![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Soldier's Heart Part 3 of 15
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 3
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter PG
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 aspects of PTSD and bodily functions
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: Thanks always forenkiduts' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
Holmes retired shortly after eleven, though his sleep was not restful. Near dawn, when the world was still an inky black through his curtains, he awoke from a nightmare of being hunted, corpses littering his path and the baying of hounds ringing in his ears. He did not stir at first, hands curled tightly into fists, breathing labored as though he had been sprinting, and his insides cramping with terrible pain.
He lay still for several minutes, trying to calm the pounding of his heart and catch his breath before he attempted to make his way groggily to the water closet, where he spent a miserable ten minutes, shivering and curling in on himself. When the episode passed he made his way back to bed, legs wobbly and head pounding. Though his stomach continued to grumble, he soon found himself drifting back to an exhausted slumber.
Several times he awoke between that first horrifying episode and Mrs. Hudson moving around in the next room, laying out his breakfast with unhurried practice. Though the nightmare had not been repeated, it had been replicated to a lesser degree as he slept, and his eyes felt gritty and sore as he made his way gingerly out from under the covers.
“Mr. Holmes?”
He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing in his doorway, a worried frown marring her expressive face as she gazed at him critically.
“I’ve laid toast and coffee out for you, but if you want to have a bit of a lie in, it will certainly keep.”
“No, thank you, Nanny. I think I have done enough sleeping for now,” Holmes assured her, fidgeting slightly as a warning pang went through his gut. “I shall be out in a bit.”
She nodded, casting one last questioning look over her shoulder as she left, but keeping her peace. Holmes waited a moment longer to make certain she had departed before making his way hastily to the toilet again, cursing both his brother and Watson as he did so.
The second attack of the ‘summer complaint’ was just as miserable as his first. After, he made his way hesitantly to the table, ignoring the toast and instead pouring a generous cup of coffee.
He drank lazily, enjoying the relative quiet of the morning as he perused the paper left conveniently by the toast holder. He found himself frowning as he scanned the various sections, finding nothing of interest and thinking it just as well that Watson had forbidden him from working any cases, as there seemed to be a dearth of anything interesting, at all, in London.
By noon he had finished with the paper and was happily mixing chemicals at his table, humming softly as he measured and weighed different substances. A distant part of his brain remembered how his brother had once referred to his hobby as “playing,” and he could not deny the feeling was very similar.
Though his stomach remained upset he was mostly able to ignore his inner turmoil. Twice he had to hastily abandon his experiments, though, and both times left him wondering briefly if there had been something amiss with his dinner. Those thoughts were easily pushed aside as irrelevant, however, and when Mrs. Hudson brought up tea, he found himself smiling up at her, his expression widening as she tutted over the untouched toast and took the empty coffee carafe away.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, it will be a pleasure to have someone who actually enjoys my cooking in the house again,” she sighed, glaring at his innocent expression as she left, admonishing, “Make sure you finish those.”
His mind still preoccupied with his experiment, Holmes waved her off even as he found himself nibbling at half a sandwich absently, staring with narrowed eyes at the beaker bubbling merrily above the burner. If his hypothesis was correct, he might be able to distinguish varying cigar ash in a solution that would eliminate the need for those in the Yard to call upon his expertise. With a bit of practice they would be able to tell, to a limited degree, certain brands from others.
Finishing his tea, he returned to the lab table, muttering softly under his breath as he tweaked and studied. It had been so long since he had last been afforded the luxury to experiment that he found himself almost giddy with the freedom of it.
His stomach chose that moment to make itself known in a vicious agony, and he found himself bent nearly double at the suddenness of it. One hand gripped the smooth wooden edge of the table as the other unconsciously went to his middle, where an ominous rumble gurgled loudly.
“Bloody hell,” he grit out between clenched teeth, dashing to the water closet and closing the door with more force than was necessary, cursing soundly as his body rebelled and he found himself bathed in a cold sweat.
“Never again,” he moaned to himself, curled over his knees as he shivered, once more mentally cursing Mycroft and Watson and promising he would never eat in their presence again if this was his repayment.
The attack seemed to last longer than the others, and a queasiness left him covering his mouth with a shaking hand as he fought to keep the nausea at bay. When he was finally able to stand, his stomach felt hollowed out and sore, as though he had been punched several times, and to his annoyance his legs were weak. Never in his life had he been more thankful for the marvel which made up the whole of indoor plumbing.
He made his way unsteadily back to the sitting room and over to the nearest window, throwing it open with more force than was necessary and leaning his head out into the bright sunshine. He scanned the street for a moment before finding what he sought, whistling sharply to get the child’s attention.
The boy looked up instantly from where he had been loitering, immediately leaving his position by the game of marbles he had been observing and making his way across the street, knocking loudly without hesitation to be admitted.
When Mrs. Hudson answered the door a moment later she eyed the street urchin before her with a stern gaze.
“If you track mud up my stairs I expect you to clean it,” she said as she stood aside, letting the child in and closing the door swiftly behind him. “Go straight up.”
Nodding once and grinning cheekily, the lad scrambled up the steps, his eyes only briefly taking in the luxury around him and stilling the twitch in his fingers. No one stole from Mr. Holmes’ house and remained an Irregular.
The detective was waiting for him at the top of the landing, looking sickly and pale in his dressing gown and trousers. His shirt was stained black at the cuffs, and his hair looked fit to rival Mud’s.
