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Soldier's Heart Part 4
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 4
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, 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 .
The next few weeks passed in relative peace and quiet, the two men settling into familiar habits and gradually relearning how to live with each other. Watson generally woke earlier than Holmes, and tended to have a hearty breakfast before setting about his day. Though no longer seeing patients at his practice, he still retained a few whom he visited on house calls, and when not engaged with medicine, he would often spend hours at his club, playing billiards and gossiping with his acquaintances.
Holmes, when he rose in time to dine with his fellow lodger, was his usual prickly self, and would often refrain from speech until he had imbibed his morning drink and allowed his great brain time to wake up. Since he had been forbidden to take any cases save for the most trivial matters, he found himself engrossed in his chemical studies, oftentimes losing track of all around him until Watson forcibly removed him from the table to eat.
Though he still spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping away the afternoons when not completely engrossed, he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a form of insomnia had recently crept into his nighttime sleeping habits, and the past three nights had found him awake at three in the morning, restlessly wandering the sitting room or playing with his chemicals until the dawn started to break, at which point he would retire to bed and sleep until he heard stirrings outside his door.
Fearing the reaction should he tell Watson of this new development, and convincing himself that it was an aberration that would correct itself shortly, Holmes found himself sinking into a black mood.
On the fourth such night of sleepless wanderings, he found himself outside Watson’s room, the darkness pressing about him as he opened the door just enough to eye the sprawled figure on the bed.
He had helped to settle the heavy furniture when Watson returned to Baker Street, though his offer of assistance in unpacking the smaller items had been politely refused. Remembering his brother’s words, and not wishing to upset his friend again so soon after his tearful breakdown at Cavendish Place, Holmes had retreated gracefully to putter about the sitting room, unloading boxes of books and arranging them how he saw fit until Watson had descended some several hours later and redone the entire bookshelf.
He had not been back in Watson’s room since.
Now, with not even a candle to illuminate the hidden treasures of his friend’s life, Holmes gazed fondly at the slumbering form, grateful that he had been afforded the luxury of having his friend back under the same roof, where he had always held firm that he belonged. He held no grudge against Mary, and he mourned for her passing because Watson mourned, but he could not honestly say that he would miss her.
The two of them had reached an unspoken agreement after the marriage, and both had been very careful to maintain a civil demeanor around the other. But Holmes knew then, as he knew now, that Watson belonged to him in a way no other could ever claim.
It had been a small comfort on lonely nights spent by the fire, when his mind rebelled against the stagnation of the world around him, but he had clung to the belief with all that he had in the hopes that one day his Watson would see reason and return to him. He had never put a name to the feeling, and he was hesitant to do so now, but watching the softly snoring man before him, he was tempted to call it love.
***
Holmes’ insomnia continued for the next several nights, and he found his temper slowly fraying around the edges. Though he continued to be plagued by exhaustion during the day, he was fighting harder against the hours-long naps which had sustained him to that point, hoping to wear his body down enough to sleep. It was proving a fruitless effort, however, and all too often he found himself wandering about the sitting room late at night, his fingers itching to play his violin even as he fought the temptation.
It would never do to wake the household, he reminded himself as his eyes sought the case which held his most prized possession. He had resisted the temptation for four nights running, but the late hour seemed more oppressive than usual, and his head ached with lack of sleep. Perhaps if he merely held the instrument, the urge to release some of his pent up frustration would dissipate.
The wood of the Stradivarius glowed in the faint light from the fire’s embers, its grain smooth as silk against his fingertips. When he settled his chin against the chin rest, the metal was cool against his skin, and for one moment he closed his eyes and breathed in the unique scent of rosin and varnished wood. When his fingers rested against the strings the taut catgut settled into patterns along the calluses of his hand, and without thought or effort he had the instrument tuned and waiting for his instruction.
Finally giving in to the urge which had been growing steadily with each sleepless night, Holmes began to play.
The melodies seemed to flow out of him, a floodgate which had been opened and the contents which had been held captive fleeing into the night. He could not have stopped himself even if he desired, and as the music flowed from his soul, he did not wish to.
As he played the troubles of the night slipped away, lost in the flow and ebb of sound which yearned to be let out. Gone were the thoughts which circled endlessly through his mind as he stared unseeing at his ceiling. Gone were the aches and pains in his chest and joints, the long abuse of his journey finally healing.
Gone was the sleepless worry that he was slowly losing his mind, his deductive abilities, and his health. Only the music existed for him, pouring from his fingers into the Stradivarius as though they were an amalgam of flesh and wood, muscle and string.
He played until his fingers began to cramp and his breath felt caught in his chest. He played until the candle stuttered and died, and the light creeping in from the window illuminated the sitting room with shadowed hesitancy. He played until he could play no more, and only when he stopped did he realize that he was not alone.
Watson sat comfortably in his chair before the fire, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his frame, eyes circled from lack of rest, and hair still disarrayed from sleep. Before he was able to compose himself, a moment only, Holmes recognized the look of longing on his countenance, of desire kept in check and the mourning of the troubles he had seen in his life.
Then the expression was changed to one of neutral curiosity, and Holmes wondered if this, too, had been a trick of his mind.
For a long minute the silence stretched between them, all the louder for the music which had filled the room moments before.
“I’m sorry, Watson, for disturbing you,” Holmes whispered, bringing the violin to his chest and holding it protectively in front of him, bow clutched in his hand. “I had not meant to - that is, I had not thought I would play until I held it in my -”
“How long have you not been sleeping, Holmes?” Watson interrupted gently, leaning forward as he gazed into his friend’s eyes. “You look horrid, old boy.”
Holmes snorted, turning to look outside the window. He did not answer immediately, choosing instead to let his gaze wander around the sitting room, taking in the shadows of that which comprised his home. Watson allowed him the moment to gather his thoughts, and when Holmes finally broke the silence with a resigned huff, knew that his friend was done prevaricating.
