Soldier's Heart Part 7 of 15
Jan. 4th, 2011 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 7
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 .
The next morning when Watson descended from his room, dressed for Gladstone’s daily constitutional, it was to find Holmes sitting at the table, hair askew and still in his dressing gown. He was, however, sipping at a cup of coffee and picking at a plate of toast and kippers.
“Good morning,” Watson greeted somewhat hesitantly, uncertain as to his reception after the night before.
“Good morning, Watson,” Holmes greeted warmly, smiling up from his plate with such affection that the doctor could not help but beam back.
“Did you sleep well?” Watson asked, seating himself opposite the other and filling his plate as Holmes poured him a cup of tea.
“Yes, I did. Thank you,” Holmes murmured, a faint tinge of pink coloring his cheeks as he continued, not meeting Watson’s eyes. “I wanted to say I was sorry, for my abhorrent behavior last night. Mycroft was quite right to label me a child after such action. I do hope you will forgive me.”
“Of course, Holmes,” Watson agreed readily, the warmth of his voice deepening the color on his friend’s face. He could not resist adding, “Although I must say, it was a rare opportunity to witness what you must have been like as a young lad. I’m most grateful for the opportunity.”
Holmes mock scowled over at him before grinning ruefully. “Quite right,” he agreed easily.
Knowing Watson’s taste well, he added milk and sugar to the cup before handing it over, fingers lingering for just a moment against the smooth china as Watson’s hand closed briefly over his.
They shared a smile as once more something undefined seemed to pass between them. Holmes was reluctant to try to put a name to it, though he found his heart quickening and his chest tightening as he met Watson’s eyes over their shared cups.
It was Gladstone, whimpering slightly under the table, that brought them back from the edge of whatever precipice they had been standing on.
“See what happens when you feed him under the table? He grows to expect scraps,” Watson rebuked gently, bending to look down at the portly bulldog, who was staring adoringly up at Holmes. The detective, for his part, pretended he did not hear.
“Tell me, Watson, what this… holiday… will entail,” Holmes sighed, his tone leaving no doubt as to his thoughts on the matter.
“A quiet get away,” Watson assured, giving no sign at taking offense to his friend’s reluctant demeanor. “Your brother told me of the beautiful paths which wander about the estate, and I distinctly remember you mentioning once a spit to roast a lamb upon. Really, Holmes,” Watson chided teasingly, “Don’t you think it will be a relief to get away from London for a while? To smell fresh air and stretch our legs? Besides,” he sighed, taking a long sip of his tea as though to fortify himself. “London has grown rather tedious for me the past few months. I think - I think I would like to get away.”
The sadness which darkened the doctor’s eyes reminded Holmes once more of his brother’s warning words.
“Of course, Watson,” he agreed, moving hesitantly to soothe away the echoes of pain, his hand hovering for a second before resting lightly over Watson’s. “I am here for you,” he said, shyly, as he squeezed the fingers beneath his. “Should you ever wish to speak. I know I am not always the best of listeners, but I - I would listen, Watson.”
“I know,” Watson assured him, returning the squeeze and smiling in heartfelt appreciation at the offer. “Forgive me, Holmes. I do not mean to continuously turn my thoughts to the past.” The doctor sighed, and his grip tightened slightly. “My mourning ended sooner than I had thought it would, sooner than society might have deemed it prudent. But…” Watson paused, his gaze once more seemingly riveted on the dark liquid in his cup. “When you returned to me, I knew that I could no longer wear the mourning. Mary will have been dead a year next week, and I think it is time I move on with my life. We had three years together, and brief though it was, I will never forget her,” Watson vowed softly, finally meeting Holmes’ eyes. “But I think that, given the chance, I will love again.”
Holmes cleared his throat, and it was his turn to avoid the too steady gaze, studying his plate intently as he moved the food around absently with his fork.
“I hope that - that such an opportunity will present itself,” he murmured, clearing his throat again as he squeezed the hand in his.
“Perhaps it will,” Watson offered.
An awkward silence descended, a rare occurrence for the two friends, and soon they returned their attention to their breakfast, Holmes slowly reclaiming his hand as he poured more coffee for himself.
“I am willing to go to the estate, so long as you answer me a few questions,” he finally said, changing the subject.
“Of course,” Watson agreed easily, pushing his empty plate away and finishing his tea before standing. “But let me take Gladstone for his walk while you prepare yourself for the day. When I get back, we’ll discuss matters.”
Holmes watched him depart, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth as Watson coaxed Gladstone away from his position before the fire and out into the blustery day. Though sunlight filtered in through the clouds over the city, the wind rocking the trees kept the temperature colder than was seasonal, and Holmes wrapped his dressing gown a bit tighter about himself as he finished his coffee and set about his daily ablutions.