“Thomas,” Holmes greeted him as he led the lad inside to the sitting room, moving gingerly to sit heavily upon the settee. “Still keeping an eye on me?”
“Course,” Thomas admitted easily, keeping to himself the thought that the man looked as though he needed it now more than ever, though his musings were plain on his face for Holmes to see.
“I would like you to run a small errand for me. Doctor Watson is with patients today, so you need not bother him. However, if you would be so kind as to take from his medical bag or practice, whichever you can attain access to the easiest, I need you to retrieve a bottle of laudanum for me,” Holmes explained curtly.
He reached into his dressing gown and withdrew a coin and a small bottle, tossing both to the boy. “That bottle is what you are looking for. Bring it back within the hour and there will be another shilling for you.”
For a moment Thomas studied the bottle in his hand, mouthing the letters carefully as he tried to make out the label. His sandy hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away absently before looking back to Holmes with a frown.
“Shouldn’t the Doctor give it to ye?” he asked.
“He is very busy right now, Thomas,” Holmes chided gently, shifting slightly and grimacing. The boy’s eyes widened slightly at the uncharacteristic display of weakness before schooling his expression. “I do not want to interrupt him for so trivial a thing. However, if you do not wish the -”
“Course I’ll do it!” Thomas protested, scowling. “Just seemed wrong to me, to sneak it like.”
“He is coming over tomorrow, at which time I will let him know I used it. Really, Thomas,” Holmes began, frowning, “I can always have another of the lads -”
“I said I would do it!” Thomas reiterated forcefully, tucking the bottle into his pocket. “Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes. I’ll get yer medicine!”
The boy cast one more appraising look at the man before he darted out, feet clattering down the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s admonishment to slow down lost to the banging of the door as it shut. Holmes sighed as he settled back into the settee, forcing down the small twinge of guilt trying to lodge in his chest.
Watson would be back in Baker Street tomorrow, and he could tell the doctor then what he had done. There was no reason to disturb his last day of taking patients at Cavendish Place with such a trifle, and it would only lead him to worry.
Satisfied with his reasoning, Holmes levered himself up and made his way back to his chemicals, where he hoped he would be able to finish his solution before another bout of unpleasantness set in.
***
Forty-seven minutes later found him once more in the water closet, teeth gritted as he contemplated uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Hudson’s sandwiches, when he heard the door to the study open.
Sighing in relief even as he curled tighter into himself, he was about to call out to Thomas when Watson’s voice floated in to him.
“Holmes? Are you all right?”
The doctor’s voice came from outside the door, and despite his misery Holmes buried his face in his hands.
“I’ll be with you shortly, Watson,” he called, rubbing his forehead wearily as he considered the little urchin who would not be receiving any assignments in the near future. “I’m fine, old boy,” he added through a clenched jaw.
“Holmes, Thomas told me you were looking rather sickly and had asked him to inquire about some laudanum for you. Is it the summer complaint, old cock?” Watson asked gently.
“Watson, I’m fine. Please, don’t concern yourself. I’ll be out shortly.” The last was said in a volume only slightly less than a yell, and Holmes had to fight the urge to bang his fist against the wall. He was never trusting the little brat again!
“Holmes, I’m not leaving until I’ve had a look at you, but please don’t rush. I’ll be reading the newspaper until you‘re ready.” A gentle tap at the door signaled Watson’s retreat, and Holmes once more found himself reduced to a shivering mess as he tried to suppress a groan.
When he emerged several minutes later, face carefully set in a neutral expression, it was to find Watson sat in his chair, newspaper folded back as he perused the articles. As soon as Holmes made his way into the sitting room, however, he set the paper aside and cast a professional eye over his friend.
“Watson,” Holmes greeted him as he made his way to the settee, his movements careful and slow.
“You look horrid,” Watson observed conversationally.
Holmes scowled back at him and crossed his legs primly, reaching for his pipe and matches.
“How many times have you been indisposed today?” Watson asked, not the least slighted by his friend’s silence. When Holmes refused to answer, he leaned forward, hands on knees as he tried to catch his eye. “Three? Four?” At Holmes’ lack of response he pursed his lips and frowned. “I take it by your silence it was more than four, which is certainly cause for some laudanum. Why don’t you go lay down and I’ll prepare a dose for you?”
“I’m fine,” Holmes protested, puffing on his pipe determinedly and refusing to meet Watson’s gaze. “I believe I merely ate too much yesterday. That is the last time I allow my brother to persuade me to have a meal with him for some time, let me assure you.”
“You were fine at dinner last night, and seeing as I ate a bit of everything from your plate, and you from mine, we can rule out the food from the restaurant. When did the symptoms start?” Watson waited a moment for Holmes to respond before sighing heavily and standing. He made his way through the accumulated piles which seemed to have developed overnight and sat next to his friend, firmly turning Holmes’ head to look at him.
“Sherlock Holmes, I am a doctor and your friend. I know that this malady can be somewhat embarrassing, but I only wish to be of assistance. Now please, answer my questions so I may help you get better.” Though his voice was steady, Watson could not keep the slight hint of exasperation from creeping into his entreaty.
“Before dawn,” Holmes sighed reluctantly. He met Watson’s gaze briefly before grimacing and placing his pipe in the ashtray beside the settee. “The attacks have been off and on since then.”