“A few days now. Maybe a week,” Holmes admitted softly, unable to meet the doctor’s concerned eyes. “I had hoped it would resolve itself if I refrained from sleeping so much during the day, but I have found it… difficult… to do so. And even on the days I do, it does not lend itself to a restful slumber.”
Watson’s sigh was very familiar, one of patient fondness tinged with exasperation.
“So you had thought to wander the sitting room like a ghost until the sun came up, and then hide in your room until you could present the façade of having obtained a decent night’s rest. Holmes, I do wish you would trust me.” Watson stood and moved to stand before his friend, taking the violin from his hands and gently placing it back in its case upon the settee. “Did it not occur to you that I may have been able to help?”
“I did not wish to worry you,” Holmes protested, placing a trembling hand on his friend’s shoulder, turning him so the two of them stood face to face, separated by the smallest of margins. Watson’s breath puffed warm against his cheek, awakening an awareness in the detective of how very cold he had become while playing. “I do trust you,” he insisted, trying to project all the sincerity of his heart into his eyes, forcing Watson to meet his gaze. “I do.”
They stood there, too close in the silent room, Holmes shaking with cold and all the suppressed worry which seemed to have flooded back into his being after the music had stopped. Watson regarded the other man closely, taking in every minute detail, his mouth growing thinner and more pinched as the light steadily grew.
“Then trust me when I say that you are exhausted and need to rest, and if that requires you to sleep the daylight hours away, then you are to do so. And playing violin at five in the morning may be a productive way to spend the night, but there are others who do enjoy sleeping a tad more than you, old cock. Please, Holmes, for my peace of mind and Mrs. Hudson’s nerves, the next time you are unable to sleep, let me know and I will give you something.”
The doctor’s hand reached up to cover Holmes’, which had remained resting lightly upon his shoulder.
“Now do you think you can rest for a few hours? Breakfast won’t be up until later, and I for one could use a bit more sleep. Come on, to your bed.” Gently, Watson took the hand beneath his and led his friend to the bedroom, where he released him and watched as he made his way wearily through the piles of clothes on the floor. Only after Holmes was bundled up and curled on his side did he turn to go. “If you need anything, you have only to call,” Watson reminded him over his shoulder, closing the door softly as he headed to his own bed and a few more hours of longed-for sleep.
“I know,” Holmes whispered, eyes closed against the encroaching dawn. “I have always known, Watson.”
***
Neither man mentioned the late night discussion at breakfast that morning, and though Holmes braced himself for a thorough rebuke from Mrs. Hudson, none came. The landlady smiled sweetly at him as she placed his cup of cocoa on the table, and when he stared after her suspiciously, gave him her own patented innocent expression. Watson hid his smile behind his tea, though once Holmes had returned his attention to his breakfast, he caught the quick wink she threw his way and had to smother his laugh with a cough.
“Any plans for the day, old boy?” he asked at Holmes’ raised eyebrow, deciding discretion was the better part of valor.
“I fear you know the extent of my plans for the foreseeable future,” Holmes grumbled, sipping his cocoa with a frown, chin resting in hand as his eyebrows scrunched in suppressed irritation.
“Do try to be a little gentler with yourself, Holmes,” Watson sighed. “There is no shame in recovering from the kind of trials you have endured.”
Holmes refrained from answering, pointedly keeping his eyes down so as not to look at the doctor’s expression of entreaty. Knowing when to leave well enough alone, Watson turned back to his eggs, taking several careful bites before saying, “I have a few errands of my own to attend to. Should you need anything, I’ll be at my club this afternoon, though I’ll be home for supper.”
A warmth filled his chest at the words, and he hastily turned his attention back to his plate lest Holmes pick up on it. Too long had Cavendish Place been merely a house to hang his hat at the end of the day. Only here, sitting with his friend as he enjoyed a well cooked meal, did he feel as though he were truly home. No ghosts lingered in his memory to form a lump in his throat, and though Holmes was silent, he was a steadfast presence.
Holmes hummed his agreement to Watson’s announcement, reaching over absently to take one of the doctor’s buttered and jam covered pieces of toast. Watson raised an eyebrow at the theft, though did not comment. If stealing from his friend’s plate had the detective eating, Watson would not dissuade him.
The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence, neither man needing to fill the quiet with empty words, and it was with an absent minded pat that Holmes departed to his own room to finish his morning ablutions.
When he returned to the sitting room after a wash and shave, dressing gown wrapped around fresh trousers and shirt, it was to find that Watson had already departed. Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the plates, though a teapot rested on the table in their place.
For a few moments Holmes thought longingly of his Morocco case, once more safely ensconced in the drawer of his desk. But though he had resorted to the seven percent solution during torturous days when remaining silent and still had been a necessity for survival, he had long since given up on the syringe as a method to counteract boredom.
Still… He found himself drawn to the drawer, long fingers running lightly over the smooth contours of the case. It would only be a small dose, and he was perfectly safe here in Baker Street. There was no reason not to indulge just this once.
Pushing aside any doubts which tried to wiggle to the surface, Holmes retreated to his room where he determinedly closed the door. When the needle entered his skin and he pushed the plunger home, the warmth of the drug was as sweet an escape as the music of the night before had been.
Before long he found himself drifting lazily on idle thoughts, the syringe dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers rolling a short distance from the bed to rest against the edge of his dresser.
He closed his eyes and allowed his body and mind to escape the worries which had plagued him, and within an hour was fast asleep.
***
A hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly brought him abruptly awake, sitting up suddenly and trying to swing at whoever was close enough to his person to do damage.
“Holmes!”
Watson’s voice, though not quite at the level of a yell, would have done his old Army instructors proud, and Holmes found himself blinking dizzily up at his friend, who was leaning over him with one of the sternest expressions on his face the detective had ever seen, and the syringe held in a tight fist before him.
“Watson-” Holmes began, swallowing convulsively as nausea rolled over him.
“Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, a bit more gently than his previous tone, though with little of the compassion he usually offered when posing such a question.