When Watson returned, scarf wrapped securely around his neck and Gladstone straining at the leash, Holmes was seated before the crackling fire, smoking his morning pipe and perusing his correspondence.
“Holmes,” was all Watson said in a warning tone when he entered the sitting room.
“Am I supposed to neglect everything?” Holmes demanded peevishly, not bothering to look up from the letter he was reading. “Believe it or not, Watson, I do have a certain reputation for solving crimes, small though it may be. It was how I earned the rent money, you know. Even if I have been reduced to missing shoes or lost poodles.” Holmes threw the offending letter into the fire with a grimace of distaste. “I should retire now and take up a ridiculous hobby. I hear beekeeping is particularly engaging.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Holmes,” Watson scoffed, sitting heavily in his chair and watching in amusement as Holmes skimmed another of the telegrams from the pile in his lap. “I’m sure there will be more interesting cases for you to solve, after you have seen to your health.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Holmes grumbled, the telegram joining its counterpart in the fire. “Mrs. Astworth wants to know where her missing brooch is. Poor women is either blind or delusional. It should be as plain as the hideous hats she favors that her husband gave it to his lover to pay for an abortion.”
“Holmes,” Watson warned again, this time the rebuke more pronounced. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“Yes. The world is a vulgar place, Watson. If it’s not a man cheating on his wife, it’s a wife cheating on her husband. Or perhaps it’s the scullery maid stealing from the employer, or the -”
“Enough!”
Holmes closed his mouth, removing his pipe and tapping it against the ashtray beside him with more force than was necessary. He continued to scowl down at the papers in his lap until Watson, with a world weary sigh, levered himself up and removed them, throwing them onto the side table.
“What has you in such a fine mood, Holmes? You were perfectly decent at breakfast and now you’re practically ghastly.” Watson continued to stand beside his friend, though Holmes studiously avoided his gaze, his eyes firmly set on Gladstone, who had resumed his habitual slumber in front of the fire.
“I am… sorry,” Holmes finally murmured.
“I don’t want an apology. I want to know what happened between breakfast and now,” Watson prodded, finally moving to resume his seat. “Talk to me, Holmes.”
Holmes let his breath out slowly, rubbing a hand against his forehead.
“Do you know how many years it took me to gain the - the cooperation, the respect, of Scotland Yard?” he finally asked, closing his eyes as though the light pained him.
Watson, ever attuned to his friend, observed him carefully, prepared to close the drapes at the first sign of an impending headache. When the other man finally dropped his hand and gazed wearily at the doctor, he knew that it was not a physical pain which was trying the detective.
“I had not expected to be able to return to things as they had been, Watson,” Holmes assured softly, steepling his fingers gracefully. “But I had not thought that I would be reduced to such - such cases as I may have been subjected to when I was twenty-five or thirty. I had hoped I moved beyond solving the petty crimes which so trivialize this city. And yet… Not one word from Scotland Yard. Not a whisper! I have been back for nearly two months now, and still no one has sought me out. It’s rather…”
He paused, searching for the correct word.
“Demoralizing?” Watson offered, lips quirked beneath his mustache.
“Humbling,” Holmes countered.
“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Scotland Yard hasn’t requested your aid because I asked them not to?” Watson asked blandly, and was treated to the rare sight of Sherlock Holmes completely stunned speechless.
“You -” he managed to get out in a choked accusation, his eyes narrowing as they took in Watson’s innocent expression. “Why would you do that?” he finally demanded, leaning forward in his agitation.
“Because you are in no condition to go running about the streets in pursuit of killers, thieves and despots,” Watson replied immediately. There was no apology in his tone as he continued, talking over any objection his friend may have voiced. “I told the Yard quite sternly that should any of them attempt to contact you it would be known to their superior that they were inefficient and incapable of doing their job. They managed on their own before you returned, and will continue to do so until you have regained your strength and your health. Now, stop pouting. We have things to discuss before we leave tomorrow, and I believe you had some questions you wished to ask.”
Holmes continued to stare at him as though he had never seen him before, though Watson’s relaxed posture did not change. He even went so far as to smile encouragingly, until Holmes threw himself back in his chair in disgust, crossing his arms and glowering.