“Thank you.” Though said softly, the words were no less heartfelt or sincere. “Have you eaten or drunk anything today?”
“Some coffee this morning, and a sandwich for lunch,” Holmes admitted.
He had begun to shift slightly in his seat, and Watson, recognizing the signs of distress, pressed on swiftly.
“Let me prepare you the laudanum while you take care of business. When you come back I want you to lay down.” At his friend’s questioning eyebrow, Watson smiled slightly. “I am a doctor, Holmes. Go, and when you return we’ll see about putting you back to rights.”
Hesitating a moment, Holmes finally acquiesced, the demands of his body outweighing his dignity, and he retreated to the water closet quickly. As soon as he had closed the door, Watson retrieved his bag from where he had left it by the entranceway, preparing a small dosage of the bitter drink and a glass of cool water from the pitcher in Holmes’ room. When the detective emerged several minutes later, looking haggard and weary, Watson handed him both drinks without comment.
Downing the laudanum gratefully, Holmes swiftly finished off the water and then made his way to his room, Watson trailing behind.
“I had not meant to pull you away from your patients,” Holmes murmured as he wiggled his way under his blankets.
“I did not have any when Thomas tapped at my window,” Watson assured him, pulling out his stethoscope as his friend made himself comfortable. “My last patient finished shortly before noon, and I was merely packing up the odds and ends in my study.”
“Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, his eyes flickering shut as the other listened to the sounds of his stomach for several minutes.
“There’s a bit of disturbance, but that should settle down soon enough,” Watson murmured, putting the stethoscope away. “Try and get some rest. I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know that you’re to have broth for dinner, and if you’re up to it, some tea later on.”
“You don’t have to,” Holmes grumbled, shifting onto his side and trying to focus bleary eyes on his friend. “I’m fine, Watson.”
“Of course you are, old cock. Try and get some rest, now.”
Holmes tried to resist the pull of sleep, but within moments his eyes closed and his breathing settled. Watson ran a hand through the tangle of hair, smiling gently at the soft snores which started a moment later. He remained by his friend’s side, running his hand through the curls and up and down his back for nearly a quarter hour, before reluctantly pulling himself away to pass along his instructions to Mrs. Hudson.
***
It was nearing eight when Watson returned that night, having spent the remainder of his day boxing up the loose ends of his house. Though Cavendish Place had not truly felt like a home for some time, the imminent leaving of it left him drained and out of sorts. He would be relieved when the removers finished the job for him tomorrow, bringing the items which constituted his material life back to Baker Street.
He knocked out of courtesy for Hrs. Hudson, though he had been a given a key the day Holmes revealed himself still alive, and was greeted at the door with a smile. The landlady, taking his coat and hat, updated him on his soon-to-be-again fellow lodger.
“He’s slept for the most part after you left, only woke a few times to eat the broth I made. He looked terribly befuddled, Doctor,” she added, her tone not quite questioning though clearly seeking assurance that her most irascible tenant was going to be well again.
“He should be more his usual self in the morning.” Watson smiled gently down at her as he made his way to the stairs. “It was just a mild upset, that’s all.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded as they parted, she to her room and Watson upstairs, moving quietly so as not to disturb his still slumbering friend. When he entered the sitting room a warm fire greeted him, no doubt laid by Mrs. Hudson, and there was a covered tray on the dinning table. When he lifted the lid, the warm scent of baked bread and beef filled the air, his mouth watering as he grinned at the much put upon lady’s foresight.
Replacing the lid for the moment, he crept quietly to Holmes’ room, the door slightly ajar, and when he pushed it open far enough to catch a glimpse of the occupant he found his smile widening.
Wrapped up as snugly as any child in several blankets, Holmes slept peacefully, mouth slightly open as snuffling snores floated out to his hidden watcher. One hand curled under his chin, the other just visible as a lump across his stomach.
His worry allayed for the moment, Watson returned to the sitting room and set upon the dinner left for him, firmly pushing aside the thought that it had been far too long since anyone had cooked for him with something more than professional self-interest in mind.
***
He awoke instantly, the soft touch on his arm bringing him upright as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. For one disoriented moment he could not remember where he was, the sitting room taking shape only slowly around him. When recognition came, he realized he was sprawled on the settee, Holmes peering down at him with a bemused expression.
“Although the settee is comfortable to a point, that cannot be doing your shoulder or leg any good, Watson,” Holmes murmured, moving the candle he held back slightly to illuminate his face.
Outside the windows was still perfect blackness, and Watson wondered at the time as he scratched his stubbled chin sleepily.
“It is nearly four, dear boy.” As was his habit, Holmes answered his thoughts, a trick Watson still found slightly confounding. “Why don’t you retire to my room for the rest of the night? I fear I am all slept out, and shan’t be able to do anything more productive in there than stare at the ceiling. Go on,” Holmes urged at Watson’s seeming reluctance, placing a guiding hand under his elbow and helping his friend stand. “Go get some proper sleep and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to see to the movers.”
“You’re feeling better?” Watson asked, still groggy and yet determined to put his mind to rest on the subject before allowing himself to give in to his exhaustion.
“Much, thanks to you,” Holmes agreed, smiling gently as he pressed his hand against the doctor’s, the two of them standing in the doorway to the bedroom as though hesitant to be the first to break the contact. “Go now, and get some rest.”
