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piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 1
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from Richenbach Falls, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Author's notes: This fic was a labor of love, and would literally not exist without the help and encouragement ofenkiduts . Thanks for all the hand-holding, prompts, and late night brain storming. A good deal of this fic came about because of you!
Soldier’s Heart
In the week following his return to Baker Street and his familiar rooms, Holmes found himself caught in the grip of a strange lethargy. Never one to embrace sleep, or any of the other demands his body placed on him, he nevertheless found himself nodding off in the early afternoons and retiring shortly after supper.
Such had been his routine that it no longer surprised him to wake from a sudden doze and realize that several hours had passed. He found himself thankful that Watson was still making arrangements for the selling of his practice and was not present to notice the almost frightening exhaustion, for he surely would have hovered and worried.
It was a rainy, dreary Tuesday afternoon, with the shutters parted to allow the weak light into the sitting room, when things reached a point Holmes could no longer ignore. The newspaper, a lifeline for him in the past years, lay forgotten in his lap as his head bobbed to his chest.
A gentle touch to his arm had reflexes moving his body before his eyes had even forced their way open, and he startled his unknown attacker by jumping to his feet, arm pulled back to deliver a blow to whatever danger had managed to creep up on him.
“Mr. Holmes!”
Mrs. Hudson blinked up at him, face pale as a quivering hand instinctively moved to ward off his blow, while he stared at her with eyes slowly regaining coherency.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he rasped, voice hoarse from sleep and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Slowly his mind processed the information around him, the familiar mess and clutter out of place with the terrified beating of his heart. He only belatedly realized his arm was still cocked to deliver a blow, and he quickly lowered it, feeling the blood rush to his face.
“Mrs. Hudson, I’m so terribly sorry,” he apologized, moving hesitantly toward her, uncertain how to banish the tinge of fear that lingered in her eyes. “You startled me.”
“So I gathered,” she breathed out shakily, her lips twitching into a familiar smile as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress. “It was foolish of me to try and wake you in such a manner, but I feared you would suffer if you remained in your current position.” The smile grew slightly, becoming something more genuine and heartfelt as she reached down to retrieve a disturbed pillow from the floor. “If you would like to continue, I will keep tea until you are less likely to drown in it.”
“Still trying to poison me, Nanny?” he asked, the words sounding strained and rough to his ears.
A raised eyebrow was his only answer as she placed the cushion back onto the settee and turned to make her way out. “Tea will be ready shortly if you like.”
Holmes swallowed as he watched her leave, the cloying taste of copper in his throat a sickening reminder of the damage he could have done if he had not come back to his senses. Something had to be done, before he hurt those he cared about more than he already had.
***
The last time he had entered Watson’s practice it had been under the guise of the bookseller. This time, as he handed his card to the wide-eyed maid who stuttered and stared at him with wonder, he found himself wishing he had thought to repeat the performance in a different disguise. After three years of living as anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, it was disconcerting to find himself recognized.
Shoulders tensing as the young girl departed, he forced himself to nod genially to the only other occupant in the small sitting room, a grey-haired gentleman whose ink-stained fingers, spectacles, and watch-chain proclaimed him an accountant.
The man smiled politely back at him, though his gaze held no recognition, and Holmes felt his shoulders relax after a moment of silence. He lowered himself into the chair opposite the surgery doors, the legs creaking as he shifted slightly on the less-than-plump cushion.
With no desire to start a conversation, Holmes allowed his eyes to roam the small sitting room, taking in the details he had not processed before. The chairs, four of them, were spaced evenly against the walls, the wood a deep mahogany. The cushions, as his backside could attest, were fashionable, though past their prime. A few stray threads and stained patches he did not wish to dwell on attested to the abundance of patients who had passed through this sitting room, and Holmes felt a warm flicker of pride in his friend for having such an established practice.
The floor was covered in a rich carpet which muffled the sounds of any passing through the room, a hazard Holmes would have warned his friend against once, but now was merely an observation. After all, Watson would soon be ensconced in Baker Street, where Holmes could keep an eye out for any danger which might choose to hunt them.
His observations complete, Holmes allowed his eyes to close as he contemplated the concert he hoped to attend that night. Slowly the minutes dragged by, each one seemingly longer than the last. He found his body slowly relaxing under the soothing sounds of the other man’s breathing and the quiet murmurs from the street outside. Somewhere down the hall, out of his line of sight, a clock was ticking, the steady rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat.
A door opened to his left, his brain detailing the direction (outside) and weight of the person (slight, no more than 95 pounds) as they exited the house.
“Oi, ye little buggers! Be orff with ye, the lot of ye!”
The screech, along with the loud bang which accompanied it, had Holmes out of his chair and reaching for a revolver he was not carrying, eyes staring blankly about him as his numbed brain tried to pinpoint where the danger was coming from. Distantly, through the sudden rush of blood in his ears and the rabbit-like fluttering of his heart, he was aware that his own breaths had grown harsh.
“I say, Sir, are you all right?”
The voice (rasping, slight wheeze indicating asthma) preceded a gentle touch to his arm, the contact as startling as the yell had been.
Stumbling away from the inquiring touch, and the thoroughly confused accountant, Holmes found his usual grace deserted him as the back of his legs banged forcefully against his chair, sending him sprawling in an undignified heap to the floor, which was actually not as plush as it appeared.
For one moment everything seemed to still before erupting into chaos.
Footsteps heralded the maid as she rushed into the room, wide eyes startled and touched with amazement as she took in the scene. The surgery doors flung themselves open, Watson‘s thin form emerging in alarm, his cane gripped tightly in his hand as a young man peeked out from behind his shoulder, eyes curious and a little alarmed in his pale face.
“What the devil -” Watson demanded, his voice petering out as he took in Holmes sprawled upon his floor, the maid hovering just off to his left and the elderly gentleman crouched beside him as though to help him stand.
“Watson,” Holmes murmured, feeling the blood return to his face with a vengeance, his cheeks burning in humiliation.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, moving immediately to his friend’s side, helping him sit up as the others hovered in the background. “Mr. Whitney, I’m terribly sorry. Would you mind if I settle my friend here, before I finish with your nephew?”
“Not at all, Doctor, not at all. Take your time. Edward can wait a few moments, can’t you, lad?” the accountant assured, casting a fond gaze to the young man who continued to watch the events unfold behind Watson’s back.
“Of course, Uncle,” Edward agreed, smiling shyly down at Holmes, the narrow face honest and open as he took in the situation.
“Thank you, both of you.” Watson smiled at both men in heart-felt appreciation before turning his attention back to Holmes. “Can you stand, old cock?”
“Of course,” Holmes murmured, feeling the heat of his blush all the way down his neck. “I’m fine, truly.”
“No worries. Come on, let’s get you settled. Nettie, I think some tea is in order, if you please.” This last Watson directed to the young maid, who bobbed her head quickly before darting out, leaving the men to help Holmes to his feet.
The detective stumbled once, the blood rushing in his ears leaving him feeling oddly light-headed, and Watson’s grip was firm as he took him by the elbow and steered him into the exam room.
“I’ll be but a moment, Mr. Whitney, then we can finish up in my study, if you would be so kind,” Watson called over his shoulder, leading Holmes to the nearest chair by the door and pushing him down firmly. “I’ll be back shortly, and then we can talk. Nettie should have your tea soon. Don’t. Move!” This last was said with a warning finger as Watson turned to leave. “I mean it, Holmes. You look ghastly, and people will talk.”
Holmes snorted, grimacing at Watson’s back as the doctor left, closing the doors behind him with a soft snick of the latch. Settling back in the chair, trying not to think about what a fool he was making of himself, Holmes wondered briefly if it were possible to perish from embarrassment.
***
The chair in Watson’s office was much plumper than those in the waiting room, the floor tiled rather than carpeted, as would befit a room where messes were occasionally to be expected. As the warmth of the teacup seeped into his strangely cold hands, Holmes wondered if he were about to make another such mess, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as embarrassment continued to thrum through his burning cheeks. Surely he could have waited a few more days to bring his situation to Watson’s attention without imposing on him during his business hours? And in front of patients, no less!
“Holmes.” He started, head jerking up in surprise as Watson entered the room, his footsteps having made no sound on the carpeting outside.
His friend’s voice held that hint of fond worry and exasperation which Holmes had once despaired of ever hearing again, and his fingers were warm as they wrapped gently around his wrist. Blue eyes narrowed in concern as the doctor knelt next to him.
“Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, reaching for the nearest basin behind him, eyes focusing on the sweat beading Holmes’ face, the pale tinge to his skin and the way his friend kept swallowing. It did not take a great detective to read the signs.
“I – I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, brow wrinkling in confusion as his body rebelled against him. Surely there was no reason for his hands to be shaking still, or his head to feel so turned! He swallowed again, trying to keep his stomach where it belonged.
Before he could amend his statement to a definite confirmation, Holmes found himself bent double over the basin, vomiting, as Watson’s broad, gentle hand steadied his heaving shoulders.
A distant part of his brain not filled with horror at the spectacle he must be making registered the sound of the teacup shattering as it impacted with the floor.
“Damn!” Watson cursed, his body jerking away from the hot splatters, though his hand did not stray from Holmes’ back. “Never mind the cup, old boy. Get it out. I see you haven’t eaten much today.”
The soothing hand on his back continued to rub gently even as the heaving stopped, leaving him clutching the basin and spitting bile.
“I’m sorry,” Holmes managed to gasp, horrified at the image he must present.
“Hush now, none of that. I’m just thankful you seem to have found some reason in your absence and came to me rather than stay home. Once you’re done, we’ll get you settled and you can tell me what’s happened.” Watson’s voice was gentle, as it always was when dealing with a sick Holmes, and didn’t sound the slightest bit put out, for which Holmes was immensely grateful.
“I think I’m all right now,” Holmes murmured, swallowing thickly around the burn in his throat.
“Let me ring for some more tea, then you can lay down for a bit and tell me what’s been going on.” Watson spoke as he went about cleaning up, disposing of the basin with prompt efficiency before sticking his head out the doors. “Nettie, there’s been a slight accident with the tea. Could you bring two more cups, please?”
Holmes did not hear a response, but Watson seemed satisfied and was back to crouch next to him swiftly.
“No fever, though you’re terribly pale and clammy. Hands shaking slightly, pulse a bit fast. When did you last eat?” His tone had undergone that change it sometimes did when dealing with Holmes, becoming much more professional as he catalogued his ills.
“I believe it was this morning. I didn’t have much of a stomach,” Holmes admitted. The evidence of his lack of appetite had already been given, and he knew it would do little good to lie to his friend. “I did, however, have a full supper last night.”
“Well, that’s something,” Watson murmured approvingly. “Any troubles with nausea before today?”
“No, I’ve been -” Holmes stopped, unable to find the correct words. He had not been fine, for otherwise he would not be making such a fool of himself now. But he had not truly been sick, either. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” he finally sighed, leaning his head back wearily against the chair. “Which is why I have come to speak to you.”
Watson patted his shoulder comfortingly, his smile oddly contrasting with the concern in his eyes. “I have cleared my schedule for the rest of the day, so we needn’t worry about interruptions.”
Holmes closed his eyes, cursing himself for a fool. He really shouldn’t have bothered the doctor, even if this was the last week he was taking patients.
“You didn’t have to do that, dear boy. I’m not so done in that you –“
“Enough, Holmes,” Watson interrupted firmly, glaring at his friend in a much more familiar fashion when Holmes jerked his gaze back to him, startled. “This is the first time in my memory that you have voluntarily come to me for my professional skill, and I shan’t have us disturbed. Now, once Nettie returns with the tea we’re going to both enjoy a cup and then you shall tell me what has brought you here.”
Seeing the steely determination in his friend’s eyes, Holmes decided it was best to save his argument for later. As it stood, the thought of sharing tea and a leisurely afternoon with Watson was more appealing than returning to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson’s increasingly worried frowns.
“Have you found accommodations for your patients?” he asked instead, curious about this aspect of his friend which he had never truly had an opportunity, nor, in fact, the inclination, to study.
“Yes. Anstruther has agreed to take the majority, and I have several who are more than happy to have me make house-calls. I’m afraid I won’t be entirely at your disposal at Baker Street, but I can’t afford to completely retire just yet.” Watson seemed pleased by the question, and though his tone held a hint of remorse at his continuing to work, both men knew that without some form of distraction the doctor was as prone to boredom as Holmes at times.
“I suppose I shall have to make do,” Holmes sniffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.
Watson opened his mouth to respond, no doubt a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when a slight tap on the door alerted them to the maid’s return. Patting Holmes’ shoulder once more, Watson went to open the door, smiling his thanks at the young maid and speaking softly to her as he gestured to the spilled mess on the floor, earning an understanding smile and another bob before she left, supposedly to retrieve cleaning supplies.
“Do you feel up to moving? I think the study might be more comfortable for you, and there’s a settee where you can lay down,” Watson asked, running a critical eye over Holmes as though expecting him to collapse.
“I think I’m perfectly capable of walking to the other room, Watson. I’m not quite as fragile as you think,” Holmes scoffed, affronted.
“Haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you, old cock?” Watson muttered, smiling despite himself as Holmes levered himself up, breathing deeply through his nose as he did so.
“Hush,” Holmes grumbled once he was upright, gesturing for Watson to lead the way.
If the doctor hovered close to his side as they walked, neither one commented.
***
The heat of the tea and the sweetness of the honey eased the burn in Holmes’ throat, and after finishing his cup he found himself lounging comfortably on Watson’s settee, the warm browns and dark reds soothing after the sterile tiles of the exam room.
Sitting next to him in a chair which looked to rival the one at Baker Street for comfort, Watson eyed his friend seriously as he set his own cup on the tray, moving the items to the far corner of his desk so he could give his friend his full attention.
“Tell me,” he said, folding his hands and crossing his feet at the ankle.
Holmes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he tried to find the words for something he could not fully understand.
“I have been… unusually tired of late,” he began, his eyes on the rich upholstery of Watson’s chair rather than the man himself. “I find myself dozing in the afternoon, despite my attempts to remain awake, and then retiring shortly after supper, if I make it that long.” He paused, clearing his throat as he contemplated how to word the next confession. “I have also found myself... disturbed… by small things. Touches, though innocent, seem nefarious and threatening, and yesterday I…” He stopped, closing his eyes as he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s pale face, lips quivering with fear as she had prepared herself for a blow.
Watson didn’t push when the silence stretched on, but his gaze remained unwavering, prompting his friend to continue.
“I was on the settee, dozing, when Mrs. Hudson came to announce tea. She feared I would be uncomfortable and touched my arm. I almost – I –“ He stopped again, turning his face away in shame as he forced himself to confess his actions. “I leapt up and would have struck her if she had not called out in fright. I had not even been fully awake, Watson,” he whispered, shame and embarrassment softening his tone so that Watson had to strain to hear the last. “I fear that if I continue this way I may do one of you damage, and I – I could not –“
The words seemed to stick in his throat, and once more the threat of nausea had him curling in on himself, hands burying themselves in his hair before covering his face. “I could not bear it if I hurt you anymore than I already have.”
“Hush, now,” Watson murmured, moving to sit on the settee in the small space created by Holmes’ curled form. “Breathe deep, and let it out slowly.”
Holmes did as instructed, his gasping breaths ragged and shallow as he fought to regain control. To his utter horror, tears threatened to escape his burning eyes, and he closed them tightly.
“Breathe, Holmes,” Watson ordered again, resting a hand on Holmes’ back. “If you make yourself sick in here you will have to settle for the rubbish bin and that is not nearly so easy to clean.”
A surprised laugh escaped Holmes, followed by a hiccupping breath and a relaxing of the tight muscles under the doctor’s hand. The hands came down, rubbing any trace of wetness from his face, and settled stiffly on his stomach.
“That’s better,” Watson grinned, turning the other man slightly so the detective could see his expression. For a moment neither spoke, Holmes concentrating on his breathing and Watson keeping a clinical eye on him until the threat of sickness had passed. “Feel better?” he asked, continuing to run his hand up and down Holmes’ back, smiling as the other man nodded.
“Good. Now, before we continue I want you to do me a favor. No, don’t interrupt, I’m speaking as your doctor right now and want you to listen. I would like to give you a thorough checkup, goodness knows what you have done to yourself in – in your absence. This could very well be a sickness you picked up, or it could be something unrelated. Determining the cause of your exhaustion will allow us to focus on your symptoms, and try to alleviate them. However,” he added, seeing Holmes about to speak and raising a warning hand to forestall any further argument, “However, I do not believe that the answer is going to be simple, Holmes. You have been under a great strain for a very long time, and it has taken a toll on you. You need to rest, and I’m not talking about a week between cases.”
