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Soldier's Heart Part 5 of 15
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 5
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 and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Author's notes: Thanks always forenkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
When Watson descended the stairs far earlier than was his usual wont the next morning, he was greeted with the incongruous sight of Holmes curled up on the settee, violin held protectively in his hands as he gazed distantly into the banked embers of the fire.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, hesitant to move beyond the bottom of the stairs, lest he disturb his friend. At his voice, however, Holmes shook his head as though to clear it from whatever thoughts had occupied him throughout the night, and he turned to stare at Watson with exhaustion bruised eyes.
“Are you all right, dear fellow?” Watson asked softly, moving to sit gingerly beside the detective and gently taking the violin from his hands. Holmes watched in a daze as he placed it carefully back in its case, which rested beside Gladstone in front of the fire. Only after that action was done and Watson had turned his attention back to his friend did Holmes speak.
“Forgive me, Watson.” He ran a hand over his eyes, the appendage trembling slightly. “I am not myself today.”
“You look terrible, Holmes.” Watson placed his hand on the other’s shoulder, the muscles tense and too warm to the touch.
The laugh which issued from his friend’s throat was more akin to a sob than a mirthful sound, and Watson’s hand tightened.
“I am so very tired,” Holmes whispered, refusing to meet the doctor’s gaze. “And yet when I close my eyes, a million thoughts and sensations overwhelm me and I find myself wondering…” His voice trailed off into a heavy sigh, and he reached up absently to cover his friend’s hand with his own.
“Would you like me to give you something?” Watson asked, shaking Holmes a bit when the detective did not answer.
“No, Watson, not today. I hope that tonight I will be sufficiently tired I can escape into the arms of Morpheus unaided. Thank you,” he added, finally raising weary eyes as he offered an anemic smile. “I have some errands to run today. Perhaps the fresh air -” He stopped and eyed the wan daylight with a resigned frown. “Perhaps the London air will do me some good,” he corrected with a twist of lips that was a bit more genuine.
“At least have a solid breakfast, Holmes,” Watson entreated, standing and pulling his dressing gown tighter across his middle. “I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson and have her bring something up, and then perhaps a wash and shave. You might even look presentable,” he teased, and was rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter.
“What would the neighbors think?” Holmes asked dryly, and stood as well. When he swayed, stumbling back a step, he forestalled Watson’s instinctive movement with an upraised hand.
“I merely stood too fast,” he assured, making a shooing motion when Watson continued to regard him dubiously. “Go, ring for breakfast, and I shall build the fire up. It looks to be another cold day, and I find that I feel it all too often in my old bones.”
Watson scoffed even as he turned to do as bid.
“Might I remind you that you are younger than me?” he asked teasingly.
“Yes, well, then you should know exactly what I refer to.”
He grinned cheekily at the scowl thrown his way, and then turned to his chore, making nonsense noises at Gladstone as the bulldog shifted slightly to accommodate him, grumbling at the imposition of having to move.
“You may wish to get dressed before taking Gladstone for his walk,” Holmes called a moment later, and Watson could not help the sigh that seemed to come from his very toes.
Some things, he was discovering, never changed when Sherlock Holmes was involved.
***
After breakfast the two sat comfortably by the fire, reading the newspaper and going through the mail of the past few days. Despite him being strictly forbidden to work any cases, Holmes still insisted on being kept up to date on anything which might prove interesting. Luckily for Watson’s nerves, none of them caught his attention, and once they had been consigned to the fire, Holmes set about tidying up.
Watson remained by the fire, cigarette in hand as he lazily finished perusing the newspaper, Gladstone snoring peacefully at his feet. Though he had dressed to take the dog on his morning constitutional, the doctor was once more down to shirtsleeves and trousers, cuffs and collar discarded for what he hoped was the rest of the day.
When Holmes emerged from his room, freshly shaved and hair pomaded into a slicked black shine, only the dark circles under his eyes and the unnatural paleness of his features betrayed his respectable figure.
“I shall only be a few hours, Watson,” Holmes informed him as he finished doing up his coat. “Is there anything you would like while I’m out?”
“Yes. I’m out of tooth powder, if you would be so kind as to pick some up,” Watson asked without looking up.
“Sanitas?” Holmes clarified, and Watson hid his smile behind the paper.
“Yes, please.”
“Very well, I shall see you shortly.”
With a swift pat to Gladstone’s head, Holmes was gone, his voice ringing out from below as he teased the landlady, her reply lost to the sound of the front door closing with a particularly loud bang.
“One day she truly is going to poison his tea, and not a soul will blame her,” Watson murmured.
Gladstone belched his agreement.
***
His first stop was several streets away, a tobacconist whose blend Holmes knew Watson particularly favored. The shop next to it would also have his tooth powder, as well as the soap Holmes found exceptionally pleasing. It was one of the few brands which did not leave his skin feeling dry and scratched, and the scent was mild enough as to not be an irritant.