For one moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, and Watson felt a stirring in his heart he had thought never to experience again. Then he turned, suddenly uncertain, and made his way into the bedroom without another word. He was acutely aware of Holmes, a shadow in the doorway illuminated by the banked fire and the candle still held aloft, and tried to ignore the building flutters in his stomach as he crawled into the bed.
When he curled up under Holmes’ still body-warmed blankets the scent of his friend surrounded him, a blend of strong tobacco and the slightly sulfurous odor of chemicals, overlaid with a lemon pomade. It was a comforting cocoon of sensation from which he wondered, as he slid slowly into restless slumber, if he ever wanted to emerge.
***
The next morning found the household in a flurry of activity. True to his word, Holmes had awakened Watson shortly after seven, and the two had dined quickly on Mrs. Hudson’s eggs and toast, nearly scalding their tongues on the coffee in their haste to make it to Cavendish Place before the movers arrived.
“You don’t have to come,” Watson had protested half-heartedly, but Holmes had merely scoffed and continued to dress in one of Watson’s old shirts and a waistcoat the doctor had never seen before.
“I am perfectly fine this morning, Watson, and unless you object to my presence for other reasons, I would be honored to help you to keep the men in line.”
Watson snorted a laugh, and there was nothing more said on the matter. When they arrived at Cavendish Place, Watson entered the building that had been his home, both in marriage and later as a widower, with a step that was neither hesitant nor eager, but filled with determination.
The memories which held sway as he moved from room to room, taking care of the last minute details, were ghosts which lingered even in the daylight, and he found himself grateful for Holmes’ presence on more than one occasion.
There was the bedroom where he had made love to his wife until she was too sickly to enjoy any but the most professional touch, and there was the room he had slept in when she had passed, too overcome by grief to sleep where she perished. The study, always his own and rarely touched by Mary’s presence, had been his refuge when Holmes’ passing, and then hers, had become too much. It was in this room that he had wept as he pored over previous case notes and marital memories in sorrow filled nostalgia.
Even the sitting room held both fond and terrible memories, for it was there that Holmes had nearly begged him to accompany him to the continent, and it was where his wife had held him in her soft arms when he returned, lost and bereft.
He had not realized he was staring vacantly into space, one hand clutching the back of a chair fiercely, until Holmes’ gentle touch brought him back to himself, raising his eyes to meet those of his friend.
For all that Holmes had never truly accepted his life as a married man, once he had come to terms with it he had done his best to support Watson, granting Mary a charming civility that nevertheless kept her at a distance, and rarely visiting save for when he was in a particularly jocular mood.
Now, walking with the miracle that was his friend alive and warm beside him, Watson felt the finality of returning to Baker Street settling into his bones, like a warm coat one did not know they needed until they donned it and the cold was no longer felt.
“It was a good life,” he whispered, turning away from the detective so he could blink the moisture from his eyes in private. “But I suppose it is high time I -”
“Hush now,” Holmes scolded, and the gentleness in his tone was something Watson had never heard before, a hesitant support that held neither pity nor scorn. “This was your home, dear boy. It was your life, and it shall always remain a part of you. Just as those sands of the desert you spoke of shall remain a part of you. There is no shame in accepting that, or - or mourning its loss.”
For one moment Watson believed he could hold himself together, that the memories and the sorrow would not overwhelm him as they had so many times before. Then Holmes stood behind him, warm arms enveloping him in a strong support that he had not realized he longed for, and he found himself sobbing, there in the bright morning sunlight of what used to be his sitting room.
For all the tears he had shed at both Holmes’ and Mary’s death, the ones dampening the material of Holmes’ frock coat were the only ones which he was not ashamed of.
***
Nothing was said of Watson’s momentary lapse, and after a strong cup of tea the two men set about finishing the preparations. When the movers arrived at half ten, everything that was being moved to Baker Street was boxed and waiting in the hall, while those items deemed too large or extraneous were left for the next inhabitant. A third pile, small though no less important, sat in what Watson still considered his waiting room.
These were the pieces of furniture which would not fit into Baker Street, yet held too much sentimental value to be sold or given away. These would go into the lumber room above his own room, which had remained vacant and little more than a place to gather dust since he had moved out all those years before.
“Watson, forgive me my lack of observation, but where has your maid got to?” Holmes asked, gazing around the house with an air of confusion.
“She has the weekend off. I thought it would be best to say our goodbyes yesterday, and when she comes in on Monday, she’ll be preparing the house for the new tenant. Why?” Watson glanced over to his friend with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, all traces of grief erased.
“I was just wondering at the lack of weeping and hysterics.” The wry tone had Watson hard pressed not to laugh, and Holmes deliberately turned his back with an air of offended dignity.
“Don’t worry, Holmes,” Watson assured him, not trying to hide his grin. “You won’t be troubled by any weeping women today. Not unless we find one on the steps of Baker Street.”
“Bite your tongue,” Holmes snapped, giving a mock shudder. “Besides, I have been forbidden by my doctor to engage in any cases, and I fear she would be left there to take out her sorrows on our steps. What would the neighbors think?”
“That you had well and truly returned?” Watson asked with a laugh, and only barely ducked the pillow thrown at his head. When something crashed behind him, both men froze before sharing a horrified gaze and then dissolving into helpless laughter.