“I -”
Without waiting for his reply, the doctor maneuvered Holmes to his feet and into the facility before the other could finish deciding, and it was only as he was crouched before the toilet, retching piteously, that Holmes realized the spectacle he must be making of himself.
Watson had left his side a moment after the vomiting started, but returned minutes later, a damp cloth in his hand and the syringe nowhere to be found. For all his obvious anger, the doctor’s hands were gentle as he soothed the flannel over Holmes’ neck and forehead, and once he was certain Holmes was finished he offered him a cup filled with tepid water to rinse.
“I’m only going to ask this once, Holmes,” Watson said softly, though his tone betrayed the bitter anger still evident on his tight lipped, pale face. “Normally I would never force a confidence, but I will not allow you to fall back into such destructive habits the moment I get you back. I won’t. So you are going to tell me, truthfully, how many times you have resorted to the cocaine since you have returned to London, and if you intend to continue the vile habit.”
Holmes, forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet, knees starting to ache from his position, shook his head slightly, eyes closed firmly against the condemnation he knew would be on his dearest friend’s countenance.
“It has been some time,” he admitted, voice rough from sickness and shame. He could not control the slight quaver that filled his next words, and a dark flush crept up his heated cheeks. “I will not do so again. It was a…momentary… weakness.”
His eyes stung, though he determinedly kept them closed, and turned his head slightly so Watson would not see the utter humiliation burning across his face. But he had forgotten what it was like to be with someone who knew him so intimately, and a hand, gentle now and soothing, rested between his shoulders.
“I will not abide under the same roof with you again if you go back on your word,” Watson promised, and though the words spoken were harsh, the tone was not. “I cannot watch you destroy yourself, not after - after everything. I can’t, Holmes. It would devastate me, and I am not strong enough to pick up the pieces. Not again. Do you understand?”
The hand on his neck squeezed tightly to emphasize his point, and Holmes nodded silently. A shudder ran through his thin form, though from the cold, humiliation, or the drug releasing its final hold, he could not tell.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Watson sighed, and arms wrapped gently under his own, bringing Holmes to his feet. Still unable to face his friend, Holmes found his face buried in Watson’s shoulder, all his considerable control bent on stopping the damning wetness from leaving his eyes and betraying him.
“We will not speak of this again,” Watson murmured into his hair, holding the other man tightly to his chest and gazing to the ceiling as he fought his own battle against too strong emotion. “This is a new beginning for both of us, Holmes, starting now.”
Only after he felt the small nod, Holmes’ nose brushing against his collar, did Watson steer them back to his friend’s room.
“I only stopped by to pick up something I had forgotten,” he continued in a nearly conversational tone. “When I saw your door closed I decided to check on you. The nausea is most likely a side effect from the raised blood pressure and your sitting up too quickly. You should be able to sleep comfortably now, though I think a good cup of tea may be in order, hmmm?”
Holmes nodded, pulling himself together with effort, so that when the doctor deposited him on his bed and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, he could blink up at him without fear of making an even bigger fool of himself than he had.
When Watson turned to fetch him the tea he could not stop himself from reaching out, clinging to Watson’s cuff as he turned back, eyebrow raised curiously.
“I’m sorry, Wat-”
“Hush,” Watson interrupted, and placed a finger to Holmes’ lips to silence him. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, silent moment, all the years of their history passing between them in an unspoken communication of apology and forgiveness. “Let me get that tea for you and then I must be off. I’m meeting an acquaintance from my club for lunch, and I cannot be late. Trust me, Holmes,” he added when the other opened his mouth to apologize again. “All will be well when you wake up. I promise.”
Watson ran a hand over Holmes’ forehead and down his cheek, gazing fondly at the other’s doubting expression. “I promise,” he repeated, then turned to retrieve the tea.
Holmes lay silently, staring at the ceiling which had become all too familiar the past week, and cursed himself for a fool as he listened to the sounds of the doctor in the other room.
Never again, he promised himself. He would throw the cursed drug away the instant Watson departed, and the Morocco case would be left in the doctor’s care. He would not harm his friend again. Not for the wide world, and certainly not for a few moments of fleeting peace.
When Watson returned, steaming mug in hand and bowler firmly in place, he helped Holmes sit up to drink the tea, though he no longer required the assistance. Having Watson’s hands on him, soothing and gentling, filled a hollow place he had not been aware of for some time. Like a wound left so long untreated that it no longer seemed to cause pain.
“Get some rest,” Watson advised as he took the empty cup and headed for the door. “I’ll be back before supper.”
Holmes listened to his friend depart, waiting for the moment when he could carry out his plan, when a strange lassitude seemed to deaden his limbs and made his head feel too heavy to lift.
His last conscious thought as he drifted off to sleep was that the doctor had become much more cunning in his absence, and that drinking drugged tea was a small price to pay for his stupidity.
*****
Several hours later, with the smell of one of Mrs. Hudson’s stews filling the sitting room with a tempting aroma, Holmes found himself sat in his chair by the fire, for it was once again a cold and blustery day with rain splattering the windows. He had woken restless from his unintended nap and set about trying to implement his plans, only to find the Morocco case nowhere to be found. Though he had searched both the sitting room and his own extensively, the only conclusion he could reach was that the doctor had either thrown it out or secured it in his own room.
And Holmes would never violate his trust by entering such a personal space without the doctor’s express permission. Or to wake the doctor for a case, he admitted silently, thinking of all the times he had watched the other man sleep in the early hours of the morning, with a client downstairs or about to arrive.
Still, things were different now, he reminded himself. As Watson had said earlier it was a new beginning for both of them, and though some habits had been reestablished easily between them, that was not one of them.
So it was that a little before five Holmes found himself reading one of Watson’s books on rare blood disorders, blanket wrapped snugly around his legs, awaiting the doctor’s return.