“Don’t be absurd, Watson,” Holmes grumbled, scowling. “I have already had several requests for help since my return. How can I merely dismiss them if I have any wish to re-establish myself?”
“You will do so because if you don’t, you may not be capable of helping anyone again,” Watson answered seriously. “You are worn ragged, Holmes. Even if you had not come to me with these symptoms, I would have realized something was wrong the moment I saw you at home. You need to rest and regain your strength before you return to practice.”
The silence stretched between them as Holmes narrowed his eyes, searching Watson’s face for any sign of exaggeration and Watson allowing him to see his very real concern. Finally, after what must have been several minutes, Holmes asked softly, “You truly believe me to be in such a wretched state?”
“I do,” Watson answered without the slightest hesitation. “To put it bluntly, old cock, you look horrible.” The doctor’s hand moved to rest on Holmes’ shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Let me do the physical. It shouldn’t take too long, and I would like very much to assure myself that you are truly returned to me in more or less one piece.”
Unable to resist the quiet pleading in his friend’s tone, Holmes sighed deeply and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
“Very well, mother hen. If I must endure this indignity, then let us be done with it.”
“Good,” Watson grinned, giving Holmes a hearty clap on the arm before he released him, standing stiffly as he added, “Let me go get my bag and then we shall get started.”
***
“Why would you possibly want to know that?” Holmes demanded, glaring at his friend with arms crossed tightly across his naked chest, hands tucked carefully from sight.
He had endured the stethoscope, the blood pressure gauge, and the thermometer. He had even endured stripping down to his small clothes so Watson could inspect his lean frame for any signs of sickness or rash, blushing in flustered embarrassment as the doctor’s hands roamed carefully along over-sensitized skin.
Now, standing in nothing more than his under things, his friend staring at him in exasperated fondness, he could feel himself losing any resolve to follow through with Watson’s idea of a physical.
“Believe it or not, Holmes, it could have a very serious impact on your health. For heaven’s sake, I’m not trying to embarrass you. I am a doctor, you know,” Watson answered, calmly handing Holmes his trousers with an amused grin. “Now put those on and answer the question.”
“I’ve forgotten it,” Holmes muttered, lips turned down petulantly as he dressed. It was a lie, of course, though Watson chose to take it at face value and asked in a voice so calm Holmes knew he was hiding a smile, “Are you having trouble eliminating?”
“Watson, that is disgusting!”
“So I take that as a yes?”
“No!” Holmes snapped, glaring. “I am perfectly… fine… in that area. I promise, there is no trouble.”
“Good,” Watson grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously as Holmes blushed. “Honestly, Holmes, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a perfectly normal bodily function. So long as your urine is a natural color and your bowels are functioning properly, we can remove those from out list of symptoms.”
“Yes, well, I think I shall take myself and my functioning bowels and return to Baker Street. I’m certain you have more than enough to draw your conclusions, and I am in need of a - I am very tired,” Holmes snapped, scowling as Watson calmly handed him his shirt.
“Just a few more questions, old chap, and then we can both head to Baker Street. I’m certain Mrs. Hudson would not mind another mouth to feed tonight, and I would very much like to speak with you some more about your symptoms. No,” he added, as Holmes scowl grew and his face flushed with the beginnings of anger rather than embarrassment. “Nothing so intrusive, Holmes, I promise. But I would like a bit more detail as to your travels and some of the trials you faced.”
At the doctor’s earnest plea, Holmes found himself relenting, the anger draining from him to leave him more weary than upset.
“Then let me retire for now, dear boy. I am - I find I am very much in need of a lie down,” Holmes sighed, covering his eyes with his hand, leaving his shirt unbuttoned as he tried to compose himself.
“Then rest on the settee for a bit, while I finish off here. There is no reason to leave the premises without me. Unless you tire of my company,” Watson urged, his voice hesitant at the last suggestion as he moved to lean against his desk.
“Of course I don’t tire of you,” Holmes snapped, raising his head to glare as he resumed dressing, fingers moving slowly over the buttons and cufflinks. “I merely wished… Oh, blast it all, I don’t even know what I want anymore,” he growled, moving to the study door and throwing it open, perhaps to leave, or perhaps to call for more tea from the twittered maid. Whatever his plans, however, they were cast aside the moment the door opened and a small body fell into the study, landing with a muttered curse as grimy hands skidded against the carpet in an effort to stop.
For several long seconds, both Holmes and Watson stared at the ragged figure before them, blinking in surprise.
“Thomas?” Holmes finally asked, disbelief clearly coloring his tone.
“’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes,” the street urchin answered, standing fully upright and grinning cheekily up at the detective. “Doctor,” he added, nodding perfunctorily at Watson.
The lad’s hair was an indeterminate color of brown or blond, so covered in dirt that it was impossible to tell. His clothes, ragged at the edges and similarly covered in grime, were still of a better fair than most of his ilk, and his feet were shod with functionally cheap boots. His eyes, a bright blue in his darkened face, were wise beyond his age of ten or eleven, and his movements were those of a wild animal which had found comfort in the occasional pats of an owner.
“What the devil are you doing outside my door?” Watson demanded, crossing his arms as he moved to glare down at the boy.
“I was listenin’,” Thomas explained, as though the situation was self evident.
“Why were you listening?” Holmes asked, still scowling, though his expression had softened. It always did, Watson reflected, when dealing with one of his Irregulars.
“To make sure you wasn’t goin’ to keel over,” Thomas answered frankly. “You look bloody awful, Mr. ‘Olmes.”
Watson covered his smile with his hand, though not before his friend noticed and pursed his lips disapprovingly.
“I am perfectly fine, Thomas, and I do not appreciate my privacy being intruded upon. Please refrain from listening in at keyholes in future, and pass the message along to the others,” Holmes ordered, making a shooing motion as though the conversation had ended and he fully expected the child to run along.
Both men blinked when a stubborn frown and crossed arms met this demand.
“Are you goin’ to stay and let the doctor take care of ye?” Thomas demanded.
“Thomas - “ Holmes began, warningly, but the Irregular would not be intimidated.
“We jist got ye back, Mr. ‘Olmes,” he continued. “Yer brother would be right furious if anything ‘appened to ye, and - well, ye’re amazing, Mr, ‘Olmes, but yer brother is scary!”
Watson’s sudden laugh was quickly smothered into a cough, turning his head as he did so and covering his mouth.
“What does Mycroft have to do with you invading my privacy and following me around?” Holmes demanded, crossing his own arms. Watson had to fight another fit of mirth at the picture the two presented, standing off against each other.
“’E wanted us to make sure ye was all right,” Thomas answered simply. “’E said we was no longer workin’ fer ‘im, but that ‘e ‘ad a job fer us if we was wantin’ it. Some o’ the littles weren’t too certain, but after ‘e ‘splained it they was all right. Mick’s workin’ at the telegram now, so’s we was able easy to let Mr. Mycroft knows ye were to see the doctor ’ere. ’E wanted us to keeps ’im informed.”
“I see,” Holmes murmured breathlessly. He reached absently into his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin, tossing it to the lad heedless of its denomination. “Kindly ask Mick to inform my brother I will speak with him tomorrow at his club, and that you are all working for me again, so he is to desist using your services without consulting me first.”
“Right,” Thomas agreed, nodding dutifully before turning to exit, the coin already vanished.
“Thomas, a moment please,” Watson called, earning confused looks from both, though the boy stopped and looked to the doctor expectantly. “How did you get in here to begin with? Miss Palmer can be very strict with whom she admits.”
“Oh, that was easy!” Thomas grinned, putting two grimy fingers to his mouth and whistling loudly. A moment later, there was a scraping at the window, followed by another dirt covered head popping up, black hair a mess of snarls and tangles.
“’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes!” the lad greeted, waving cheerfully as he deftly scrambled over the windowsill into the room. “’Ello, Doctor!”
“Yer locks are pretty ‘orrible,” Thomas explained almost apologetically as the small boy moved to stand beside him. “Mud ‘ere ‘ad no problem at all, did ye, Mud?”
“No, twas easy! So’s yer kitchen door, Doctor. Yer maid’s a bit glocky, ain’t she? Nice for a twist, but she leaves yer door wide open when she takes the rubbish out.”
