"Holmes, I've brought you something," Watson announced one gloomy Wednesday morning, peeking his head through Holmes' bedroom door. The room was dark and dry, warm air still and silent. Watson entered the room softly, wondering if Holmes was still asleep. A brief moment of panic cascaded through Watson's chest when he noticed that Holmes' bed was unkempt and unoccupied, and he frantically spun on his heel to scour the dimly lit room for his friend. He was about to shout for Mrs Hudson when he saw a flicker of light emanate from the bathroom. Hurrying to the door, he found Holmes staring down at the full copper tub, fully clothed and quite out of sorts. Watson let out a sigh of relief.
"Holmes?" he said softly, not wanting to startle the man. Holmes looked up, eyebrows knitted together in the kind of confusion that had no place on the face of the great Sherlock Holmes. The blank helplessness that had painted itself as Holmes' default expression wrenched Watson's heart each time he stared into those lost, dark eyes. Watson stepped closer, put down the package he had brought with him, and placed his hands on both of Holmes' shoulders. "Holmes, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" Watson shook him slightly, bringing Holmes back to him.
"Watson," he said slowly. Watson let out a sigh and began to rub the man's shoulders with his fingers in small, comforting circles. "I can't remember why I drew up a bath." Holmes' voice was absent and soft, a tone that Watson could not stand to hear. He looked Holmes up and down, determining that the man had not bathed yesterday and was in need of one now. He had apparently slept in the clothes he wore the previous day, and his hair was matted and greasy.
"Because you're going to take one now," Watson clarified, moving his hands to begin unbuttoning Holmes' waistcoat. The man started under his touch, and Watson stopped and looked Holmes in the eye, searching for what he was feeling. They started at each other for a beat, Holmes' gaze softening when he remembered that Watson was a friend, someone to be trusted. He nodded ever so slightly and Watson unfastened the waistcoat and carefully undressed Holmes, neatly folding each article of clothing as he pulled it off. If it had not been more than three weeks ago, Holmes would making brash comments, accusing Watson of wanting to do illegal things to him and mocking him. But as Holmes stood before him, quiet as a church-mouse and helpless, Watson wanted nothing more than to hold the man tighter and assure him everything would be alright, that he would cure him of this dementia.
And while Waston was a practiced liar, that was just too false a statement to relay.
After helping Holmes with his bath, Watson aided his dressing and lead him back into the bedroom. He sat Holmes down by the window and watched with a heavy heart as Holmes turned to gaze out at the foggy street. Before, dark eyes would scour the horizons and make wild conjectures about the weather, the Queen, the state of the corner apothecary's economy. But now, Holmes seemed to struggle to remember where he was, much less attempt to understand it. He had become half the man he used to be, lost in the fray of his own deteriorating mind. Watson saw the frustration at each faltered word or blank slate of thought; and while Holmes' mind became more shadowed, Watson's heart fell into darkness beside it.
Watson handed Holmes the package he had brought with him. "Holmes," he said, pressing the wrapped, brown object into Holmes' hands. He gazed down at it, confused for a moment about what to do with it. "Open it, it will help," Watson encouraged. Holmes hesitated, seemingly trying to find it within himself to make a guess as to what was inside, to tap back into the part of him that would have already known what it was the minute Watson carried it in. But he drew upon nothing, and dejectedly lowered his shoulders and slowly pulled off the brown paper.
It was a small, brown leather journal, with a simple design adorning the binding. Holmes opened the cover to find that Watson had neatly inscribed his full name and address. He looked up at Watson, not in confusion, but instead in genuine intrigue. "I've written down nearly everything we've done together, detailed every action and epiphany and wild goose chase you've encountered. Take that," Watson pointed to the journal, "and write down everything. Anything. And when you wake up in the morning and forget where you are, look it through and remember. Remember you." He paused and swallowed. "Remember me."
Holmes was quiet, eyes transfixed on Watson as if trying to decipher his expression, the way he used to. "And when I forget how to write..." he stated blankly. It was not a question, as was phrased more like an eventual truth. Watson felt his throat tense and his eyes sting with the slightest hint of tears as he reached forward and took Holmes' hand in his own.
"I won't let you."
Apparently, Watson had become to believe his own lies.
-
Mary threatened to leave him once, and rightfully so. It had been reactionary, in the middle of some senseless fight that had nothing to do with Watson's daily visits to Baker Street. "I have had put up with your absence for months!" she'd shouted. "You spend your days watching him forget, rather than making time to remember with me." She had every right to be upset, Watson reasoned -- he had spent nearly every day from dawn to dusk at Holmes' side, forgetting that he also had a place beside Mary. She had forgiven him when he had taken her with him to visit Holmes and she had been greeted with apprehensive despondency. Holmes had forgotten her name thrice during the meeting, despite Watson's careful reminders. The sight had scared Mary, and Watson had to reassure her every day that it was not going to happen to him too. However, the more time Watson spent reminding Holmes where he was, the more he found himself forgetting where Mary wanted him to be.