“What’s wrong with me?” he demanded once it was apparent Watson was not going to say anything else on the matter. “You’ve known for some time, several weeks in fact. You have shown no surprise at any of my symptoms as they presented themselves, yet none of them have been complaints I have come to you with before. You haven’t told me your diagnosis, which leads me to conclude that it is something you do not wish me to worry about. Either it’s a trifling matter, in which case you would have told me before now and set my mind at ease, or there is no cure and you did not know how to broach the subject. Because you have taken the unprecedented steps of threatening the Yarders and refusing me any work, then I can only deduce that it is the latter, and you have not yet found a way to inform me. So I ask you again, Watson. What is wrong with me?”
Holmes’ voice had been growing steadily more perturbed as he fired off his deductions, until he was leaning forward once more and glaring at his friend, the last words bitten off in a tone far more suited to an interrogation.
Watson swallowed, throat suddenly dry, and leaned back slightly into the cushions of the chair. He did not allow his neutral expression to falter at the rapid-fire recital of the facts, though.
“You are correct,” he said evenly, voice low and soothing. It was his doctor’s voice, and Holmes found himself despising it. “I do know the cause for your ill health, and there is no cure. I should have realized that not knowing would be worse for you than if you had a name, and for that I apologize.”
“Tell me,” Holmes ordered, his mouth a thin line as he forced his gray eyes to remain steady and not betray the nervousness he could feel fluttering in his stomach.
“It is an affliction of which there is not much known, but many suffer from. Including myself,” Watson answered calmly. At Holmes’ astonished look, he continued before the other could regain his speech and ask questions to which he had no answers. “It is called Soldier’s Heart, a condition which has been noted in many returning veterans both here and in America. In fact, it was only after the American Civil War that the illness was discovered.”
“That is preposterous, Watson!” Holmes growled, crossing his legs sharply as he turned his head, glaring out the window at the trees being lashed by the wind. “I am not a soldier. I have never been in a battle and I never -”
“You were in a battle for three long years, Holmes!” Watson interrupted sharply, hands clenched on his thighs as he leaned forward. “There may have been no formal battleground or declaration of war, but you were fighting for your life as surely as any soldier!”
“Stop it,” Holmes hissed, eyes closing tight.
“I will not. You may not wish to hear it, Holmes, but you suffer from an affliction which I have seen too many times to doubt. That I have suffered from myself! Do you not think I can recognize the signs in you that I once endured?”
“You are a hero!” Holmes protested, finally turning his gaze back to his friend. “You were wounded for your country and nearly died! Do not place me in so vaulted company, Watson, for I do not deserve the honor and I know it!”
“And what of you, Holmes?” Watson demanded angrily, his permanently tanned face starting to color. “Do you not think a gunshot wound which caused a fortnight’s worth of fever and delirium enough of a sacrifice? Or how about giving up three years of your life to ensure the safety of those you care about and the city you love? Is that not exactly what a soldier does?”
“I was selfish!” Holmes yelled, standing in his agitation and moving over to his chemical table, sweeping a pile of notes onto the floor with a swipe of his arm. “Unlike you, Watson, I did not run away to protect Queen and country. I ran because I was frightened and - and -”
Holmes pressed a hand to his chest, grimacing as pain flared beneath his breast, gasping for breath as the anger abruptly departed. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, led him back to his chair and forced him to resume his seat.
“Listen to me!” Watson ordered harshly, moving his hands to Holmes’ cheeks, cupping his face and forcing the other man to meet his eyes. “For God’s sake, Holmes, listen to me! Do you think I wish this curse on you? On any of us? It is what it is, and there is no changing that! But it does get better!” he assured desperately, shaking Holmes’ head slightly in his earnestness. “I have treated many men who, with rest and care, recover almost completely! Look at me! It has been how many years since Afghanistan, and if not for this damnable limp, none would ever guess that I was ever so indisposed. But it takes time!” His fingers tightened slightly in his anxiousness, wishing with all his might for his friend to listen to his every word. “You have to give yourself time, Holmes. Time to recover, time to - to rest and remember who and what you are.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, blinking away the tears which threatened them both. Holmes’ face was ghostly pale beneath the hands still holding him, his breath ragged and short as he processed everything he had been told.
“Do you trust me?” Watson finally asked, his own voice no longer as steady as he would have liked and hoarse with his emotions.
“With everything I am,” Holmes promised instantly.
“Then please, Holmes. Please, do as I tell you and try not to exhaust yourself. You’ve fought for a very long time, and you’ve earned a rest. Your brother and I only want what’s best for you, but you make it damnably hard sometimes when you fight us!” Watson added, attempting to smile as he finally released his hold and stood.
“I explained to your brother last night that you were suffering from an ailment with no specific cure, but that with time and care, you should be back to yourself and fully capable of once more putting Scotland Yard to shame. As you can imagine he was much relieved that young Jasper’s conclusion that you were dying was incorrect,” he finished wryly.