“Does she?” Watson asked faintly, leaning back against his desk heavily and running a hand over his face wearily. “I shall have words with her.”
“And yer upstairs is no better,” Mud added, grimacing. “Ye might want to fix that.”
“Oh, Lord,” Watson sighed, head bowed.
“Thank you, Thomas, Mud. But Dr. Watson will not be residing here much longer, and Baker Street is quite secure, as you all well know. Now, both of you, out,” Holmes said firmly, shooing the boys back to the window. “Thomas, remember that message for Mick. And please no more uninvited visits. You might frighten the maid.”
Preparing to climb out, both boys held their hands up expectantly, grinning unrepentantly as Holmes deposited a coin in each palm with a twitch of his lips.
“Take care of ‘im, Doctor!” Thomas called as he disappeared from view, Mud following easily and closing the window behind him.
“Well, I think that was quite enough excitement for one day,” Watson sighed, standing up straight and eyeing Holmes seriously. “We can finish the exam later, once you’ve had a chance to rest.”
“Watson -” Holmes began to protest, but was cut off by the other’s raised eyebrow and steely glare. “I shall be on the settee,” he finished, scowling as he threw himself onto the furniture, grumbling under his breath as he curled his legs up to his chest, allowing his head to rest on his arm, the other draped over his thigh.
Watson watched him settle before moving to sit behind his desk, notes and files scattered haphazardly over the surface. Within moments of placing pen to paper, the soft, even breathing of his friend alerted him of Holmes having drifted off to sleep.
Smiling softly, finding himself more at ease and relaxed than he had been in years, Watson set about completing his paperwork for the day and writing up the results for Holmes’ exam. Often his gaze would wander to the still form curled up beside him, and his eyes would lose their focus as fond memories and still fresh relief washed over him once more.
Holmes had returned to him. Everything else would work itself out.
*****
It was half four when they hailed a hansom to take them back to Baker Street, though the walk was not very long. Watson’s leg throbbed with each step, and Holmes’ eyes remained underlined with dark circles, his already pale features washed out and dimmed in the overcast gloom of the afternoon. The ride was silent, Holmes leaning comfortably against Watson’s side, his gaze unfocused and distant, while Watson had to continually fight to stifle a smile. The memory of Holmes flailing and yelling after the wadded up paper had hit him squarely between the eyes was one he knew he would cherish for years to come. It had taken a good fifteen minutes before the detective had stopped pouting and admitted it had been one of the more inventive ways of waking him up.
When they made it to Baker Street it was the doctor who paid for their fare, and
neither spoke as they made their way slowly up the seventeen steps. Mrs. Hudson was just coming out of the sitting room, apparently having taken the opportunity to clean while Holmes was away, and smiled brilliantly.
“Doctor, how good to see you. I do hope you’ll be staying for dinner?” she asked, her eyes darting to Holmes and then back again as her smile took on a slightly desperate air. “It’s been too long since anyone has truly enjoyed my cooking.”
“And it may be longer yet, if the smell from the kitchen is what is available,” Holmes grumbled, earning a scowl and good natured swat.
“It will be the bread and gruel for you, if you keep that up,” Mrs. Hudson warned, making her way towards the stairs. “They’re boiling already and should be properly scorched.”
Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Hudson was already making her way down the stairs, and the urge to engage in a battle of wits drained out of him as surely as water from a broken pitcher.
“Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, a hand on Holmes’ back gently propelling him into the sitting room, concerned eyes watching as Holmes sunk gratefully onto the settee with a sigh and covered his eyes with an arm.
“Why don’t you rest some more, and I’ll wake you for dinner?” Watson asked softly, sinking comfortably into his chair by the fire and earning a resigned smile from his supine friend, though the arm did not move.
“That sounds lovely, Watson. I fear you may be lacking in information about my adventures for a bit longer, if you’ll forgive me,” Holmes slurred, his voice little more than a mumble.
“No worries. Listening to you snore is quite soothing, actually.”
Holmes deigned to lower his arm to glare at Watson, though a large yawn ruined the effect and only served to produce a chuckle from his friend. “You used to complain about my snoring,“ he grumbled as he replaced his arm, shifting to curl further onto his side. In a few short minutes his breathing had, indeed, evened out into soft snoring.
“Never again,” Watson whispered, the words barely more than a breath. He watched fondly for a moment, then stood and carefully pulled a quilt one of Holmes’ clients had made for him off the back of the settee, draping it over the other’s curled form and grinning as Holmes mumbled and burrowed into the warmth. In the dim, watery light from the window, the detective looked worn down, his presence somehow diminished from the larger than life persona Watson had carried the memory of.
A lock of dark hair fell over Holmes’ cheek, obscuring the nearest eye and fluttering with each breath. Hesitantly, afraid to wake his friend, Watson gently pushed the soft mass back, fingers lingering over the warm forehead, creased with unknown worries and too many close calls.
“Such a miracle,” he whispered. Emotion, thick and dangerously close to overwhelming, formed a hard lump in his throat, forcing him to swallow painfully. He coughed, blinking back the slight burn from his eyes, and hastily returned to his seat before the fire. The teasing warmth was only just beginning to fill the room, the chill from outside still prevalent in the ache from his old wound.
He sat forward slightly, the dance of the flames almost mesmerizing as his mind cast back to sun baked sand and heat so oppressive it made London summers feel like a spring holiday.
It had not been easy adjusting to life back amongst the civilians. People who had never been rousted out of a sound sleep by alarm, or been elbow deep in bowels and blood while the life before them slowly slipped away with whimpers and soft cries for mothers far away. So many days of feeling as though he would never be safe again, of little sleep and food a rare luxury.
No, it had not been easy to resume a life of ordinary, boring days, where he could sleep as long as he liked, and eat whatever food he could afford, and drink all he wanted. Looking back, Watson found himself smiling slightly in wonder that he had not spent every shilling he owned on luxuries such as pasties and alcohol, though he admitted quite freely to himself that that may have been because he kept losing it on ill-thought gambling debts.
A whimper to his right turned his head, but Holmes had already settled, shifting slightly to burrow deeper into the blanket, his long, lean form curled protectively against unknown threats.
Watson’s smile faded as he took in his friend’s appearance. The pale skin, sallow and thin looking. Dark circles bruised his eyes even in sleep, and there were touches of silver at his temple that had not been present three years previously.
Memories, long buried under better circumstances, flooded Watson’s mind, flashes of nightmares, reactions to loud noises and the terrible exhaustion which had plagued him for several months even after he had moved into Baker Street. Suddenly the symptoms and behaviors made a horrible, terrible sense, and he realized why a nagging familiarity had been tugging at the edges of his thoughts.
He had lived the symptoms Holmes now exhibited, still dealt with them on particularly bad days. He had treated similar complaints in fellow veterans, commiserated with them over the misery of past experiences and tried to make light what they suffered so that none of them would feel the cowards they secretly all feared they were.
Soldier’s heart.
It was not a diagnosis well known outside of the Americas, though Watson had spoken often with one of the surgeons at St. Bart’s who had a particular enthusiasm for the American Civil War and had studied it extensively.
Though Holmes had been reluctant to admit to it during his exam, he had confessed to finding himself out of breath for no apparent reason, his heart beating rapidly and painfully in his too-thin chest. Watson had listened carefully for any sign of weakness or damage, but had found no physical reason for such symptoms.
Now he understood why.
A soft groan from the settee, followed by a nearly inaudible whimper of pain, had Watson out of his chair and by his friend’s side immediately, hand soothing sweat damp hair from a flushed forehead. The doctor was mindful of Holmes’ fists, but rather than the fearful awakening he had almost expected, the detective seemed to settle, the pinched lines of worry around his eyes easing and his breathing once more calming.
“Hush now,” Watson whispered, wincing at the warning twinge in his leg, but not moving from his crouched position. “Easy, old boy. You’re all right, nothing can harm you here. You’re safe. I promise, no one shall harm you.”
Only when the rapid breaths had once more fallen into a deep rhythm, broken by the occasional snuffling snore, did Watson return to his seat, falling heavily into the cushions as he ran a hand over his eyes.
He had a diagnosis now, which brought its own relief. But how to tell Holmes there was no true cure for what ailed him? For what ailed them both?