He hummed as he made his way down the street, avoiding puddles as he did so and keeping an eye to the sky, where heavy clouds threatened more rain to come.
“Keep out of the water, Charlie. Not only does it provide proof of your whereabouts, but it will not do to get your boots too wet. Spring still has a way to go yet, and you’ll need them a bit longer,” he called as he passed a narrow alley, pausing a moment as though to adjust his gloves and hat.
“Sorry, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a penitent voice called from between the two buildings. “You wasn’t s’posed to notice me.”
“Quite all right, Charlie. I heard you splash in that rather large lake that has formed by the barber’s. If it were anyone other than myself, you would have remained undetected.”
“Thanks, Mr. ’Olmes!”
Resuming his walk, Holmes could not prevent the smile as the footsteps of his little shadow seemed to disappear, turning the expression to a few passing ladies and tipping his hat.
It had been too long since he had last wandered the streets of the city he loved, and the ability to stretch his legs, unhindered by the need for disguise or any matters more pressing than simple errands, was a heady freedom.
He had forgotten how very loud and busy London was, though, and the noises sang to him, telling a thousand tales with all their varying degrees of intricacy, all of them vying for his attention.
The newspaper seller on the corner shouting his business and the street musician a few buildings down battled for supremacy over the clacking of carriages. Women and men taking their morning constitutions chattered, while young children screamed and mothers scolded. Down the street a cabby yelled for his payment, and even as he crossed the road, the bells from the nearby church sounded the hour.
When he reached the little shop that had been his goal, Holmes found it a relief to enter the warm and welcoming building. The heady scents of various blends of tobacco greeted him, and he paused for a moment on the threshold, breathing in the familiar odor as he gazed about.
Shelves placed evenly across the walls and in rows throughout the store held various jars of tobacco, pipes and cigarette paper. It was a pleasant shop, and throughout his travels Holmes had rarely encountered one so well provisioned.
Removing his hat as he entered he smiled his greeting to the owner, who was currently helping another gentleman, and set about his task of finding not only his preferred blend, but Watson’s as well.
By the time he made his purchases, a new pipe had been added to his selections, a black clay bowl with an elegant stem and a smooth texture which appealed to him. Though he had been in the shop for little more than a half hour, he still found it a bit disconcerting as he stepped out, the noise and bustle of the street a jarring contrast to the peacefulness of the store.
He wasted no time in picking up the toiletries, feeling one of the rare headaches which sometimes assaulted him beginning to form behind his eyes. It would not be long, he knew, before even the gloomy light of the overcast sky would be too much, and the noise which assaulted him as he set out across the street was nearly overwhelming.
A sudden scream, followed by the staccato beats of a horse given its head, had him diving to the sidewalk, barely avoiding the carriage as it careened around the corner, the driver cursing and yelling a warning as he struggled to regain control.
For several moments the only sound was the harsh beat of his heart in his ears, and the metallic tang of copper filled his mouth as he struggled to regain control of his suddenly shaking limbs.
His chest ached when he managed to make it to his feet, as though a tight band had been wrapped too tightly around his breast. The air stuttered in his lungs, and he fought the almost overwhelming urge to curl up on the dirty street, hide his face from the world and let all that was passing around him fade into the blackness of oblivion.
Someone grabbed his hand, and it was only his iron control which prevented him from lashing out, remembering only at the last instant that there was no danger to him on the familiar street, and it would be beyond humiliating to strike a helpful shopkeeper or passing gentleman.
“Come on, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a child’s voice prompted, and the hand in his tugged once more.
Recognizing a familiar presence, though he was still too dazed to take in more than the slight figure and too dirty clothes, Holmes allowed himself to be dragged off the street and into a side alley. He stood, hunched and gasping for breath, clutching his chest as pain blossomed throughout his middle. The boy stood fearfully by his side, uncertain and hesitant, yet unwilling to leave his charge.
“Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes. We’ll take care of ye! Just please, ‘old on!” the boy pleaded.
He helped Holmes as he staggered back against a slimy brick wall, sliding down it’s slick surface without a care for the smell or filth. He continued to gasp for breath as a small hand rested on his shoulder, fighting nausea and pain as he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the bricks.
He would be all right. He had to be.
***
“They’s comin’, Mr. ‘Olmes! I can see ‘em now!”
The Irregular which had been his steadfast anchor throughout the ordeal suddenly fled, leaving Holmes propped against the wall as he dashed to the mouth of the alley, waving his arms frantically.
“Jasper!” he yelled, and then returned to Holmes’ side.
“Just a bit more, and then yer doctor will be makin’ ye right again,” the boy promised, and Holmes cracked his eyes open to stare into the earnest, mud smeared face.