But he could not leave Holmes alone, not when the man could not recall how to put sugar in his tea. Every morning Watson would pull up a chair at Holmes' bedside and begin what had become their routine. "Good morning," Watson would say, his hand lightly gripping Holmes', guiding his memory through touch. "Do you remember who I am?" Holmes would furrow his eyebrows and try to retract his hand, but Watson would hold it firm. "John Watson. Let's read this together." He'd pick up the leather journal and start at the beginning, dictating to Holmes the notes the man had jotted on his own, progressing to the ones they wrote together, and lately, the ones that Watson had written for him. Some days (good days,) Holmes would remember bits and pieces, find it within himself to say that Watson was a pathological carer. Watson would write those days down in the journal, to preserve their memory for the both of them.
More often than not, though, Holmes would stare back at him, engaged but without a point of reference. He was told he should remember these things, and somehow knew that he used to be able to deduce an entire murder from a single detail. He would listen, understanding completely, but succumbing to time as it blackened the reaches of him memory. Watson would finish reading, gaze up at Holmes and pause, waiting for a comment. When Holmes stopped giving input, Watson would ask simply, "What do you want to remember today, Sherlock?"
"You."
-
comments?
Author Kiwi
Fandom Sherlock Holmes 09
Rating PG
Characters, Pairing Holmes, Watson, Mary
Summary For the kink meme prompt, "Holmes has early onset dementia. Watson vows to look after him, but it begins to strain his relationships, especially with Mary. It's a struggle, but he gets on with it for Holmes' sake. Even though every day his heart breaks a little bit more at seeing his friend being reduced to what he is." link.
Warnings Angst.
Disclaimer This is a work of fiction, and is in no way affiliated with the Sherlock Holmes franchise.
A/N Way to go ahead and write total angst for a kink meme, self. Not beta'd.
It started with an E natural.
Holmes had been in his bedroom, musing over his most recent case to a personal rendition of Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Each note floated through the air with clean precision, rising and falling in melodious contemplation. His thoughts manifested themselves in the music, twisting and crescendoing to his inevitable epiphany. That was until a tricky grace note gave way to an E natural, seemingly jolting the world out of rotation. Sherlock Holmes did not play wrong notes, especially obvious fermatas he'd played a hundred times over.
Watson had looked up from his newspaper at the jarring note and subsequent crash of violin meeting floorboard. He'd rushed up from the kitchen to Holmes' bedroom to find the man with his head in his hands, gripping at his hair in frustration. They'd put away his violin together, written it off as a momentary lapse and gone to have tea, all whilst Watson assured his friend the mistake meant nothing.
But Watson had learned to lie. And Holmes had learned to believe him.
Every day since then, Watson had rushed to Baker Street in the morning and reluctantly returned to Mary at Cavendish Place in the evening, knowing that this routine was tearing Mary away from him. But he loved them both, Holmes and Mary, so dearly that he made it a point to discover a way to take care of both of them. As Holmes became progressively worse, however, this gallant effort became increasingly difficult.
"Holmes, I've brought you something," Watson announced one gloomy Wednesday morning, peeking his head through Holmes' bedroom door. The room was dark and dry, warm air still and silent. Watson entered the room softly, wondering if Holmes was still asleep. A brief moment of panic cascaded through Watson's chest when he noticed that Holmes' bed was unkempt and unoccupied, and he frantically spun on his heel to scour the dimly lit room for his friend. He was about to shout for Mrs Hudson when he saw a flicker of light emanate from the bathroom. Hurrying to the door, he found Holmes staring down at the full copper tub, fully clothed and quite out of sorts. Watson let out a sigh of relief.
"Holmes?" he said softly, not wanting to startle the man. Holmes looked up, eyebrows knitted together in the kind of confusion that had no place on the face of the great Sherlock Holmes. The blank helplessness that had painted itself as Holmes' default expression wrenched Watson's heart each time he stared into those lost, dark eyes. Watson stepped closer, put down the package he had brought with him, and placed his hands on both of Holmes' shoulders. "Holmes, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" Watson shook him slightly, bringing Holmes back to him.
"Watson," he said slowly. Watson let out a sigh and began to rub the man's shoulders with his fingers in small, comforting circles. "I can't remember why I drew up a bath." Holmes' voice was absent and soft, a tone that Watson could not stand to hear. He looked Holmes up and down, determining that the man had not bathed yesterday and was in need of one now. He had apparently slept in the clothes he wore the previous day, and his hair was matted and greasy.