*******
Part 2
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from Richenbach Falls, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: This fic was a labor of love, and would literally not exist without the help and encouragement of
enkiduts . Thanks for all the hand-holding, prompts, and late night brain storming. A good deal of this fic came about because of you!Soldier’s Heart
In the week following his return to Baker Street and his familiar rooms, Holmes found himself caught in the grip of a strange lethargy. Never one to embrace sleep, or any of the other demands his body placed on him, he nevertheless found himself nodding off in the early afternoons and retiring shortly after supper.
Such had been his routine that it no longer surprised him to wake from a sudden doze and realize that several hours had passed. He found himself thankful that Watson was still making arrangements for the selling of his practice and was not present to notice the almost frightening exhaustion, for he surely would have hovered and worried.
It was a rainy, dreary Tuesday afternoon, with the shutters parted to allow the weak light into the sitting room, when things reached a point Holmes could no longer ignore. The newspaper, a lifeline for him in the past years, lay forgotten in his lap as his head bobbed to his chest.
A gentle touch to his arm had reflexes moving his body before his eyes had even forced their way open, and he startled his unknown attacker by jumping to his feet, arm pulled back to deliver a blow to whatever danger had managed to creep up on him.
“Mr. Holmes!”
Mrs. Hudson blinked up at him, face pale as a quivering hand instinctively moved to ward off his blow, while he stared at her with eyes slowly regaining coherency.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he rasped, voice hoarse from sleep and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Slowly his mind processed the information around him, the familiar mess and clutter out of place with the terrified beating of his heart. He only belatedly realized his arm was still cocked to deliver a blow, and he quickly lowered it, feeling the blood rush to his face.
“Mrs. Hudson, I’m so terribly sorry,” he apologized, moving hesitantly toward her, uncertain how to banish the tinge of fear that lingered in her eyes. “You startled me.”
“So I gathered,” she breathed out shakily, her lips twitching into a familiar smile as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress. “It was foolish of me to try and wake you in such a manner, but I feared you would suffer if you remained in your current position.” The smile grew slightly, becoming something more genuine and heartfelt as she reached down to retrieve a disturbed pillow from the floor. “If you would like to continue, I will keep tea until you are less likely to drown in it.”
“Still trying to poison me, Nanny?” he asked, the words sounding strained and rough to his ears.
A raised eyebrow was his only answer as she placed the cushion back onto the settee and turned to make her way out. “Tea will be ready shortly if you like.”
Holmes swallowed as he watched her leave, the cloying taste of copper in his throat a sickening reminder of the damage he could have done if he had not come back to his senses. Something had to be done, before he hurt those he cared about more than he already had.
***
The last time he had entered Watson’s practice it had been under the guise of the bookseller. This time, as he handed his card to the wide-eyed maid who stuttered and stared at him with wonder, he found himself wishing he had thought to repeat the performance in a different disguise. After three years of living as anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, it was disconcerting to find himself recognized.
Shoulders tensing as the young girl departed, he forced himself to nod genially to the only other occupant in the small sitting room, a grey-haired gentleman whose ink-stained fingers, spectacles, and watch-chain proclaimed him an accountant.
The man smiled politely back at him, though his gaze held no recognition, and Holmes felt his shoulders relax after a moment of silence. He lowered himself into the chair opposite the surgery doors, the legs creaking as he shifted slightly on the less-than-plump cushion.
With no desire to start a conversation, Holmes allowed his eyes to roam the small sitting room, taking in the details he had not processed before. The chairs, four of them, were spaced evenly against the walls, the wood a deep mahogany. The cushions, as his backside could attest, were fashionable, though past their prime. A few stray threads and stained patches he did not wish to dwell on attested to the abundance of patients who had passed through this sitting room, and Holmes felt a warm flicker of pride in his friend for having such an established practice.
The floor was covered in a rich carpet which muffled the sounds of any passing through the room, a hazard Holmes would have warned his friend against once, but now was merely an observation. After all, Watson would soon be ensconced in Baker Street, where Holmes could keep an eye out for any danger which might choose to hunt them.
His observations complete, Holmes allowed his eyes to close as he contemplated the concert he hoped to attend that night. Slowly the minutes dragged by, each one seemingly longer than the last. He found his body slowly relaxing under the soothing sounds of the other man’s breathing and the quiet murmurs from the street outside. Somewhere down the hall, out of his line of sight, a clock was ticking, the steady rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat.
A door opened to his left, his brain detailing the direction (outside) and weight of the person (slight, no more than 95 pounds) as they exited the house.
“Oi, ye little buggers! Be orff with ye, the lot of ye!”
The screech, along with the loud bang which accompanied it, had Holmes out of his chair and reaching for a revolver he was not carrying, eyes staring blankly about him as his numbed brain tried to pinpoint where the danger was coming from. Distantly, through the sudden rush of blood in his ears and the rabbit-like fluttering of his heart, he was aware that his own breaths had grown harsh.
“I say, Sir, are you all right?”
The voice (rasping, slight wheeze indicating asthma) preceded a gentle touch to his arm, the contact as startling as the yell had been.
Stumbling away from the inquiring touch, and the thoroughly confused accountant, Holmes found his usual grace deserted him as the back of his legs banged forcefully against his chair, sending him sprawling in an undignified heap to the floor, which was actually not as plush as it appeared.
For one moment everything seemed to still before erupting into chaos.
Footsteps heralded the maid as she rushed into the room, wide eyes startled and touched with amazement as she took in the scene. The surgery doors flung themselves open, Watson‘s thin form emerging in alarm, his cane gripped tightly in his hand as a young man peeked out from behind his shoulder, eyes curious and a little alarmed in his pale face.
“What the devil -” Watson demanded, his voice petering out as he took in Holmes sprawled upon his floor, the maid hovering just off to his left and the elderly gentleman crouched beside him as though to help him stand.
“Watson,” Holmes murmured, feeling the blood return to his face with a vengeance, his cheeks burning in humiliation.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, moving immediately to his friend’s side, helping him sit up as the others hovered in the background. “Mr. Whitney, I’m terribly sorry. Would you mind if I settle my friend here, before I finish with your nephew?”
“Not at all, Doctor, not at all. Take your time. Edward can wait a few moments, can’t you, lad?” the accountant assured, casting a fond gaze to the young man who continued to watch the events unfold behind Watson’s back.
“Of course, Uncle,” Edward agreed, smiling shyly down at Holmes, the narrow face honest and open as he took in the situation.
“Thank you, both of you.” Watson smiled at both men in heart-felt appreciation before turning his attention back to Holmes. “Can you stand, old cock?”
“Of course,” Holmes murmured, feeling the heat of his blush all the way down his neck. “I’m fine, truly.”
“No worries. Come on, let’s get you settled. Nettie, I think some tea is in order, if you please.” This last Watson directed to the young maid, who bobbed her head quickly before darting out, leaving the men to help Holmes to his feet.
The detective stumbled once, the blood rushing in his ears leaving him feeling oddly light-headed, and Watson’s grip was firm as he took him by the elbow and steered him into the exam room.
“I’ll be but a moment, Mr. Whitney, then we can finish up in my study, if you would be so kind,” Watson called over his shoulder, leading Holmes to the nearest chair by the door and pushing him down firmly. “I’ll be back shortly, and then we can talk. Nettie should have your tea soon. Don’t. Move!” This last was said with a warning finger as Watson turned to leave. “I mean it, Holmes. You look ghastly, and people will talk.”
Holmes snorted, grimacing at Watson’s back as the doctor left, closing the doors behind him with a soft snick of the latch. Settling back in the chair, trying not to think about what a fool he was making of himself, Holmes wondered briefly if it were possible to perish from embarrassment.
***
The chair in Watson’s office was much plumper than those in the waiting room, the floor tiled rather than carpeted, as would befit a room where messes were occasionally to be expected. As the warmth of the teacup seeped into his strangely cold hands, Holmes wondered if he were about to make another such mess, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as embarrassment continued to thrum through his burning cheeks. Surely he could have waited a few more days to bring his situation to Watson’s attention without imposing on him during his business hours? And in front of patients, no less!
“Holmes.” He started, head jerking up in surprise as Watson entered the room, his footsteps having made no sound on the carpeting outside.
His friend’s voice held that hint of fond worry and exasperation which Holmes had once despaired of ever hearing again, and his fingers were warm as they wrapped gently around his wrist. Blue eyes narrowed in concern as the doctor knelt next to him.
“Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, reaching for the nearest basin behind him, eyes focusing on the sweat beading Holmes’ face, the pale tinge to his skin and the way his friend kept swallowing. It did not take a great detective to read the signs.
“I – I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, brow wrinkling in confusion as his body rebelled against him. Surely there was no reason for his hands to be shaking still, or his head to feel so turned! He swallowed again, trying to keep his stomach where it belonged.
Before he could amend his statement to a definite confirmation, Holmes found himself bent double over the basin, vomiting, as Watson’s broad, gentle hand steadied his heaving shoulders.
A distant part of his brain not filled with horror at the spectacle he must be making registered the sound of the teacup shattering as it impacted with the floor.
“Damn!” Watson cursed, his body jerking away from the hot splatters, though his hand did not stray from Holmes’ back. “Never mind the cup, old boy. Get it out. I see you haven’t eaten much today.”
The soothing hand on his back continued to rub gently even as the heaving stopped, leaving him clutching the basin and spitting bile.
“I’m sorry,” Holmes managed to gasp, horrified at the image he must present.
“Hush now, none of that. I’m just thankful you seem to have found some reason in your absence and came to me rather than stay home. Once you’re done, we’ll get you settled and you can tell me what’s happened.” Watson’s voice was gentle, as it always was when dealing with a sick Holmes, and didn’t sound the slightest bit put out, for which Holmes was immensely grateful.
“I think I’m all right now,” Holmes murmured, swallowing thickly around the burn in his throat.
“Let me ring for some more tea, then you can lay down for a bit and tell me what’s been going on.” Watson spoke as he went about cleaning up, disposing of the basin with prompt efficiency before sticking his head out the doors. “Nettie, there’s been a slight accident with the tea. Could you bring two more cups, please?”
Holmes did not hear a response, but Watson seemed satisfied and was back to crouch next to him swiftly.
“No fever, though you’re terribly pale and clammy. Hands shaking slightly, pulse a bit fast. When did you last eat?” His tone had undergone that change it sometimes did when dealing with Holmes, becoming much more professional as he catalogued his ills.
“I believe it was this morning. I didn’t have much of a stomach,” Holmes admitted. The evidence of his lack of appetite had already been given, and he knew it would do little good to lie to his friend. “I did, however, have a full supper last night.”
“Well, that’s something,” Watson murmured approvingly. “Any troubles with nausea before today?”
“No, I’ve been -” Holmes stopped, unable to find the correct words. He had not been fine, for otherwise he would not be making such a fool of himself now. But he had not truly been sick, either. “I don’t know what is wrong with me,” he finally sighed, leaning his head back wearily against the chair. “Which is why I have come to speak to you.”
Watson patted his shoulder comfortingly, his smile oddly contrasting with the concern in his eyes. “I have cleared my schedule for the rest of the day, so we needn’t worry about interruptions.”
Holmes closed his eyes, cursing himself for a fool. He really shouldn’t have bothered the doctor, even if this was the last week he was taking patients.
“You didn’t have to do that, dear boy. I’m not so done in that you –“
“Enough, Holmes,” Watson interrupted firmly, glaring at his friend in a much more familiar fashion when Holmes jerked his gaze back to him, startled. “This is the first time in my memory that you have voluntarily come to me for my professional skill, and I shan’t have us disturbed. Now, once Nettie returns with the tea we’re going to both enjoy a cup and then you shall tell me what has brought you here.”
Seeing the steely determination in his friend’s eyes, Holmes decided it was best to save his argument for later. As it stood, the thought of sharing tea and a leisurely afternoon with Watson was more appealing than returning to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson’s increasingly worried frowns.
“Have you found accommodations for your patients?” he asked instead, curious about this aspect of his friend which he had never truly had an opportunity, nor, in fact, the inclination, to study.
“Yes. Anstruther has agreed to take the majority, and I have several who are more than happy to have me make house-calls. I’m afraid I won’t be entirely at your disposal at Baker Street, but I can’t afford to completely retire just yet.” Watson seemed pleased by the question, and though his tone held a hint of remorse at his continuing to work, both men knew that without some form of distraction the doctor was as prone to boredom as Holmes at times.
“I suppose I shall have to make do,” Holmes sniffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.
Watson opened his mouth to respond, no doubt a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when a slight tap on the door alerted them to the maid’s return. Patting Holmes’ shoulder once more, Watson went to open the door, smiling his thanks at the young maid and speaking softly to her as he gestured to the spilled mess on the floor, earning an understanding smile and another bob before she left, supposedly to retrieve cleaning supplies.
“Do you feel up to moving? I think the study might be more comfortable for you, and there’s a settee where you can lay down,” Watson asked, running a critical eye over Holmes as though expecting him to collapse.
“I think I’m perfectly capable of walking to the other room, Watson. I’m not quite as fragile as you think,” Holmes scoffed, affronted.
“Haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you, old cock?” Watson muttered, smiling despite himself as Holmes levered himself up, breathing deeply through his nose as he did so.
“Hush,” Holmes grumbled once he was upright, gesturing for Watson to lead the way.
If the doctor hovered close to his side as they walked, neither one commented.
***
The heat of the tea and the sweetness of the honey eased the burn in Holmes’ throat, and after finishing his cup he found himself lounging comfortably on Watson’s settee, the warm browns and dark reds soothing after the sterile tiles of the exam room.
Sitting next to him in a chair which looked to rival the one at Baker Street for comfort, Watson eyed his friend seriously as he set his own cup on the tray, moving the items to the far corner of his desk so he could give his friend his full attention.
“Tell me,” he said, folding his hands and crossing his feet at the ankle.
Holmes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he tried to find the words for something he could not fully understand.
“I have been… unusually tired of late,” he began, his eyes on the rich upholstery of Watson’s chair rather than the man himself. “I find myself dozing in the afternoon, despite my attempts to remain awake, and then retiring shortly after supper, if I make it that long.” He paused, clearing his throat as he contemplated how to word the next confession. “I have also found myself... disturbed… by small things. Touches, though innocent, seem nefarious and threatening, and yesterday I…” He stopped, closing his eyes as he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s pale face, lips quivering with fear as she had prepared herself for a blow.
Watson didn’t push when the silence stretched on, but his gaze remained unwavering, prompting his friend to continue.
“I was on the settee, dozing, when Mrs. Hudson came to announce tea. She feared I would be uncomfortable and touched my arm. I almost – I –“ He stopped again, turning his face away in shame as he forced himself to confess his actions. “I leapt up and would have struck her if she had not called out in fright. I had not even been fully awake, Watson,” he whispered, shame and embarrassment softening his tone so that Watson had to strain to hear the last. “I fear that if I continue this way I may do one of you damage, and I – I could not –“
The words seemed to stick in his throat, and once more the threat of nausea had him curling in on himself, hands burying themselves in his hair before covering his face. “I could not bear it if I hurt you anymore than I already have.”
“Hush, now,” Watson murmured, moving to sit on the settee in the small space created by Holmes’ curled form. “Breathe deep, and let it out slowly.”
Holmes did as instructed, his gasping breaths ragged and shallow as he fought to regain control. To his utter horror, tears threatened to escape his burning eyes, and he closed them tightly.
“Breathe, Holmes,” Watson ordered again, resting a hand on Holmes’ back. “If you make yourself sick in here you will have to settle for the rubbish bin and that is not nearly so easy to clean.”
A surprised laugh escaped Holmes, followed by a hiccupping breath and a relaxing of the tight muscles under the doctor’s hand. The hands came down, rubbing any trace of wetness from his face, and settled stiffly on his stomach.
“That’s better,” Watson grinned, turning the other man slightly so the detective could see his expression. For a moment neither spoke, Holmes concentrating on his breathing and Watson keeping a clinical eye on him until the threat of sickness had passed. “Feel better?” he asked, continuing to run his hand up and down Holmes’ back, smiling as the other man nodded.
“Good. Now, before we continue I want you to do me a favor. No, don’t interrupt, I’m speaking as your doctor right now and want you to listen. I would like to give you a thorough checkup, goodness knows what you have done to yourself in – in your absence. This could very well be a sickness you picked up, or it could be something unrelated. Determining the cause of your exhaustion will allow us to focus on your symptoms, and try to alleviate them. However,” he added, seeing Holmes about to speak and raising a warning hand to forestall any further argument, “However, I do not believe that the answer is going to be simple, Holmes. You have been under a great strain for a very long time, and it has taken a toll on you. You need to rest, and I’m not talking about a week between cases.”