Holmes managed a weak smile, but the doctor could tell he was still bothered and was therefore not surprised at his next question.
“This is a disease of the mind then, not the body?" Holmes asked softly, hesitantly.
As though he were afraid of the answer.
Watson cupped Holmes’ chin tenderly with his hand once more, this time with a supreme gentleness as he looked down at him. "It is a disease of unendurable stress to the mind and spirit which expresses itself in the body. Your heart is sound, yet it pains you. Your body is exhausted, yet you cannot sleep, or sleep as though you shall never wake again. Complaints which are normally only a tedious bother at times become all too common, such as stomach troubles and headaches. There is no one specific symptom, but an amalgamation of all that the body has endured. Each man is different, yet there is a common thread which runs through the ailment. It was how I was able to diagnose you.” Watson paused, wetting his lips. “I did not want to spring to conclusions without having all the evidence, so I have not explained this to you before. After all,” Watson added, his eyes filling with mischief. “Are you not the one who said that we must suit theories to data, and not data to suit theories? I was merely trying to apply your methods.”
Holmes snorted as his own expression lightened, the atmosphere in the room no longer filled with the horrible strain which had seemed to thicken the very air. When he spoke next, Watson could tell he was making an effort to keep his voice even.
“How long must I endure this rest cure? Weeks? Months?” Holmes paused, then forced the next words out thickly. “Years?”
“There is no set time,” Watson answered as gently as he could. “It depends on how seriously you take the condition and devote yourself to healing. It could be months, or even a year, before you are fully recovered enough to resume your detective work. But you must not think of it in such terms!” Watson scolded, tapping Holmes’ cheek lightly in admonishment. “It is a holiday! You are going to rest and recover and before you know it you’ll be terrorizing the criminals and Scotland Yard indiscriminately!”
“Yes, well,” Holmes sighed, offering up a genuine smile. “At least there are no farmer’s daughters near the estate to be forced upon my person.”
“There’s the spirit!” Watson laughed, and the last of the tension broke between them. “Now,” Watson clapped his hands, rubbing them together briskly. “We have a lot of packing to do and plans to arrange. I suggest we get started, if you have no further questions?”
“Only one,” Holmes admitted, standing as well and gazing accusingly at the other man. “Who is going to break this to Mrs. Hudson?”
At Watson’s slightly horrified expression, the detective could not help but smile.
There was little talk over the next several hours as arrangements were made. Suitcases were packed, wardrobes prepared for an extended leave, and train tickets purchased. Watson had to make arrangements for his remaining patients, and so combined the last two chores into one foray. When he returned, train tickets procured and patients mollified that he was not leaving them in the lurch, it was to see Holmes finishing a late tea with Mrs. Hudson, the two of them for once engaged in peaceable discussion.
“…course you may utilize it while we are away. It would be a waste to have it go unused,” Holmes was saying, cup held in one hand and biscuit in the other, as though he had forgotten that he was eating.
“I must say, Mr. Holmes, that I am looking forward to the concert next week. I doubt it would be to your taste, a Gilbert and Sullivan anthology, but my old bones find it quite pleasing,” Mrs. Hudson confided, taking a sip of her tea and motioning for Holmes to do the same.
“Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling at the domestic setting before him. “Is there a cup for me?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson assured, sounding only slightly insulted. “And those apricot biscuits you like so much,” she added slyly.
“Lovely!” Watson crowed, pouring a cup and then helping himself to a plate of the delicious snacks. “What are we talking about?” he asked as he sat beside Holmes on the settee. Mrs. Hudson was in his chair, after all.
“I have offered Nanny the use of our box at the opera while we are away,” Holmes informed him, winking at the doctor as Mrs. Hudson mock scowled. “Since we had just purchased it for the year, it would be foolish to let it go to waste.”
“Agreed.”
Watson smiled as he sipped gingerly from his cup, content for the moment to sit back and enjoy the peace. “Truly lovely, Mrs. Hudson, as always.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she blushed, smiling sweetly at both men.
The talk moved on to other matters after that, trivialities and gossip that had Watson secretly picturing two old ladies nattering over their afternoon tea. He had to cough to stop the giggle from emerging at the image, and waved away their concern with a smile. It was very easy, indeed, to nibble on his biscuits and enjoy the company of those he considered his family.
***
Part 8
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 . The next morning when Watson descended from his room, dressed for Gladstone’s daily constitutional, it was to find Holmes sitting at the table, hair askew and still in his dressing gown. He was, however, sipping at a cup of coffee and picking at a plate of toast and kippers.
“Good morning,” Watson greeted somewhat hesitantly, uncertain as to his reception after the night before.