He heard the door open downstairs, though he had become so engrossed in the book that only a distant part of his mind was engaged in cataloging the sounds below him. Firm step, though with a limp, and the steady thump of a cane. There was a hushed conversation, no doubt Mrs. Hudson greeting the doctor, and then the steps resumed, accompanied by a strange scrabbling.
Head cocked, Holmes found his attention directed to the door, brows furrowed as he tried to determine the cause of the strange noise. He was just setting down the book and preparing to stand when the door opened and a startling sight stood before him.
“Good evening, Holmes!” Watson greeted cheerfully, hand clenched tightly around a taut leash which was apparently attached to -
“Gladstone?”
Holmes’ whisper could barely be heard among the steady rhythm of the rain lashing against the windowpane, and he noted absently that Watson must have taken a carriage because neither he nor the dog straining to explore the room was more than slightly damp.
“But-” He found he could not continue, standing and absently throwing the blanket aside as he made his way to where Watson was proudly smirking, still keeping a firm grasp on the stout bulldog.
Though much thinner and filled with more gray, Holmes could never have mistaken the excited canine for any other. When he made his way over to the two of them, Gladstone began to whimper and struggle to free himself, standing on his hind legs for several seconds before gravity proved too fierce a foe and he fell back to all fours with a disgruntled bark only to try again.
“I think we can let him off the leash, don’t you?” Watson asked, his smile nearly blinding as he did just that, and Holmes barely had time to prepare before he found himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic greeting.
“How?” he managed to get out as he landed quite suddenly on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him as Gladstone barked his strange, high pitched ‘woofs,’ licking and panting heavily as he struggled to worm his way into Holmes’ lap.
For a moment the smile dimmed into something more gentle as Watson watched the two reacquaint themselves.
“When Mary became too sick to leave unattended for more than the briefest of times, I could not take care of the poor thing as he deserved. A friend from my club, whose wife was an old school mate of Mary’s, offered to take care of him until such a time as I - as I could once more take him back. He’s been in the country the last six months, taking care of family business, or else I would have brought Gladstone back sooner.”
Holmes closed his eyes as a wet tongue lavished his cheeks and chin with sloppy puppy kisses, and he found himself laughing as the bulldog continued to bark his joy, back end wagging in excitement so that the entire squat body appeared to undulate with happiness.
“I had feared - I had not wanted to ask,” Holmes managed to get out, sputtering as Gladstone’s tongue came a bit too close to his mouth for comfort. “Yes, yes, I am very happy to see you, too!” he finally crooned, taking the dog into his arms in a rare show of emotion that had Watson grinning again, eyes twinkling as he took in the sight and tried not to laugh.
He made his way over to his chair and, sitting heavily, watched the two with an indulgent grin, much like a father watching his children play.
“I do believe he missed you, Holmes,” he finally laughed, unable to help himself as Gladstone, overcome with excitement, left a tail of urine over the carpet and Holmes’ leg, much to the detective’s undisguised horror.
***
Once the carpet (and Holmes) had been thoroughly scrubbed and dinner eaten, Watson sat on the settee as he watched Holmes throw a ball for the dog to chase. Where the detective had found the ball Watson was afraid to ask, but the two seemed to enjoy the game and Watson couldn’t help the giddy feeling which continued to erupt from his chest in the form of spontaneous smiles.
After nearly fifteen minutes of the simple fetch, Holmes seemed to grow bored with merely throwing the ball, and started to find out of the way locations in the room which forced Gladstone to scamper about and try to worm his body into small spaces. By the time Holmes had managed to throw the ball up the stairs, both men were laughing hard enough to bring tears to their faces.
“Really, Holmes, he’ll never make it up the stairs!” Watson protested between ragged breaths, wiping his eyes. “You better go help him.”
“Perhaps it was a bit beyond his ability,” Holmes relented, and Watson watched as the detective made his way up the stairs, calling out to Gladstone as he did so.
“Watson, he appears to have found your room. May I enter?” Holmes called down.
“Of course!” Watson yelled back, and then suddenly remembered what was kept on his bedside table and hastily scrambled to intercept the detective.
By the time he reached his room the good humor of before had faded, though he could not explain why exactly he was afraid Holmes would see the picture. When he pushed his bedroom door open, the other man was sitting on his bed, the metal frame in one hand as he absently patted Gladstone with the other, the dog somehow having managed to make his way onto the bed.
Watson stood in the doorway a moment, his throat tight as Holmes finally looked up at him.
“We should place this on the mantel, if you’ve no objection,” Holmes finally said softly, and his eyes, though not upset or angry, had lost much of the mirth from earlier.
“I didn’t - that is, I had not thought you would wish it to be so publicly displayed,” Watson answered just as softly, finally making his way into the room and gently dislodging the dog from the bed, taking his place so that his knee brushed Holmes‘. Seeing the hurt in his friend’s eyes before he could mask it, Watson added, “I know you did not entirely approve, Holmes, even after the marriage was said and done. I will not force you to keep a reminder of something that brought you pain in your own home.”
“But she brought you joy,” Holmes whispered, turning his gaze back to the photo, a simple pose of Watson standing proudly beside Mary as she sat primly in a wooden chair. It had been taken nearly a year after their marriage, before Holmes ‘death’ and Mary’s illness, when Watson had still thought his world was perfect and he had everything he could have ever wished for.
“Place it on the mantel, old boy,” Holmes ordered, handing the photo over and standing with a slightly exaggerated stretch. “I’m going to attempt to sleep now. Good night, Watson.”
Watson watched as Holmes gently nudged Gladstone out the door, closing it behind him firmly. The footsteps which headed downstairs seemed heavier than before, and Watson closed his eyes as he cursed fate, God, and himself.
When the soft strains of the violin woke him several hours before dawn, he could not find it in himself to be surprised.
***
Part 5
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, 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 . The next few weeks passed in relative peace and quiet, the two men settling into familiar habits and gradually relearning how to live with each other. Watson generally woke earlier than Holmes, and tended to have a hearty breakfast before setting about his day. Though no longer seeing patients at his practice, he still retained a few whom he visited on house calls, and when not engaged with medicine, he would often spend hours at his club, playing billiards and gossiping with his acquaintances.