“Don’t be absurd, Watson,” Holmes grumbled, scowling. “I have already had several requests for help since my return. How can I merely dismiss them if I have any wish to re-establish myself?”
“You will do so because if you don’t, you may not be capable of helping anyone again,” Watson answered seriously. “You are worn ragged, Holmes. Even if you had not come to me with these symptoms, I would have realized something was wrong the moment I saw you at home. You need to rest and regain your strength before you return to practice.”
The silence stretched between them as Holmes narrowed his eyes, searching Watson’s face for any sign of exaggeration and Watson allowing him to see his very real concern. Finally, after what must have been several minutes, Holmes asked softly, “You truly believe me to be in such a wretched state?”
“I do,” Watson answered without the slightest hesitation. “To put it bluntly, old cock, you look horrible.” The doctor’s hand moved to rest on Holmes’ shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Let me do the physical. It shouldn’t take too long, and I would like very much to assure myself that you are truly returned to me in more or less one piece.”
Unable to resist the quiet pleading in his friend’s tone, Holmes sighed deeply and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
“Very well, mother hen. If I must endure this indignity, then let us be done with it.”
“Good,” Watson grinned, giving Holmes a hearty clap on the arm before he released him, standing stiffly as he added, “Let me go get my bag and then we shall get started.”
***
“Why would you possibly want to know that?” Holmes demanded, glaring at his friend with arms crossed tightly across his naked chest, hands tucked carefully from sight.
He had endured the stethoscope, the blood pressure gauge, and the thermometer. He had even endured stripping down to his small clothes so Watson could inspect his lean frame for any signs of sickness or rash, blushing in flustered embarrassment as the doctor’s hands roamed carefully along over-sensitized skin.
Now, standing in nothing more than his under things, his friend staring at him in exasperated fondness, he could feel himself losing any resolve to follow through with Watson’s idea of a physical.
“Believe it or not, Holmes, it could have a very serious impact on your health. For heaven’s sake, I’m not trying to embarrass you. I am a doctor, you know,” Watson answered, calmly handing Holmes his trousers with an amused grin. “Now put those on and answer the question.”
“I’ve forgotten it,” Holmes muttered, lips turned down petulantly as he dressed. It was a lie, of course, though Watson chose to take it at face value and asked in a voice so calm Holmes knew he was hiding a smile, “Are you having trouble eliminating?”
“Watson, that is disgusting!”
“So I take that as a yes?”
“No!” Holmes snapped, glaring. “I am perfectly… fine… in that area. I promise, there is no trouble.”
“Good,” Watson grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously as Holmes blushed. “Honestly, Holmes, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a perfectly normal bodily function. So long as your urine is a natural color and your bowels are functioning properly, we can remove those from out list of symptoms.”
“Yes, well, I think I shall take myself and my functioning bowels and return to Baker Street. I’m certain you have more than enough to draw your conclusions, and I am in need of a - I am very tired,” Holmes snapped, scowling as Watson calmly handed him his shirt.
“Just a few more questions, old chap, and then we can both head to Baker Street. I’m certain Mrs. Hudson would not mind another mouth to feed tonight, and I would very much like to speak with you some more about your symptoms. No,” he added, as Holmes scowl grew and his face flushed with the beginnings of anger rather than embarrassment. “Nothing so intrusive, Holmes, I promise. But I would like a bit more detail as to your travels and some of the trials you faced.”
At the doctor’s earnest plea, Holmes found himself relenting, the anger draining from him to leave him more weary than upset.
“Then let me retire for now, dear boy. I am - I find I am very much in need of a lie down,” Holmes sighed, covering his eyes with his hand, leaving his shirt unbuttoned as he tried to compose himself.
“Then rest on the settee for a bit, while I finish off here. There is no reason to leave the premises without me. Unless you tire of my company,” Watson urged, his voice hesitant at the last suggestion as he moved to lean against his desk.
“Of course I don’t tire of you,” Holmes snapped, raising his head to glare as he resumed dressing, fingers moving slowly over the buttons and cufflinks. “I merely wished… Oh, blast it all, I don’t even know what I want anymore,” he growled, moving to the study door and throwing it open, perhaps to leave, or perhaps to call for more tea from the twittered maid. Whatever his plans, however, they were cast aside the moment the door opened and a small body fell into the study, landing with a muttered curse as grimy hands skidded against the carpet in an effort to stop.
For several long seconds, both Holmes and Watson stared at the ragged figure before them, blinking in surprise.
“Thomas?” Holmes finally asked, disbelief clearly coloring his tone.
“’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes,” the street urchin answered, standing fully upright and grinning cheekily up at the detective. “Doctor,” he added, nodding perfunctorily at Watson.
The lad’s hair was an indeterminate color of brown or blond, so covered in dirt that it was impossible to tell. His clothes, ragged at the edges and similarly covered in grime, were still of a better fair than most of his ilk, and his feet were shod with functionally cheap boots. His eyes, a bright blue in his darkened face, were wise beyond his age of ten or eleven, and his movements were those of a wild animal which had found comfort in the occasional pats of an owner.
“What the devil are you doing outside my door?” Watson demanded, crossing his arms as he moved to glare down at the boy.
“I was listenin’,” Thomas explained, as though the situation was self evident.
“Why were you listening?” Holmes asked, still scowling, though his expression had softened. It always did, Watson reflected, when dealing with one of his Irregulars.
“To make sure you wasn’t goin’ to keel over,” Thomas answered frankly. “You look bloody awful, Mr. ‘Olmes.”
Watson covered his smile with his hand, though not before his friend noticed and pursed his lips disapprovingly.
“I am perfectly fine, Thomas, and I do not appreciate my privacy being intruded upon. Please refrain from listening in at keyholes in future, and pass the message along to the others,” Holmes ordered, making a shooing motion as though the conversation had ended and he fully expected the child to run along.
Both men blinked when a stubborn frown and crossed arms met this demand.
“Are you goin’ to stay and let the doctor take care of ye?” Thomas demanded.
“Thomas - “ Holmes began, warningly, but the Irregular would not be intimidated.
“We jist got ye back, Mr. ‘Olmes,” he continued. “Yer brother would be right furious if anything ‘appened to ye, and - well, ye’re amazing, Mr, ‘Olmes, but yer brother is scary!”
Watson’s sudden laugh was quickly smothered into a cough, turning his head as he did so and covering his mouth.
“What does Mycroft have to do with you invading my privacy and following me around?” Holmes demanded, crossing his own arms. Watson had to fight another fit of mirth at the picture the two presented, standing off against each other.
“’E wanted us to make sure ye was all right,” Thomas answered simply. “’E said we was no longer workin’ fer ‘im, but that ‘e ‘ad a job fer us if we was wantin’ it. Some o’ the littles weren’t too certain, but after ‘e ‘splained it they was all right. Mick’s workin’ at the telegram now, so’s we was able easy to let Mr. Mycroft knows ye were to see the doctor ’ere. ’E wanted us to keeps ’im informed.”
“I see,” Holmes murmured breathlessly. He reached absently into his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin, tossing it to the lad heedless of its denomination. “Kindly ask Mick to inform my brother I will speak with him tomorrow at his club, and that you are all working for me again, so he is to desist using your services without consulting me first.”
“Right,” Thomas agreed, nodding dutifully before turning to exit, the coin already vanished.
“Thomas, a moment please,” Watson called, earning confused looks from both, though the boy stopped and looked to the doctor expectantly. “How did you get in here to begin with? Miss Palmer can be very strict with whom she admits.”
“Oh, that was easy!” Thomas grinned, putting two grimy fingers to his mouth and whistling loudly. A moment later, there was a scraping at the window, followed by another dirt covered head popping up, black hair a mess of snarls and tangles.
“’Ello, Mr. ‘Olmes!” the lad greeted, waving cheerfully as he deftly scrambled over the windowsill into the room. “’Ello, Doctor!”
“Yer locks are pretty ‘orrible,” Thomas explained almost apologetically as the small boy moved to stand beside him. “Mud ‘ere ‘ad no problem at all, did ye, Mud?”