“Good morning, Watson,” Holmes greeted warmly, smiling up from his plate with such affection that the doctor could not help but beam back.
“Did you sleep well?” Watson asked, seating himself opposite the other and filling his plate as Holmes poured him a cup of tea.
“Yes, I did. Thank you,” Holmes murmured, a faint tinge of pink coloring his cheeks as he continued, not meeting Watson’s eyes. “I wanted to say I was sorry, for my abhorrent behavior last night. Mycroft was quite right to label me a child after such action. I do hope you will forgive me.”
“Of course, Holmes,” Watson agreed readily, the warmth of his voice deepening the color on his friend’s face. He could not resist adding, “Although I must say, it was a rare opportunity to witness what you must have been like as a young lad. I’m most grateful for the opportunity.”
Holmes mock scowled over at him before grinning ruefully. “Quite right,” he agreed easily.
Knowing Watson’s taste well, he added milk and sugar to the cup before handing it over, fingers lingering for just a moment against the smooth china as Watson’s hand closed briefly over his.
They shared a smile as once more something undefined seemed to pass between them. Holmes was reluctant to try to put a name to it, though he found his heart quickening and his chest tightening as he met Watson’s eyes over their shared cups.
It was Gladstone, whimpering slightly under the table, that brought them back from the edge of whatever precipice they had been standing on.
“See what happens when you feed him under the table? He grows to expect scraps,” Watson rebuked gently, bending to look down at the portly bulldog, who was staring adoringly up at Holmes. The detective, for his part, pretended he did not hear.
“Tell me, Watson, what this… holiday… will entail,” Holmes sighed, his tone leaving no doubt as to his thoughts on the matter.
“A quiet get away,” Watson assured, giving no sign at taking offense to his friend’s reluctant demeanor. “Your brother told me of the beautiful paths which wander about the estate, and I distinctly remember you mentioning once a spit to roast a lamb upon. Really, Holmes,” Watson chided teasingly, “Don’t you think it will be a relief to get away from London for a while? To smell fresh air and stretch our legs? Besides,” he sighed, taking a long sip of his tea as though to fortify himself. “London has grown rather tedious for me the past few months. I think - I think I would like to get away.”
The sadness which darkened the doctor’s eyes reminded Holmes once more of his brother’s warning words.
“Of course, Watson,” he agreed, moving hesitantly to soothe away the echoes of pain, his hand hovering for a second before resting lightly over Watson’s. “I am here for you,” he said, shyly, as he squeezed the fingers beneath his. “Should you ever wish to speak. I know I am not always the best of listeners, but I - I would listen, Watson.”
“I know,” Watson assured him, returning the squeeze and smiling in heartfelt appreciation at the offer. “Forgive me, Holmes. I do not mean to continuously turn my thoughts to the past.” The doctor sighed, and his grip tightened slightly. “My mourning ended sooner than I had thought it would, sooner than society might have deemed it prudent. But…” Watson paused, his gaze once more seemingly riveted on the dark liquid in his cup. “When you returned to me, I knew that I could no longer wear the mourning. Mary will have been dead a year next week, and I think it is time I move on with my life. We had three years together, and brief though it was, I will never forget her,” Watson vowed softly, finally meeting Holmes’ eyes. “But I think that, given the chance, I will love again.”
Holmes cleared his throat, and it was his turn to avoid the too steady gaze, studying his plate intently as he moved the food around absently with his fork.
“I hope that - that such an opportunity will present itself,” he murmured, clearing his throat again as he squeezed the hand in his.
“Perhaps it will,” Watson offered.
An awkward silence descended, a rare occurrence for the two friends, and soon they returned their attention to their breakfast, Holmes slowly reclaiming his hand as he poured more coffee for himself.
“I am willing to go to the estate, so long as you answer me a few questions,” he finally said, changing the subject.
“Of course,” Watson agreed easily, pushing his empty plate away and finishing his tea before standing. “But let me take Gladstone for his walk while you prepare yourself for the day. When I get back, we’ll discuss matters.”
Holmes watched him depart, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth as Watson coaxed Gladstone away from his position before the fire and out into the blustery day. Though sunlight filtered in through the clouds over the city, the wind rocking the trees kept the temperature colder than was seasonal, and Holmes wrapped his dressing gown a bit tighter about himself as he finished his coffee and set about his daily ablutions.
When Watson returned, scarf wrapped securely around his neck and Gladstone straining at the leash, Holmes was seated before the crackling fire, smoking his morning pipe and perusing his correspondence.
“Holmes,” was all Watson said in a warning tone when he entered the sitting room.