Holmes, when he rose in time to dine with his fellow lodger, was his usual prickly self, and would often refrain from speech until he had imbibed his morning drink and allowed his great brain time to wake up. Since he had been forbidden to take any cases save for the most trivial matters, he found himself engrossed in his chemical studies, oftentimes losing track of all around him until Watson forcibly removed him from the table to eat.
Though he still spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping away the afternoons when not completely engrossed, he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that a form of insomnia had recently crept into his nighttime sleeping habits, and the past three nights had found him awake at three in the morning, restlessly wandering the sitting room or playing with his chemicals until the dawn started to break, at which point he would retire to bed and sleep until he heard stirrings outside his door.
Fearing the reaction should he tell Watson of this new development, and convincing himself that it was an aberration that would correct itself shortly, Holmes found himself sinking into a black mood.
On the fourth such night of sleepless wanderings, he found himself outside Watson’s room, the darkness pressing about him as he opened the door just enough to eye the sprawled figure on the bed.
He had helped to settle the heavy furniture when Watson returned to Baker Street, though his offer of assistance in unpacking the smaller items had been politely refused. Remembering his brother’s words, and not wishing to upset his friend again so soon after his tearful breakdown at Cavendish Place, Holmes had retreated gracefully to putter about the sitting room, unloading boxes of books and arranging them how he saw fit until Watson had descended some several hours later and redone the entire bookshelf.
He had not been back in Watson’s room since.
Now, with not even a candle to illuminate the hidden treasures of his friend’s life, Holmes gazed fondly at the slumbering form, grateful that he had been afforded the luxury of having his friend back under the same roof, where he had always held firm that he belonged. He held no grudge against Mary, and he mourned for her passing because Watson mourned, but he could not honestly say that he would miss her.
The two of them had reached an unspoken agreement after the marriage, and both had been very careful to maintain a civil demeanor around the other. But Holmes knew then, as he knew now, that Watson belonged to him in a way no other could ever claim.
It had been a small comfort on lonely nights spent by the fire, when his mind rebelled against the stagnation of the world around him, but he had clung to the belief with all that he had in the hopes that one day his Watson would see reason and return to him. He had never put a name to the feeling, and he was hesitant to do so now, but watching the softly snoring man before him, he was tempted to call it love.
***
Holmes’ insomnia continued for the next several nights, and he found his temper slowly fraying around the edges. Though he continued to be plagued by exhaustion during the day, he was fighting harder against the hours-long naps which had sustained him to that point, hoping to wear his body down enough to sleep. It was proving a fruitless effort, however, and all too often he found himself wandering about the sitting room late at night, his fingers itching to play his violin even as he fought the temptation.
It would never do to wake the household, he reminded himself as his eyes sought the case which held his most prized possession. He had resisted the temptation for four nights running, but the late hour seemed more oppressive than usual, and his head ached with lack of sleep. Perhaps if he merely held the instrument, the urge to release some of his pent up frustration would dissipate.
The wood of the Stradivarius glowed in the faint light from the fire’s embers, its grain smooth as silk against his fingertips. When he settled his chin against the chin rest, the metal was cool against his skin, and for one moment he closed his eyes and breathed in the unique scent of rosin and varnished wood. When his fingers rested against the strings the taut catgut settled into patterns along the calluses of his hand, and without thought or effort he had the instrument tuned and waiting for his instruction.
Finally giving in to the urge which had been growing steadily with each sleepless night, Holmes began to play.
The melodies seemed to flow out of him, a floodgate which had been opened and the contents which had been held captive fleeing into the night. He could not have stopped himself even if he desired, and as the music flowed from his soul, he did not wish to.
As he played the troubles of the night slipped away, lost in the flow and ebb of sound which yearned to be let out. Gone were the thoughts which circled endlessly through his mind as he stared unseeing at his ceiling. Gone were the aches and pains in his chest and joints, the long abuse of his journey finally healing.
Gone was the sleepless worry that he was slowly losing his mind, his deductive abilities, and his health. Only the music existed for him, pouring from his fingers into the Stradivarius as though they were an amalgam of flesh and wood, muscle and string.
He played until his fingers began to cramp and his breath felt caught in his chest. He played until the candle stuttered and died, and the light creeping in from the window illuminated the sitting room with shadowed hesitancy. He played until he could play no more, and only when he stopped did he realize that he was not alone.
Watson sat comfortably in his chair before the fire, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his frame, eyes circled from lack of rest, and hair still disarrayed from sleep. Before he was able to compose himself, a moment only, Holmes recognized the look of longing on his countenance, of desire kept in check and the mourning of the troubles he had seen in his life.
Then the expression was changed to one of neutral curiosity, and Holmes wondered if this, too, had been a trick of his mind.
For a long minute the silence stretched between them, all the louder for the music which had filled the room moments before.
“I’m sorry, Watson, for disturbing you,” Holmes whispered, bringing the violin to his chest and holding it protectively in front of him, bow clutched in his hand. “I had not meant to - that is, I had not thought I would play until I held it in my -”
“How long have you not been sleeping, Holmes?” Watson interrupted gently, leaning forward as he gazed into his friend’s eyes. “You look horrid, old boy.”
Holmes snorted, turning to look outside the window. He did not answer immediately, choosing instead to let his gaze wander around the sitting room, taking in the shadows of that which comprised his home. Watson allowed him the moment to gather his thoughts, and when Holmes finally broke the silence with a resigned huff, knew that his friend was done prevaricating.
“A few days now. Maybe a week,” Holmes admitted softly, unable to meet the doctor’s concerned eyes. “I had hoped it would resolve itself if I refrained from sleeping so much during the day, but I have found it… difficult… to do so. And even on the days I do, it does not lend itself to a restful slumber.”
Watson’s sigh was very familiar, one of patient fondness tinged with exasperation.