“No, twas easy! So’s yer kitchen door, Doctor. Yer maid’s a bit glocky, ain’t she? Nice for a twist, but she leaves yer door wide open when she takes the rubbish out.”
“Does she?” Watson asked faintly, leaning back against his desk heavily and running a hand over his face wearily. “I shall have words with her.”
“And yer upstairs is no better,” Mud added, grimacing. “Ye might want to fix that.”
“Oh, Lord,” Watson sighed, head bowed.
“Thank you, Thomas, Mud. But Dr. Watson will not be residing here much longer, and Baker Street is quite secure, as you all well know. Now, both of you, out,” Holmes said firmly, shooing the boys back to the window. “Thomas, remember that message for Mick. And please no more uninvited visits. You might frighten the maid.”
Preparing to climb out, both boys held their hands up expectantly, grinning unrepentantly as Holmes deposited a coin in each palm with a twitch of his lips.
“Take care of ‘im, Doctor!” Thomas called as he disappeared from view, Mud following easily and closing the window behind him.
“Well, I think that was quite enough excitement for one day,” Watson sighed, standing up straight and eyeing Holmes seriously. “We can finish the exam later, once you’ve had a chance to rest.”
“Watson -” Holmes began to protest, but was cut off by the other’s raised eyebrow and steely glare. “I shall be on the settee,” he finished, scowling as he threw himself onto the furniture, grumbling under his breath as he curled his legs up to his chest, allowing his head to rest on his arm, the other draped over his thigh.
Watson watched him settle before moving to sit behind his desk, notes and files scattered haphazardly over the surface. Within moments of placing pen to paper, the soft, even breathing of his friend alerted him of Holmes having drifted off to sleep.
Smiling softly, finding himself more at ease and relaxed than he had been in years, Watson set about completing his paperwork for the day and writing up the results for Holmes’ exam. Often his gaze would wander to the still form curled up beside him, and his eyes would lose their focus as fond memories and still fresh relief washed over him once more.
Holmes had returned to him. Everything else would work itself out.
*****
It was half four when they hailed a hansom to take them back to Baker Street, though the walk was not very long. Watson’s leg throbbed with each step, and Holmes’ eyes remained underlined with dark circles, his already pale features washed out and dimmed in the overcast gloom of the afternoon. The ride was silent, Holmes leaning comfortably against Watson’s side, his gaze unfocused and distant, while Watson had to continually fight to stifle a smile. The memory of Holmes flailing and yelling after the wadded up paper had hit him squarely between the eyes was one he knew he would cherish for years to come. It had taken a good fifteen minutes before the detective had stopped pouting and admitted it had been one of the more inventive ways of waking him up.
When they made it to Baker Street it was the doctor who paid for their fare, and
neither spoke as they made their way slowly up the seventeen steps. Mrs. Hudson was just coming out of the sitting room, apparently having taken the opportunity to clean while Holmes was away, and smiled brilliantly.
“Doctor, how good to see you. I do hope you’ll be staying for dinner?” she asked, her eyes darting to Holmes and then back again as her smile took on a slightly desperate air. “It’s been too long since anyone has truly enjoyed my cooking.”
“And it may be longer yet, if the smell from the kitchen is what is available,” Holmes grumbled, earning a scowl and good natured swat.
“It will be the bread and gruel for you, if you keep that up,” Mrs. Hudson warned, making her way towards the stairs. “They’re boiling already and should be properly scorched.”
Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Hudson was already making her way down the stairs, and the urge to engage in a battle of wits drained out of him as surely as water from a broken pitcher.
“Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, a hand on Holmes’ back gently propelling him into the sitting room, concerned eyes watching as Holmes sunk gratefully onto the settee with a sigh and covered his eyes with an arm.
“Why don’t you rest some more, and I’ll wake you for dinner?” Watson asked softly, sinking comfortably into his chair by the fire and earning a resigned smile from his supine friend, though the arm did not move.
“That sounds lovely, Watson. I fear you may be lacking in information about my adventures for a bit longer, if you’ll forgive me,” Holmes slurred, his voice little more than a mumble.
“No worries. Listening to you snore is quite soothing, actually.”
Holmes deigned to lower his arm to glare at Watson, though a large yawn ruined the effect and only served to produce a chuckle from his friend. “You used to complain about my snoring,“ he grumbled as he replaced his arm, shifting to curl further onto his side. In a few short minutes his breathing had, indeed, evened out into soft snoring.
“Never again,” Watson whispered, the words barely more than a breath. He watched fondly for a moment, then stood and carefully pulled a quilt one of Holmes’ clients had made for him off the back of the settee, draping it over the other’s curled form and grinning as Holmes mumbled and burrowed into the warmth. In the dim, watery light from the window, the detective looked worn down, his presence somehow diminished from the larger than life persona Watson had carried the memory of.
A lock of dark hair fell over Holmes’ cheek, obscuring the nearest eye and fluttering with each breath. Hesitantly, afraid to wake his friend, Watson gently pushed the soft mass back, fingers lingering over the warm forehead, creased with unknown worries and too many close calls.
“Such a miracle,” he whispered. Emotion, thick and dangerously close to overwhelming, formed a hard lump in his throat, forcing him to swallow painfully. He coughed, blinking back the slight burn from his eyes, and hastily returned to his seat before the fire. The teasing warmth was only just beginning to fill the room, the chill from outside still prevalent in the ache from his old wound.
He sat forward slightly, the dance of the flames almost mesmerizing as his mind cast back to sun baked sand and heat so oppressive it made London summers feel like a spring holiday.
It had not been easy adjusting to life back amongst the civilians. People who had never been rousted out of a sound sleep by alarm, or been elbow deep in bowels and blood while the life before them slowly slipped away with whimpers and soft cries for mothers far away. So many days of feeling as though he would never be safe again, of little sleep and food a rare luxury.
No, it had not been easy to resume a life of ordinary, boring days, where he could sleep as long as he liked, and eat whatever food he could afford, and drink all he wanted. Looking back, Watson found himself smiling slightly in wonder that he had not spent every shilling he owned on luxuries such as pasties and alcohol, though he admitted quite freely to himself that that may have been because he kept losing it on ill-thought gambling debts.
A whimper to his right turned his head, but Holmes had already settled, shifting slightly to burrow deeper into the blanket, his long, lean form curled protectively against unknown threats.
Watson’s smile faded as he took in his friend’s appearance. The pale skin, sallow and thin looking. Dark circles bruised his eyes even in sleep, and there were touches of silver at his temple that had not been present three years previously.
Memories, long buried under better circumstances, flooded Watson’s mind, flashes of nightmares, reactions to loud noises and the terrible exhaustion which had plagued him for several months even after he had moved into Baker Street. Suddenly the symptoms and behaviors made a horrible, terrible sense, and he realized why a nagging familiarity had been tugging at the edges of his thoughts.
He had lived the symptoms Holmes now exhibited, still dealt with them on particularly bad days. He had treated similar complaints in fellow veterans, commiserated with them over the misery of past experiences and tried to make light what they suffered so that none of them would feel the cowards they secretly all feared they were.
Soldier’s heart.
It was not a diagnosis well known outside of the Americas, though Watson had spoken often with one of the surgeons at St. Bart’s who had a particular enthusiasm for the American Civil War and had studied it extensively.
Though Holmes had been reluctant to admit to it during his exam, he had confessed to finding himself out of breath for no apparent reason, his heart beating rapidly and painfully in his too-thin chest. Watson had listened carefully for any sign of weakness or damage, but had found no physical reason for such symptoms.
Now he understood why.
A soft groan from the settee, followed by a nearly inaudible whimper of pain, had Watson out of his chair and by his friend’s side immediately, hand soothing sweat damp hair from a flushed forehead. The doctor was mindful of Holmes’ fists, but rather than the fearful awakening he had almost expected, the detective seemed to settle, the pinched lines of worry around his eyes easing and his breathing once more calming.
“Hush now,” Watson whispered, wincing at the warning twinge in his leg, but not moving from his crouched position. “Easy, old boy. You’re all right, nothing can harm you here. You’re safe. I promise, no one shall harm you.”
Only when the rapid breaths had once more fallen into a deep rhythm, broken by the occasional snuffling snore, did Watson return to his seat, falling heavily into the cushions as he ran a hand over his eyes.
He had a diagnosis now, which brought its own relief. But how to tell Holmes there was no true cure for what ailed him? For what ailed them both?
*******
Part 2