“Am I supposed to neglect everything?” Holmes demanded peevishly, not bothering to look up from the letter he was reading. “Believe it or not, Watson, I do have a certain reputation for solving crimes, small though it may be. It was how I earned the rent money, you know. Even if I have been reduced to missing shoes or lost poodles.” Holmes threw the offending letter into the fire with a grimace of distaste. “I should retire now and take up a ridiculous hobby. I hear beekeeping is particularly engaging.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Holmes,” Watson scoffed, sitting heavily in his chair and watching in amusement as Holmes skimmed another of the telegrams from the pile in his lap. “I’m sure there will be more interesting cases for you to solve, after you have seen to your health.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Holmes grumbled, the telegram joining its counterpart in the fire. “Mrs. Astworth wants to know where her missing brooch is. Poor women is either blind or delusional. It should be as plain as the hideous hats she favors that her husband gave it to his lover to pay for an abortion.”
“Holmes,” Watson warned again, this time the rebuke more pronounced. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“Yes. The world is a vulgar place, Watson. If it’s not a man cheating on his wife, it’s a wife cheating on her husband. Or perhaps it’s the scullery maid stealing from the employer, or the -”
“Enough!”
Holmes closed his mouth, removing his pipe and tapping it against the ashtray beside him with more force than was necessary. He continued to scowl down at the papers in his lap until Watson, with a world weary sigh, levered himself up and removed them, throwing them onto the side table.
“What has you in such a fine mood, Holmes? You were perfectly decent at breakfast and now you’re practically ghastly.” Watson continued to stand beside his friend, though Holmes studiously avoided his gaze, his eyes firmly set on Gladstone, who had resumed his habitual slumber in front of the fire.
“I am… sorry,” Holmes finally murmured.
“I don’t want an apology. I want to know what happened between breakfast and now,” Watson prodded, finally moving to resume his seat. “Talk to me, Holmes.”
Holmes let his breath out slowly, rubbing a hand against his forehead.
“Do you know how many years it took me to gain the - the cooperation, the respect, of Scotland Yard?” he finally asked, closing his eyes as though the light pained him.
Watson, ever attuned to his friend, observed him carefully, prepared to close the drapes at the first sign of an impending headache. When the other man finally dropped his hand and gazed wearily at the doctor, he knew that it was not a physical pain which was trying the detective.
“I had not expected to be able to return to things as they had been, Watson,” Holmes assured softly, steepling his fingers gracefully. “But I had not thought that I would be reduced to such - such cases as I may have been subjected to when I was twenty-five or thirty. I had hoped I moved beyond solving the petty crimes which so trivialize this city. And yet… Not one word from Scotland Yard. Not a whisper! I have been back for nearly two months now, and still no one has sought me out. It’s rather…”
He paused, searching for the correct word.
“Demoralizing?” Watson offered, lips quirked beneath his mustache.
“Humbling,” Holmes countered.
“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Scotland Yard hasn’t requested your aid because I asked them not to?” Watson asked blandly, and was treated to the rare sight of Sherlock Holmes completely stunned speechless.
“You -” he managed to get out in a choked accusation, his eyes narrowing as they took in Watson’s innocent expression. “Why would you do that?” he finally demanded, leaning forward in his agitation.
“Because you are in no condition to go running about the streets in pursuit of killers, thieves and despots,” Watson replied immediately. There was no apology in his tone as he continued, talking over any objection his friend may have voiced. “I told the Yard quite sternly that should any of them attempt to contact you it would be known to their superior that they were inefficient and incapable of doing their job. They managed on their own before you returned, and will continue to do so until you have regained your strength and your health. Now, stop pouting. We have things to discuss before we leave tomorrow, and I believe you had some questions you wished to ask.”
Holmes continued to stare at him as though he had never seen him before, though Watson’s relaxed posture did not change. He even went so far as to smile encouragingly, until Holmes threw himself back in his chair in disgust, crossing his arms and glowering.
“What’s wrong with me?” he demanded once it was apparent Watson was not going to say anything else on the matter. “You’ve known for some time, several weeks in fact. You have shown no surprise at any of my symptoms as they presented themselves, yet none of them have been complaints I have come to you with before. You haven’t told me your diagnosis, which leads me to conclude that it is something you do not wish me to worry about. Either it’s a trifling matter, in which case you would have told me before now and set my mind at ease, or there is no cure and you did not know how to broach the subject. Because you have taken the unprecedented steps of threatening the Yarders and refusing me any work, then I can only deduce that it is the latter, and you have not yet found a way to inform me. So I ask you again, Watson. What is wrong with me?”