“So you had thought to wander the sitting room like a ghost until the sun came up, and then hide in your room until you could present the façade of having obtained a decent night’s rest. Holmes, I do wish you would trust me.” Watson stood and moved to stand before his friend, taking the violin from his hands and gently placing it back in its case upon the settee. “Did it not occur to you that I may have been able to help?”
“I did not wish to worry you,” Holmes protested, placing a trembling hand on his friend’s shoulder, turning him so the two of them stood face to face, separated by the smallest of margins. Watson’s breath puffed warm against his cheek, awakening an awareness in the detective of how very cold he had become while playing. “I do trust you,” he insisted, trying to project all the sincerity of his heart into his eyes, forcing Watson to meet his gaze. “I do.”
They stood there, too close in the silent room, Holmes shaking with cold and all the suppressed worry which seemed to have flooded back into his being after the music had stopped. Watson regarded the other man closely, taking in every minute detail, his mouth growing thinner and more pinched as the light steadily grew.
“Then trust me when I say that you are exhausted and need to rest, and if that requires you to sleep the daylight hours away, then you are to do so. And playing violin at five in the morning may be a productive way to spend the night, but there are others who do enjoy sleeping a tad more than you, old cock. Please, Holmes, for my peace of mind and Mrs. Hudson’s nerves, the next time you are unable to sleep, let me know and I will give you something.”
The doctor’s hand reached up to cover Holmes’, which had remained resting lightly upon his shoulder.
“Now do you think you can rest for a few hours? Breakfast won’t be up until later, and I for one could use a bit more sleep. Come on, to your bed.” Gently, Watson took the hand beneath his and led his friend to the bedroom, where he released him and watched as he made his way wearily through the piles of clothes on the floor. Only after Holmes was bundled up and curled on his side did he turn to go. “If you need anything, you have only to call,” Watson reminded him over his shoulder, closing the door softly as he headed to his own bed and a few more hours of longed-for sleep.
“I know,” Holmes whispered, eyes closed against the encroaching dawn. “I have always known, Watson.”
***
Neither man mentioned the late night discussion at breakfast that morning, and though Holmes braced himself for a thorough rebuke from Mrs. Hudson, none came. The landlady smiled sweetly at him as she placed his cup of cocoa on the table, and when he stared after her suspiciously, gave him her own patented innocent expression. Watson hid his smile behind his tea, though once Holmes had returned his attention to his breakfast, he caught the quick wink she threw his way and had to smother his laugh with a cough.
“Any plans for the day, old boy?” he asked at Holmes’ raised eyebrow, deciding discretion was the better part of valor.
“I fear you know the extent of my plans for the foreseeable future,” Holmes grumbled, sipping his cocoa with a frown, chin resting in hand as his eyebrows scrunched in suppressed irritation.
“Do try to be a little gentler with yourself, Holmes,” Watson sighed. “There is no shame in recovering from the kind of trials you have endured.”
Holmes refrained from answering, pointedly keeping his eyes down so as not to look at the doctor’s expression of entreaty. Knowing when to leave well enough alone, Watson turned back to his eggs, taking several careful bites before saying, “I have a few errands of my own to attend to. Should you need anything, I’ll be at my club this afternoon, though I’ll be home for supper.”
A warmth filled his chest at the words, and he hastily turned his attention back to his plate lest Holmes pick up on it. Too long had Cavendish Place been merely a house to hang his hat at the end of the day. Only here, sitting with his friend as he enjoyed a well cooked meal, did he feel as though he were truly home. No ghosts lingered in his memory to form a lump in his throat, and though Holmes was silent, he was a steadfast presence.
Holmes hummed his agreement to Watson’s announcement, reaching over absently to take one of the doctor’s buttered and jam covered pieces of toast. Watson raised an eyebrow at the theft, though did not comment. If stealing from his friend’s plate had the detective eating, Watson would not dissuade him.
The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence, neither man needing to fill the quiet with empty words, and it was with an absent minded pat that Holmes departed to his own room to finish his morning ablutions.
When he returned to the sitting room after a wash and shave, dressing gown wrapped around fresh trousers and shirt, it was to find that Watson had already departed. Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the plates, though a teapot rested on the table in their place.
For a few moments Holmes thought longingly of his Morocco case, once more safely ensconced in the drawer of his desk. But though he had resorted to the seven percent solution during torturous days when remaining silent and still had been a necessity for survival, he had long since given up on the syringe as a method to counteract boredom.
Still… He found himself drawn to the drawer, long fingers running lightly over the smooth contours of the case. It would only be a small dose, and he was perfectly safe here in Baker Street. There was no reason not to indulge just this once.
Pushing aside any doubts which tried to wiggle to the surface, Holmes retreated to his room where he determinedly closed the door. When the needle entered his skin and he pushed the plunger home, the warmth of the drug was as sweet an escape as the music of the night before had been.
Before long he found himself drifting lazily on idle thoughts, the syringe dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers rolling a short distance from the bed to rest against the edge of his dresser.
He closed his eyes and allowed his body and mind to escape the worries which had plagued him, and within an hour was fast asleep.
***
A hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly brought him abruptly awake, sitting up suddenly and trying to swing at whoever was close enough to his person to do damage.
“Holmes!”
Watson’s voice, though not quite at the level of a yell, would have done his old Army instructors proud, and Holmes found himself blinking dizzily up at his friend, who was leaning over him with one of the sternest expressions on his face the detective had ever seen, and the syringe held in a tight fist before him.
“Watson-” Holmes began, swallowing convulsively as nausea rolled over him.
“Are you going to be sick?” Watson asked, a bit more gently than his previous tone, though with little of the compassion he usually offered when posing such a question.
“I -”
Without waiting for his reply, the doctor maneuvered Holmes to his feet and into the facility before the other could finish deciding, and it was only as he was crouched before the toilet, retching piteously, that Holmes realized the spectacle he must be making of himself.