"Because you're going to take one now," Watson clarified, moving his hands to begin unbuttoning Holmes' waistcoat. The man started under his touch, and Watson stopped and looked Holmes in the eye, searching for what he was feeling. They started at each other for a beat, Holmes' gaze softening when he remembered that Watson was a friend, someone to be trusted. He nodded ever so slightly and Watson unfastened the waistcoat and carefully undressed Holmes, neatly folding each article of clothing as he pulled it off. If it had not been more than three weeks ago, Holmes would making brash comments, accusing Watson of wanting to do illegal things to him and mocking him. But as Holmes stood before him, quiet as a church-mouse and helpless, Watson wanted nothing more than to hold the man tighter and assure him everything would be alright, that he would cure him of this dementia.
And while Waston was a practiced liar, that was just too false a statement to relay.
After helping Holmes with his bath, Watson aided his dressing and lead him back into the bedroom. He sat Holmes down by the window and watched with a heavy heart as Holmes turned to gaze out at the foggy street. Before, dark eyes would scour the horizons and make wild conjectures about the weather, the Queen, the state of the corner apothecary's economy. But now, Holmes seemed to struggle to remember where he was, much less attempt to understand it. He had become half the man he used to be, lost in the fray of his own deteriorating mind. Watson saw the frustration at each faltered word or blank slate of thought; and while Holmes' mind became more shadowed, Watson's heart fell into darkness beside it.
Watson handed Holmes the package he had brought with him. "Holmes," he said, pressing the wrapped, brown object into Holmes' hands. He gazed down at it, confused for a moment about what to do with it. "Open it, it will help," Watson encouraged. Holmes hesitated, seemingly trying to find it within himself to make a guess as to what was inside, to tap back into the part of him that would have already known what it was the minute Watson carried it in. But he drew upon nothing, and dejectedly lowered his shoulders and slowly pulled off the brown paper.
It was a small, brown leather journal, with a simple design adorning the binding. Holmes opened the cover to find that Watson had neatly inscribed his full name and address. He looked up at Watson, not in confusion, but instead in genuine intrigue. "I've written down nearly everything we've done together, detailed every action and epiphany and wild goose chase you've encountered. Take that," Watson pointed to the journal, "and write down everything. Anything. And when you wake up in the morning and forget where you are, look it through and remember. Remember you." He paused and swallowed. "Remember me."
Holmes was quiet, eyes transfixed on Watson as if trying to decipher his expression, the way he used to. "And when I forget how to write..." he stated blankly. It was not a question, as was phrased more like an eventual truth. Watson felt his throat tense and his eyes sting with the slightest hint of tears as he reached forward and took Holmes' hand in his own.
"I won't let you."
Apparently, Watson had become to believe his own lies.
-
Mary threatened to leave him once, and rightfully so. It had been reactionary, in the middle of some senseless fight that had nothing to do with Watson's daily visits to Baker Street. "I have had put up with your absence for months!" she'd shouted. "You spend your days watching him forget, rather than making time to remember with me." She had every right to be upset, Watson reasoned -- he had spent nearly every day from dawn to dusk at Holmes' side, forgetting that he also had a place beside Mary. She had forgiven him when he had taken her with him to visit Holmes and she had been greeted with apprehensive despondency. Holmes had forgotten her name thrice during the meeting, despite Watson's careful reminders. The sight had scared Mary, and Watson had to reassure her every day that it was not going to happen to him too. However, the more time Watson spent reminding Holmes where he was, the more he found himself forgetting where Mary wanted him to be.
But he could not leave Holmes alone, not when the man could not recall how to put sugar in his tea. Every morning Watson would pull up a chair at Holmes' bedside and begin what had become their routine. "Good morning," Watson would say, his hand lightly gripping Holmes', guiding his memory through touch. "Do you remember who I am?" Holmes would furrow his eyebrows and try to retract his hand, but Watson would hold it firm. "John Watson. Let's read this together." He'd pick up the leather journal and start at the beginning, dictating to Holmes the notes the man had jotted on his own, progressing to the ones they wrote together, and lately, the ones that Watson had written for him. Some days (good days,) Holmes would remember bits and pieces, find it within himself to say that Watson was a pathological carer. Watson would write those days down in the journal, to preserve their memory for the both of them.
More often than not, though, Holmes would stare back at him, engaged but without a point of reference. He was told he should remember these things, and somehow knew that he used to be able to deduce an entire murder from a single detail. He would listen, understanding completely, but succumbing to time as it blackened the reaches of him memory. Watson would finish reading, gaze up at Holmes and pause, waiting for a comment. When Holmes stopped giving input, Watson would ask simply, "What do you want to remember today, Sherlock?"
"You."
-
comments?