***
Part 4
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter PG
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 aspects of PTSD and bodily functions
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts' help, encouragement, and brainstorming . Holmes retired shortly after eleven, though his sleep was not restful. Near dawn, when the world was still an inky black through his curtains, he awoke from a nightmare of being hunted, corpses littering his path and the baying of hounds ringing in his ears. He did not stir at first, hands curled tightly into fists, breathing labored as though he had been sprinting, and his insides cramping with terrible pain.
He lay still for several minutes, trying to calm the pounding of his heart and catch his breath before he attempted to make his way groggily to the water closet, where he spent a miserable ten minutes, shivering and curling in on himself. When the episode passed he made his way back to bed, legs wobbly and head pounding. Though his stomach continued to grumble, he soon found himself drifting back to an exhausted slumber.
Several times he awoke between that first horrifying episode and Mrs. Hudson moving around in the next room, laying out his breakfast with unhurried practice. Though the nightmare had not been repeated, it had been replicated to a lesser degree as he slept, and his eyes felt gritty and sore as he made his way gingerly out from under the covers.
“Mr. Holmes?”
He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing in his doorway, a worried frown marring her expressive face as she gazed at him critically.
“I’ve laid toast and coffee out for you, but if you want to have a bit of a lie in, it will certainly keep.”
“No, thank you, Nanny. I think I have done enough sleeping for now,” Holmes assured her, fidgeting slightly as a warning pang went through his gut. “I shall be out in a bit.”
She nodded, casting one last questioning look over her shoulder as she left, but keeping her peace. Holmes waited a moment longer to make certain she had departed before making his way hastily to the toilet again, cursing both his brother and Watson as he did so.
The second attack of the ‘summer complaint’ was just as miserable as his first. After, he made his way hesitantly to the table, ignoring the toast and instead pouring a generous cup of coffee.
He drank lazily, enjoying the relative quiet of the morning as he perused the paper left conveniently by the toast holder. He found himself frowning as he scanned the various sections, finding nothing of interest and thinking it just as well that Watson had forbidden him from working any cases, as there seemed to be a dearth of anything interesting, at all, in London.
By noon he had finished with the paper and was happily mixing chemicals at his table, humming softly as he measured and weighed different substances. A distant part of his brain remembered how his brother had once referred to his hobby as “playing,” and he could not deny the feeling was very similar.
Though his stomach remained upset he was mostly able to ignore his inner turmoil. Twice he had to hastily abandon his experiments, though, and both times left him wondering briefly if there had been something amiss with his dinner. Those thoughts were easily pushed aside as irrelevant, however, and when Mrs. Hudson brought up tea, he found himself smiling up at her, his expression widening as she tutted over the untouched toast and took the empty coffee carafe away.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, it will be a pleasure to have someone who actually enjoys my cooking in the house again,” she sighed, glaring at his innocent expression as she left, admonishing, “Make sure you finish those.”
His mind still preoccupied with his experiment, Holmes waved her off even as he found himself nibbling at half a sandwich absently, staring with narrowed eyes at the beaker bubbling merrily above the burner. If his hypothesis was correct, he might be able to distinguish varying cigar ash in a solution that would eliminate the need for those in the Yard to call upon his expertise. With a bit of practice they would be able to tell, to a limited degree, certain brands from others.
Finishing his tea, he returned to the lab table, muttering softly under his breath as he tweaked and studied. It had been so long since he had last been afforded the luxury to experiment that he found himself almost giddy with the freedom of it.
His stomach chose that moment to make itself known in a vicious agony, and he found himself bent nearly double at the suddenness of it. One hand gripped the smooth wooden edge of the table as the other unconsciously went to his middle, where an ominous rumble gurgled loudly.
“Bloody hell,” he grit out between clenched teeth, dashing to the water closet and closing the door with more force than was necessary, cursing soundly as his body rebelled and he found himself bathed in a cold sweat.
“Never again,” he moaned to himself, curled over his knees as he shivered, once more mentally cursing Mycroft and Watson and promising he would never eat in their presence again if this was his repayment.
The attack seemed to last longer than the others, and a queasiness left him covering his mouth with a shaking hand as he fought to keep the nausea at bay. When he was finally able to stand, his stomach felt hollowed out and sore, as though he had been punched several times, and to his annoyance his legs were weak. Never in his life had he been more thankful for the marvel which made up the whole of indoor plumbing.
He made his way unsteadily back to the sitting room and over to the nearest window, throwing it open with more force than was necessary and leaning his head out into the bright sunshine. He scanned the street for a moment before finding what he sought, whistling sharply to get the child’s attention.
The boy looked up instantly from where he had been loitering, immediately leaving his position by the game of marbles he had been observing and making his way across the street, knocking loudly without hesitation to be admitted.
When Mrs. Hudson answered the door a moment later she eyed the street urchin before her with a stern gaze.
“If you track mud up my stairs I expect you to clean it,” she said as she stood aside, letting the child in and closing the door swiftly behind him. “Go straight up.”
Nodding once and grinning cheekily, the lad scrambled up the steps, his eyes only briefly taking in the luxury around him and stilling the twitch in his fingers. No one stole from Mr. Holmes’ house and remained an Irregular.
The detective was waiting for him at the top of the landing, looking sickly and pale in his dressing gown and trousers. His shirt was stained black at the cuffs, and his hair looked fit to rival Mud’s.