Watson had left his side a moment after the vomiting started, but returned minutes later, a damp cloth in his hand and the syringe nowhere to be found. For all his obvious anger, the doctor’s hands were gentle as he soothed the flannel over Holmes’ neck and forehead, and once he was certain Holmes was finished he offered him a cup filled with tepid water to rinse.
“I’m only going to ask this once, Holmes,” Watson said softly, though his tone betrayed the bitter anger still evident on his tight lipped, pale face. “Normally I would never force a confidence, but I will not allow you to fall back into such destructive habits the moment I get you back. I won’t. So you are going to tell me, truthfully, how many times you have resorted to the cocaine since you have returned to London, and if you intend to continue the vile habit.”
Holmes, forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet, knees starting to ache from his position, shook his head slightly, eyes closed firmly against the condemnation he knew would be on his dearest friend’s countenance.
“It has been some time,” he admitted, voice rough from sickness and shame. He could not control the slight quaver that filled his next words, and a dark flush crept up his heated cheeks. “I will not do so again. It was a…momentary… weakness.”
His eyes stung, though he determinedly kept them closed, and turned his head slightly so Watson would not see the utter humiliation burning across his face. But he had forgotten what it was like to be with someone who knew him so intimately, and a hand, gentle now and soothing, rested between his shoulders.
“I will not abide under the same roof with you again if you go back on your word,” Watson promised, and though the words spoken were harsh, the tone was not. “I cannot watch you destroy yourself, not after - after everything. I can’t, Holmes. It would devastate me, and I am not strong enough to pick up the pieces. Not again. Do you understand?”
The hand on his neck squeezed tightly to emphasize his point, and Holmes nodded silently. A shudder ran through his thin form, though from the cold, humiliation, or the drug releasing its final hold, he could not tell.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Watson sighed, and arms wrapped gently under his own, bringing Holmes to his feet. Still unable to face his friend, Holmes found his face buried in Watson’s shoulder, all his considerable control bent on stopping the damning wetness from leaving his eyes and betraying him.
“We will not speak of this again,” Watson murmured into his hair, holding the other man tightly to his chest and gazing to the ceiling as he fought his own battle against too strong emotion. “This is a new beginning for both of us, Holmes, starting now.”
Only after he felt the small nod, Holmes’ nose brushing against his collar, did Watson steer them back to his friend’s room.
“I only stopped by to pick up something I had forgotten,” he continued in a nearly conversational tone. “When I saw your door closed I decided to check on you. The nausea is most likely a side effect from the raised blood pressure and your sitting up too quickly. You should be able to sleep comfortably now, though I think a good cup of tea may be in order, hmmm?”
Holmes nodded, pulling himself together with effort, so that when the doctor deposited him on his bed and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, he could blink up at him without fear of making an even bigger fool of himself than he had.
When Watson turned to fetch him the tea he could not stop himself from reaching out, clinging to Watson’s cuff as he turned back, eyebrow raised curiously.
“I’m sorry, Wat-”
“Hush,” Watson interrupted, and placed a finger to Holmes’ lips to silence him. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, silent moment, all the years of their history passing between them in an unspoken communication of apology and forgiveness. “Let me get that tea for you and then I must be off. I’m meeting an acquaintance from my club for lunch, and I cannot be late. Trust me, Holmes,” he added when the other opened his mouth to apologize again. “All will be well when you wake up. I promise.”
Watson ran a hand over Holmes’ forehead and down his cheek, gazing fondly at the other’s doubting expression. “I promise,” he repeated, then turned to retrieve the tea.
Holmes lay silently, staring at the ceiling which had become all too familiar the past week, and cursed himself for a fool as he listened to the sounds of the doctor in the other room.
Never again, he promised himself. He would throw the cursed drug away the instant Watson departed, and the Morocco case would be left in the doctor’s care. He would not harm his friend again. Not for the wide world, and certainly not for a few moments of fleeting peace.
When Watson returned, steaming mug in hand and bowler firmly in place, he helped Holmes sit up to drink the tea, though he no longer required the assistance. Having Watson’s hands on him, soothing and gentling, filled a hollow place he had not been aware of for some time. Like a wound left so long untreated that it no longer seemed to cause pain.
“Get some rest,” Watson advised as he took the empty cup and headed for the door. “I’ll be back before supper.”
Holmes listened to his friend depart, waiting for the moment when he could carry out his plan, when a strange lassitude seemed to deaden his limbs and made his head feel too heavy to lift.
His last conscious thought as he drifted off to sleep was that the doctor had become much more cunning in his absence, and that drinking drugged tea was a small price to pay for his stupidity.
*****
Several hours later, with the smell of one of Mrs. Hudson’s stews filling the sitting room with a tempting aroma, Holmes found himself sat in his chair by the fire, for it was once again a cold and blustery day with rain splattering the windows. He had woken restless from his unintended nap and set about trying to implement his plans, only to find the Morocco case nowhere to be found. Though he had searched both the sitting room and his own extensively, the only conclusion he could reach was that the doctor had either thrown it out or secured it in his own room.
And Holmes would never violate his trust by entering such a personal space without the doctor’s express permission. Or to wake the doctor for a case, he admitted silently, thinking of all the times he had watched the other man sleep in the early hours of the morning, with a client downstairs or about to arrive.
Still, things were different now, he reminded himself. As Watson had said earlier it was a new beginning for both of them, and though some habits had been reestablished easily between them, that was not one of them.
So it was that a little before five Holmes found himself reading one of Watson’s books on rare blood disorders, blanket wrapped snugly around his legs, awaiting the doctor’s return.
He heard the door open downstairs, though he had become so engrossed in the book that only a distant part of his mind was engaged in cataloging the sounds below him. Firm step, though with a limp, and the steady thump of a cane. There was a hushed conversation, no doubt Mrs. Hudson greeting the doctor, and then the steps resumed, accompanied by a strange scrabbling.