Holmes’ voice had been growing steadily more perturbed as he fired off his deductions, until he was leaning forward once more and glaring at his friend, the last words bitten off in a tone far more suited to an interrogation.
Watson swallowed, throat suddenly dry, and leaned back slightly into the cushions of the chair. He did not allow his neutral expression to falter at the rapid-fire recital of the facts, though.
“You are correct,” he said evenly, voice low and soothing. It was his doctor’s voice, and Holmes found himself despising it. “I do know the cause for your ill health, and there is no cure. I should have realized that not knowing would be worse for you than if you had a name, and for that I apologize.”
“Tell me,” Holmes ordered, his mouth a thin line as he forced his gray eyes to remain steady and not betray the nervousness he could feel fluttering in his stomach.
“It is an affliction of which there is not much known, but many suffer from. Including myself,” Watson answered calmly. At Holmes’ astonished look, he continued before the other could regain his speech and ask questions to which he had no answers. “It is called Soldier’s Heart, a condition which has been noted in many returning veterans both here and in America. In fact, it was only after the American Civil War that the illness was discovered.”
“That is preposterous, Watson!” Holmes growled, crossing his legs sharply as he turned his head, glaring out the window at the trees being lashed by the wind. “I am not a soldier. I have never been in a battle and I never -”
“You were in a battle for three long years, Holmes!” Watson interrupted sharply, hands clenched on his thighs as he leaned forward. “There may have been no formal battleground or declaration of war, but you were fighting for your life as surely as any soldier!”
“Stop it,” Holmes hissed, eyes closing tight.
“I will not. You may not wish to hear it, Holmes, but you suffer from an affliction which I have seen too many times to doubt. That I have suffered from myself! Do you not think I can recognize the signs in you that I once endured?”
“You are a hero!” Holmes protested, finally turning his gaze back to his friend. “You were wounded for your country and nearly died! Do not place me in so vaulted company, Watson, for I do not deserve the honor and I know it!”
“And what of you, Holmes?” Watson demanded angrily, his permanently tanned face starting to color. “Do you not think a gunshot wound which caused a fortnight’s worth of fever and delirium enough of a sacrifice? Or how about giving up three years of your life to ensure the safety of those you care about and the city you love? Is that not exactly what a soldier does?”
“I was selfish!” Holmes yelled, standing in his agitation and moving over to his chemical table, sweeping a pile of notes onto the floor with a swipe of his arm. “Unlike you, Watson, I did not run away to protect Queen and country. I ran because I was frightened and - and -”
Holmes pressed a hand to his chest, grimacing as pain flared beneath his breast, gasping for breath as the anger abruptly departed. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, led him back to his chair and forced him to resume his seat.
“Listen to me!” Watson ordered harshly, moving his hands to Holmes’ cheeks, cupping his face and forcing the other man to meet his eyes. “For God’s sake, Holmes, listen to me! Do you think I wish this curse on you? On any of us? It is what it is, and there is no changing that! But it does get better!” he assured desperately, shaking Holmes’ head slightly in his earnestness. “I have treated many men who, with rest and care, recover almost completely! Look at me! It has been how many years since Afghanistan, and if not for this damnable limp, none would ever guess that I was ever so indisposed. But it takes time!” His fingers tightened slightly in his anxiousness, wishing with all his might for his friend to listen to his every word. “You have to give yourself time, Holmes. Time to recover, time to - to rest and remember who and what you are.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, blinking away the tears which threatened them both. Holmes’ face was ghostly pale beneath the hands still holding him, his breath ragged and short as he processed everything he had been told.
“Do you trust me?” Watson finally asked, his own voice no longer as steady as he would have liked and hoarse with his emotions.
“With everything I am,” Holmes promised instantly.
“Then please, Holmes. Please, do as I tell you and try not to exhaust yourself. You’ve fought for a very long time, and you’ve earned a rest. Your brother and I only want what’s best for you, but you make it damnably hard sometimes when you fight us!” Watson added, attempting to smile as he finally released his hold and stood.
“I explained to your brother last night that you were suffering from an ailment with no specific cure, but that with time and care, you should be back to yourself and fully capable of once more putting Scotland Yard to shame. As you can imagine he was much relieved that young Jasper’s conclusion that you were dying was incorrect,” he finished wryly.
Holmes managed a weak smile, but the doctor could tell he was still bothered and was therefore not surprised at his next question.
“This is a disease of the mind then, not the body?" Holmes asked softly, hesitantly.
As though he were afraid of the answer.