“Thomas,” Holmes greeted him as he led the lad inside to the sitting room, moving gingerly to sit heavily upon the settee. “Still keeping an eye on me?”
“Course,” Thomas admitted easily, keeping to himself the thought that the man looked as though he needed it now more than ever, though his musings were plain on his face for Holmes to see.
“I would like you to run a small errand for me. Doctor Watson is with patients today, so you need not bother him. However, if you would be so kind as to take from his medical bag or practice, whichever you can attain access to the easiest, I need you to retrieve a bottle of laudanum for me,” Holmes explained curtly.
He reached into his dressing gown and withdrew a coin and a small bottle, tossing both to the boy. “That bottle is what you are looking for. Bring it back within the hour and there will be another shilling for you.”
For a moment Thomas studied the bottle in his hand, mouthing the letters carefully as he tried to make out the label. His sandy hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away absently before looking back to Holmes with a frown.
“Shouldn’t the Doctor give it to ye?” he asked.
“He is very busy right now, Thomas,” Holmes chided gently, shifting slightly and grimacing. The boy’s eyes widened slightly at the uncharacteristic display of weakness before schooling his expression. “I do not want to interrupt him for so trivial a thing. However, if you do not wish the -”
“Course I’ll do it!” Thomas protested, scowling. “Just seemed wrong to me, to sneak it like.”
“He is coming over tomorrow, at which time I will let him know I used it. Really, Thomas,” Holmes began, frowning, “I can always have another of the lads -”
“I said I would do it!” Thomas reiterated forcefully, tucking the bottle into his pocket. “Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes. I’ll get yer medicine!”
The boy cast one more appraising look at the man before he darted out, feet clattering down the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s admonishment to slow down lost to the banging of the door as it shut. Holmes sighed as he settled back into the settee, forcing down the small twinge of guilt trying to lodge in his chest.
Watson would be back in Baker Street tomorrow, and he could tell the doctor then what he had done. There was no reason to disturb his last day of taking patients at Cavendish Place with such a trifle, and it would only lead him to worry.
Satisfied with his reasoning, Holmes levered himself up and made his way back to his chemicals, where he hoped he would be able to finish his solution before another bout of unpleasantness set in.
***
Forty-seven minutes later found him once more in the water closet, teeth gritted as he contemplated uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Hudson’s sandwiches, when he heard the door to the study open.
Sighing in relief even as he curled tighter into himself, he was about to call out to Thomas when Watson’s voice floated in to him.
“Holmes? Are you all right?”
The doctor’s voice came from outside the door, and despite his misery Holmes buried his face in his hands.
“I’ll be with you shortly, Watson,” he called, rubbing his forehead wearily as he considered the little urchin who would not be receiving any assignments in the near future. “I’m fine, old boy,” he added through a clenched jaw.
“Holmes, Thomas told me you were looking rather sickly and had asked him to inquire about some laudanum for you. Is it the summer complaint, old cock?” Watson asked gently.
“Watson, I’m fine. Please, don’t concern yourself. I’ll be out shortly.” The last was said in a volume only slightly less than a yell, and Holmes had to fight the urge to bang his fist against the wall. He was never trusting the little brat again!
“Holmes, I’m not leaving until I’ve had a look at you, but please don’t rush. I’ll be reading the newspaper until you‘re ready.” A gentle tap at the door signaled Watson’s retreat, and Holmes once more found himself reduced to a shivering mess as he tried to suppress a groan.
When he emerged several minutes later, face carefully set in a neutral expression, it was to find Watson sat in his chair, newspaper folded back as he perused the articles. As soon as Holmes made his way into the sitting room, however, he set the paper aside and cast a professional eye over his friend.
“Watson,” Holmes greeted him as he made his way to the settee, his movements careful and slow.
“You look horrid,” Watson observed conversationally.
Holmes scowled back at him and crossed his legs primly, reaching for his pipe and matches.
“How many times have you been indisposed today?” Watson asked, not the least slighted by his friend’s silence. When Holmes refused to answer, he leaned forward, hands on knees as he tried to catch his eye. “Three? Four?” At Holmes’ lack of response he pursed his lips and frowned. “I take it by your silence it was more than four, which is certainly cause for some laudanum. Why don’t you go lay down and I’ll prepare a dose for you?”
“I’m fine,” Holmes protested, puffing on his pipe determinedly and refusing to meet Watson’s gaze. “I believe I merely ate too much yesterday. That is the last time I allow my brother to persuade me to have a meal with him for some time, let me assure you.”
“You were fine at dinner last night, and seeing as I ate a bit of everything from your plate, and you from mine, we can rule out the food from the restaurant. When did the symptoms start?” Watson waited a moment for Holmes to respond before sighing heavily and standing. He made his way through the accumulated piles which seemed to have developed overnight and sat next to his friend, firmly turning Holmes’ head to look at him.
“Sherlock Holmes, I am a doctor and your friend. I know that this malady can be somewhat embarrassing, but I only wish to be of assistance. Now please, answer my questions so I may help you get better.” Though his voice was steady, Watson could not keep the slight hint of exasperation from creeping into his entreaty.
“Before dawn,” Holmes sighed reluctantly. He met Watson’s gaze briefly before grimacing and placing his pipe in the ashtray beside the settee. “The attacks have been off and on since then.”