Head cocked, Holmes found his attention directed to the door, brows furrowed as he tried to determine the cause of the strange noise. He was just setting down the book and preparing to stand when the door opened and a startling sight stood before him.
“Good evening, Holmes!” Watson greeted cheerfully, hand clenched tightly around a taut leash which was apparently attached to -
“Gladstone?”
Holmes’ whisper could barely be heard among the steady rhythm of the rain lashing against the windowpane, and he noted absently that Watson must have taken a carriage because neither he nor the dog straining to explore the room was more than slightly damp.
“But-” He found he could not continue, standing and absently throwing the blanket aside as he made his way to where Watson was proudly smirking, still keeping a firm grasp on the stout bulldog.
Though much thinner and filled with more gray, Holmes could never have mistaken the excited canine for any other. When he made his way over to the two of them, Gladstone began to whimper and struggle to free himself, standing on his hind legs for several seconds before gravity proved too fierce a foe and he fell back to all fours with a disgruntled bark only to try again.
“I think we can let him off the leash, don’t you?” Watson asked, his smile nearly blinding as he did just that, and Holmes barely had time to prepare before he found himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic greeting.
“How?” he managed to get out as he landed quite suddenly on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him as Gladstone barked his strange, high pitched ‘woofs,’ licking and panting heavily as he struggled to worm his way into Holmes’ lap.
For a moment the smile dimmed into something more gentle as Watson watched the two reacquaint themselves.
“When Mary became too sick to leave unattended for more than the briefest of times, I could not take care of the poor thing as he deserved. A friend from my club, whose wife was an old school mate of Mary’s, offered to take care of him until such a time as I - as I could once more take him back. He’s been in the country the last six months, taking care of family business, or else I would have brought Gladstone back sooner.”
Holmes closed his eyes as a wet tongue lavished his cheeks and chin with sloppy puppy kisses, and he found himself laughing as the bulldog continued to bark his joy, back end wagging in excitement so that the entire squat body appeared to undulate with happiness.
“I had feared - I had not wanted to ask,” Holmes managed to get out, sputtering as Gladstone’s tongue came a bit too close to his mouth for comfort. “Yes, yes, I am very happy to see you, too!” he finally crooned, taking the dog into his arms in a rare show of emotion that had Watson grinning again, eyes twinkling as he took in the sight and tried not to laugh.
He made his way over to his chair and, sitting heavily, watched the two with an indulgent grin, much like a father watching his children play.
“I do believe he missed you, Holmes,” he finally laughed, unable to help himself as Gladstone, overcome with excitement, left a tail of urine over the carpet and Holmes’ leg, much to the detective’s undisguised horror.
***
Once the carpet (and Holmes) had been thoroughly scrubbed and dinner eaten, Watson sat on the settee as he watched Holmes throw a ball for the dog to chase. Where the detective had found the ball Watson was afraid to ask, but the two seemed to enjoy the game and Watson couldn’t help the giddy feeling which continued to erupt from his chest in the form of spontaneous smiles.
After nearly fifteen minutes of the simple fetch, Holmes seemed to grow bored with merely throwing the ball, and started to find out of the way locations in the room which forced Gladstone to scamper about and try to worm his body into small spaces. By the time Holmes had managed to throw the ball up the stairs, both men were laughing hard enough to bring tears to their faces.
“Really, Holmes, he’ll never make it up the stairs!” Watson protested between ragged breaths, wiping his eyes. “You better go help him.”
“Perhaps it was a bit beyond his ability,” Holmes relented, and Watson watched as the detective made his way up the stairs, calling out to Gladstone as he did so.
“Watson, he appears to have found your room. May I enter?” Holmes called down.
“Of course!” Watson yelled back, and then suddenly remembered what was kept on his bedside table and hastily scrambled to intercept the detective.
By the time he reached his room the good humor of before had faded, though he could not explain why exactly he was afraid Holmes would see the picture. When he pushed his bedroom door open, the other man was sitting on his bed, the metal frame in one hand as he absently patted Gladstone with the other, the dog somehow having managed to make his way onto the bed.
Watson stood in the doorway a moment, his throat tight as Holmes finally looked up at him.
“We should place this on the mantel, if you’ve no objection,” Holmes finally said softly, and his eyes, though not upset or angry, had lost much of the mirth from earlier.
“I didn’t - that is, I had not thought you would wish it to be so publicly displayed,” Watson answered just as softly, finally making his way into the room and gently dislodging the dog from the bed, taking his place so that his knee brushed Holmes‘. Seeing the hurt in his friend’s eyes before he could mask it, Watson added, “I know you did not entirely approve, Holmes, even after the marriage was said and done. I will not force you to keep a reminder of something that brought you pain in your own home.”
“But she brought you joy,” Holmes whispered, turning his gaze back to the photo, a simple pose of Watson standing proudly beside Mary as she sat primly in a wooden chair. It had been taken nearly a year after their marriage, before Holmes ‘death’ and Mary’s illness, when Watson had still thought his world was perfect and he had everything he could have ever wished for.
“Place it on the mantel, old boy,” Holmes ordered, handing the photo over and standing with a slightly exaggerated stretch. “I’m going to attempt to sleep now. Good night, Watson.”
Watson watched as Holmes gently nudged Gladstone out the door, closing it behind him firmly. The footsteps which headed downstairs seemed heavier than before, and Watson closed his eyes as he cursed fate, God, and himself.
When the soft strains of the violin woke him several hours before dawn, he could not find it in himself to be surprised.
***
Part 5
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*Rubs hands evilly*
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Thanks for reading and the lovely feedback!
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Thanks for the lovely feedback!
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Glad you brought Gladstone back btw! :)
I'm fraid I have to stop reading here as it's after midnight. :( Will take it up again as soon as I get home tomorrow evening. I might even sneak in some chapters to read at work *shifty eyes*
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I had to bring Gladstone back, he was such an adorable character!
And I agree, the image of Holmes playing violin late into the night is rather haunting!
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I love this.
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