Watson cupped Holmes’ chin tenderly with his hand once more, this time with a supreme gentleness as he looked down at him. "It is a disease of unendurable stress to the mind and spirit which expresses itself in the body. Your heart is sound, yet it pains you. Your body is exhausted, yet you cannot sleep, or sleep as though you shall never wake again. Complaints which are normally only a tedious bother at times become all too common, such as stomach troubles and headaches. There is no one specific symptom, but an amalgamation of all that the body has endured. Each man is different, yet there is a common thread which runs through the ailment. It was how I was able to diagnose you.” Watson paused, wetting his lips. “I did not want to spring to conclusions without having all the evidence, so I have not explained this to you before. After all,” Watson added, his eyes filling with mischief. “Are you not the one who said that we must suit theories to data, and not data to suit theories? I was merely trying to apply your methods.”
Holmes snorted as his own expression lightened, the atmosphere in the room no longer filled with the horrible strain which had seemed to thicken the very air. When he spoke next, Watson could tell he was making an effort to keep his voice even.
“How long must I endure this rest cure? Weeks? Months?” Holmes paused, then forced the next words out thickly. “Years?”
“There is no set time,” Watson answered as gently as he could. “It depends on how seriously you take the condition and devote yourself to healing. It could be months, or even a year, before you are fully recovered enough to resume your detective work. But you must not think of it in such terms!” Watson scolded, tapping Holmes’ cheek lightly in admonishment. “It is a holiday! You are going to rest and recover and before you know it you’ll be terrorizing the criminals and Scotland Yard indiscriminately!”
“Yes, well,” Holmes sighed, offering up a genuine smile. “At least there are no farmer’s daughters near the estate to be forced upon my person.”
“There’s the spirit!” Watson laughed, and the last of the tension broke between them. “Now,” Watson clapped his hands, rubbing them together briskly. “We have a lot of packing to do and plans to arrange. I suggest we get started, if you have no further questions?”
“Only one,” Holmes admitted, standing as well and gazing accusingly at the other man. “Who is going to break this to Mrs. Hudson?”
At Watson’s slightly horrified expression, the detective could not help but smile.
There was little talk over the next several hours as arrangements were made. Suitcases were packed, wardrobes prepared for an extended leave, and train tickets purchased. Watson had to make arrangements for his remaining patients, and so combined the last two chores into one foray. When he returned, train tickets procured and patients mollified that he was not leaving them in the lurch, it was to see Holmes finishing a late tea with Mrs. Hudson, the two of them for once engaged in peaceable discussion.
“…course you may utilize it while we are away. It would be a waste to have it go unused,” Holmes was saying, cup held in one hand and biscuit in the other, as though he had forgotten that he was eating.
“I must say, Mr. Holmes, that I am looking forward to the concert next week. I doubt it would be to your taste, a Gilbert and Sullivan anthology, but my old bones find it quite pleasing,” Mrs. Hudson confided, taking a sip of her tea and motioning for Holmes to do the same.
“Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling at the domestic setting before him. “Is there a cup for me?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson assured, sounding only slightly insulted. “And those apricot biscuits you like so much,” she added slyly.
“Lovely!” Watson crowed, pouring a cup and then helping himself to a plate of the delicious snacks. “What are we talking about?” he asked as he sat beside Holmes on the settee. Mrs. Hudson was in his chair, after all.
“I have offered Nanny the use of our box at the opera while we are away,” Holmes informed him, winking at the doctor as Mrs. Hudson mock scowled. “Since we had just purchased it for the year, it would be foolish to let it go to waste.”
“Agreed.”
Watson smiled as he sipped gingerly from his cup, content for the moment to sit back and enjoy the peace. “Truly lovely, Mrs. Hudson, as always.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she blushed, smiling sweetly at both men.
The talk moved on to other matters after that, trivialities and gossip that had Watson secretly picturing two old ladies nattering over their afternoon tea. He had to cough to stop the giggle from emerging at the image, and waved away their concern with a smile. It was very easy, indeed, to nibble on his biscuits and enjoy the company of those he considered his family.
***
Part 8
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Date: 2011-01-05 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 06:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 07:19 pm (UTC)And thank goodness Holmes sort of accepted what his condition was, because if not I might and needed to crawl into your fic to throttle him :D
I love how farmers' daughters keeps being brought up!
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Date: 2011-01-06 03:32 am (UTC)Lol, I don't think Watson has really given Holmes much choice but to accept his condition. Holmes may be stubborn, but Watson knows best when it comes to his health!
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Date: 2011-01-06 09:58 pm (UTC)You and Enkidu both have given us such great epics these last months past!
roll on more - have sent you email about the last few pages today and we are there on the Brit pick front!
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Date: 2011-01-07 05:52 am (UTC)