“Thank you.” Though said softly, the words were no less heartfelt or sincere. “Have you eaten or drunk anything today?”
“Some coffee this morning, and a sandwich for lunch,” Holmes admitted.
He had begun to shift slightly in his seat, and Watson, recognizing the signs of distress, pressed on swiftly.
“Let me prepare you the laudanum while you take care of business. When you come back I want you to lay down.” At his friend’s questioning eyebrow, Watson smiled slightly. “I am a doctor, Holmes. Go, and when you return we’ll see about putting you back to rights.”
Hesitating a moment, Holmes finally acquiesced, the demands of his body outweighing his dignity, and he retreated to the water closet quickly. As soon as he had closed the door, Watson retrieved his bag from where he had left it by the entranceway, preparing a small dosage of the bitter drink and a glass of cool water from the pitcher in Holmes’ room. When the detective emerged several minutes later, looking haggard and weary, Watson handed him both drinks without comment.
Downing the laudanum gratefully, Holmes swiftly finished off the water and then made his way to his room, Watson trailing behind.
“I had not meant to pull you away from your patients,” Holmes murmured as he wiggled his way under his blankets.
“I did not have any when Thomas tapped at my window,” Watson assured him, pulling out his stethoscope as his friend made himself comfortable. “My last patient finished shortly before noon, and I was merely packing up the odds and ends in my study.”
“Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, his eyes flickering shut as the other listened to the sounds of his stomach for several minutes.
“There’s a bit of disturbance, but that should settle down soon enough,” Watson murmured, putting the stethoscope away. “Try and get some rest. I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know that you’re to have broth for dinner, and if you’re up to it, some tea later on.”
“You don’t have to,” Holmes grumbled, shifting onto his side and trying to focus bleary eyes on his friend. “I’m fine, Watson.”
“Of course you are, old cock. Try and get some rest, now.”
Holmes tried to resist the pull of sleep, but within moments his eyes closed and his breathing settled. Watson ran a hand through the tangle of hair, smiling gently at the soft snores which started a moment later. He remained by his friend’s side, running his hand through the curls and up and down his back for nearly a quarter hour, before reluctantly pulling himself away to pass along his instructions to Mrs. Hudson.
***
It was nearing eight when Watson returned that night, having spent the remainder of his day boxing up the loose ends of his house. Though Cavendish Place had not truly felt like a home for some time, the imminent leaving of it left him drained and out of sorts. He would be relieved when the removers finished the job for him tomorrow, bringing the items which constituted his material life back to Baker Street.
He knocked out of courtesy for Hrs. Hudson, though he had been a given a key the day Holmes revealed himself still alive, and was greeted at the door with a smile. The landlady, taking his coat and hat, updated him on his soon-to-be-again fellow lodger.
“He’s slept for the most part after you left, only woke a few times to eat the broth I made. He looked terribly befuddled, Doctor,” she added, her tone not quite questioning though clearly seeking assurance that her most irascible tenant was going to be well again.
“He should be more his usual self in the morning.” Watson smiled gently down at her as he made his way to the stairs. “It was just a mild upset, that’s all.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded as they parted, she to her room and Watson upstairs, moving quietly so as not to disturb his still slumbering friend. When he entered the sitting room a warm fire greeted him, no doubt laid by Mrs. Hudson, and there was a covered tray on the dinning table. When he lifted the lid, the warm scent of baked bread and beef filled the air, his mouth watering as he grinned at the much put upon lady’s foresight.
Replacing the lid for the moment, he crept quietly to Holmes’ room, the door slightly ajar, and when he pushed it open far enough to catch a glimpse of the occupant he found his smile widening.
Wrapped up as snugly as any child in several blankets, Holmes slept peacefully, mouth slightly open as snuffling snores floated out to his hidden watcher. One hand curled under his chin, the other just visible as a lump across his stomach.
His worry allayed for the moment, Watson returned to the sitting room and set upon the dinner left for him, firmly pushing aside the thought that it had been far too long since anyone had cooked for him with something more than professional self-interest in mind.
***
He awoke instantly, the soft touch on his arm bringing him upright as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. For one disoriented moment he could not remember where he was, the sitting room taking shape only slowly around him. When recognition came, he realized he was sprawled on the settee, Holmes peering down at him with a bemused expression.
“Although the settee is comfortable to a point, that cannot be doing your shoulder or leg any good, Watson,” Holmes murmured, moving the candle he held back slightly to illuminate his face.
Outside the windows was still perfect blackness, and Watson wondered at the time as he scratched his stubbled chin sleepily.
“It is nearly four, dear boy.” As was his habit, Holmes answered his thoughts, a trick Watson still found slightly confounding. “Why don’t you retire to my room for the rest of the night? I fear I am all slept out, and shan’t be able to do anything more productive in there than stare at the ceiling. Go on,” Holmes urged at Watson’s seeming reluctance, placing a guiding hand under his elbow and helping his friend stand. “Go get some proper sleep and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to see to the movers.”
“You’re feeling better?” Watson asked, still groggy and yet determined to put his mind to rest on the subject before allowing himself to give in to his exhaustion.
“Much, thanks to you,” Holmes agreed, smiling gently as he pressed his hand against the doctor’s, the two of them standing in the doorway to the bedroom as though hesitant to be the first to break the contact. “Go now, and get some rest.”
For one moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, and Watson felt a stirring in his heart he had thought never to experience again. Then he turned, suddenly uncertain, and made his way into the bedroom without another word. He was acutely aware of Holmes, a shadow in the doorway illuminated by the banked fire and the candle still held aloft, and tried to ignore the building flutters in his stomach as he crawled into the bed.
When he curled up under Holmes’ still body-warmed blankets the scent of his friend surrounded him, a blend of strong tobacco and the slightly sulfurous odor of chemicals, overlaid with a lemon pomade. It was a comforting cocoon of sensation from which he wondered, as he slid slowly into restless slumber, if he ever wanted to emerge.
***
The next morning found the household in a flurry of activity. True to his word, Holmes had awakened Watson shortly after seven, and the two had dined quickly on Mrs. Hudson’s eggs and toast, nearly scalding their tongues on the coffee in their haste to make it to Cavendish Place before the movers arrived.
“You don’t have to come,” Watson had protested half-heartedly, but Holmes had merely scoffed and continued to dress in one of Watson’s old shirts and a waistcoat the doctor had never seen before.
“I am perfectly fine this morning, Watson, and unless you object to my presence for other reasons, I would be honored to help you to keep the men in line.”
Watson snorted a laugh, and there was nothing more said on the matter. When they arrived at Cavendish Place, Watson entered the building that had been his home, both in marriage and later as a widower, with a step that was neither hesitant nor eager, but filled with determination.
The memories which held sway as he moved from room to room, taking care of the last minute details, were ghosts which lingered even in the daylight, and he found himself grateful for Holmes’ presence on more than one occasion.
There was the bedroom where he had made love to his wife until she was too sickly to enjoy any but the most professional touch, and there was the room he had slept in when she had passed, too overcome by grief to sleep where she perished. The study, always his own and rarely touched by Mary’s presence, had been his refuge when Holmes’ passing, and then hers, had become too much. It was in this room that he had wept as he pored over previous case notes and marital memories in sorrow filled nostalgia.
Even the sitting room held both fond and terrible memories, for it was there that Holmes had nearly begged him to accompany him to the continent, and it was where his wife had held him in her soft arms when he returned, lost and bereft.
He had not realized he was staring vacantly into space, one hand clutching the back of a chair fiercely, until Holmes’ gentle touch brought him back to himself, raising his eyes to meet those of his friend.
For all that Holmes had never truly accepted his life as a married man, once he had come to terms with it he had done his best to support Watson, granting Mary a charming civility that nevertheless kept her at a distance, and rarely visiting save for when he was in a particularly jocular mood.
Now, walking with the miracle that was his friend alive and warm beside him, Watson felt the finality of returning to Baker Street settling into his bones, like a warm coat one did not know they needed until they donned it and the cold was no longer felt.
“It was a good life,” he whispered, turning away from the detective so he could blink the moisture from his eyes in private. “But I suppose it is high time I -”
“Hush now,” Holmes scolded, and the gentleness in his tone was something Watson had never heard before, a hesitant support that held neither pity nor scorn. “This was your home, dear boy. It was your life, and it shall always remain a part of you. Just as those sands of the desert you spoke of shall remain a part of you. There is no shame in accepting that, or - or mourning its loss.”
For one moment Watson believed he could hold himself together, that the memories and the sorrow would not overwhelm him as they had so many times before. Then Holmes stood behind him, warm arms enveloping him in a strong support that he had not realized he longed for, and he found himself sobbing, there in the bright morning sunlight of what used to be his sitting room.
For all the tears he had shed at both Holmes’ and Mary’s death, the ones dampening the material of Holmes’ frock coat were the only ones which he was not ashamed of.
***
Nothing was said of Watson’s momentary lapse, and after a strong cup of tea the two men set about finishing the preparations. When the movers arrived at half ten, everything that was being moved to Baker Street was boxed and waiting in the hall, while those items deemed too large or extraneous were left for the next inhabitant. A third pile, small though no less important, sat in what Watson still considered his waiting room.
These were the pieces of furniture which would not fit into Baker Street, yet held too much sentimental value to be sold or given away. These would go into the lumber room above his own room, which had remained vacant and little more than a place to gather dust since he had moved out all those years before.
“Watson, forgive me my lack of observation, but where has your maid got to?” Holmes asked, gazing around the house with an air of confusion.
“She has the weekend off. I thought it would be best to say our goodbyes yesterday, and when she comes in on Monday, she’ll be preparing the house for the new tenant. Why?” Watson glanced over to his friend with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, all traces of grief erased.
“I was just wondering at the lack of weeping and hysterics.” The wry tone had Watson hard pressed not to laugh, and Holmes deliberately turned his back with an air of offended dignity.
“Don’t worry, Holmes,” Watson assured him, not trying to hide his grin. “You won’t be troubled by any weeping women today. Not unless we find one on the steps of Baker Street.”
“Bite your tongue,” Holmes snapped, giving a mock shudder. “Besides, I have been forbidden by my doctor to engage in any cases, and I fear she would be left there to take out her sorrows on our steps. What would the neighbors think?”
“That you had well and truly returned?” Watson asked with a laugh, and only barely ducked the pillow thrown at his head. When something crashed behind him, both men froze before sharing a horrified gaze and then dissolving into helpless laughter.
***
Part 4