The child could not have been older than six or seven, with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles which dotted his cheeks and nose. He was missing his two canine teeth and a bottom front tooth, though at that age it could have been the natural course of things rather than from a skirmish. His clothes, rolled at the sleeves and above his boots, were clearly castoffs, patched and stained yet sufficient enough to ward off the remaining chill of spring. As Holmes had observed on the walk over, his feet were shod in sturdy boots, and the cap on his head appeared newer than anything else he wore.
“Who did…you send?” he managed to gasp out, words struggling past the tightness in his throat and the feeling of not enough breath to wheeze the question.
“Me brother, Jasper,” Charlie responded, keeping his eye on the alley even as he gripped Holmes’ shoulder. “’e runs like a ‘orse, ‘e does, and was watchin’ me watch you so’s I wouldn’t mess up too bad. They’re almost ‘ere now!”
A moment later two figures skittered into the alley, Watson with his coat hastily donned and medical bag in hand, no collar or cuffs in sight and his hat perched precariously on his head. His cane was gripped tightly in his hand, and his face was near gray with fear.
“Holmes!” he shouted when he saw his friend slumped against the wall, hastening over to him and nearly falling to his knees in his haste to reach his side. “What happened?” he demanded of the two boys, even as he ran quick hands over Holmes shuddering body, looking for injury.
“ A carriage almost ran ‘im over,” the new boy explained, gasping for breath with hands on knees as he struggled to speak.
His hair was just as curly and ginger as Charlie’s, and his face so spotted with freckles it looked as though his cheeks and nose were brown rather than his brother’s pale pink.
“’E fell and was gaspin’ like, clutchin’ ‘is chest,” Charlie continued. “I grabbed ‘im and tugged ‘im in ‘ere.”
“Holmes?” Watson asked, placing his hands on either side of the other’s face, tilting his head down so he could look into his eyes. “You need to clam your breathing, old boy. Try and follow me. In -” Watson took a deep breath, Holmes echoing the motion in a shuddering gasp, “- and out.”
They repeated the exercise several times, until Holmes’ breathing began to calm, and his hand slowly relaxed the tight grip he had on his chest.
“That’s it, just keep breathing. Slow and easy,” Watson soothed, pulling out his stethoscope and fitting it into his ears even as he continued to speak gently. “You’re safe now, Holmes, no one is going to hurt you, I promise. Deep breath in, that’s it.”
He listened to his friend’s racing heart, frowning in concentration as the noises from the street kept interfering.
“I need to get you home. Do you think you can stand?” he asked worriedly, running a critical eye over too pale skin bathed in perspiration and the continued hitching of his breath.
“If I have to crawl! Get me out of here!” Holmes growled, and with the help of all three managed to make it to his feet.
He leaned heavily against Watson’s side, breathing in the scent of him and allowing the smells of tobacco and soap and Watson to wash over him. When he was no longer swaying, the four of them made their way back to Baker Street, Charlie clutching Holmes’ purchases to his chest as though they were a rare and priceless treasure.
None paid attention to the odd looks they received, and when they entered 221 B, Holmes was too exhausted and brittle to do more than offer his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as she wrapped him in a blanket and made distressed sounds. Watson led him up the stairs, the two Irregulars trailing hesitantly behind him, and when he sank down onto his bed, he could only attempt to smile reassurance at them as they hovered in the doorway.
“You lads go and sit in the other room,” Watson urged when he followed Holmes’ gaze. “Mrs. Hudson should be bringing up some tea soon, and you can ask her for some sandwiches.”
The boys did as instructed, Charlie still clinging to the tightly wrapped parcels as his brother led him out of the doorway with an arm around his shoulders, discreetly closing the door behind them.
“Come on, old boy, let’s get you out of these clothes and into something more comfortable,” Watson prompted, already working on removing Holmes’ shoes and socks. “You’re covered in something, probably from that alley. I doubt you’ll want to wear these trousers again until they’ve been cleaned.”
“They’ve certainly acquired an odor,” Holmes agreed, trembling fingers unbuttoning his coat and removing the garment with distaste. “Please give Mrs. Hudson my apologies,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he set about working on his shirt. “The poor women has to deal with enough rotten smells in the kitchen as is.”
“Holmes,” Watson scolded, though his lips twitched and a small chuckle escaped before he could control himself. “Really, you should be more easy on her.”
“Not until she admits to intentionally using the soured milk in the tea that day,” Holmes vowed, and shuddered, either in remembrance of the incident or from a hidden chill.
“Come on, off with the clothes and then under the covers,” Watson prompted, and between them it was only a matter of minutes before Holmes was dressed in a warm nightshirt and wrapped in blankets.
“Now hush a moment, I need silence.” Watson exhaled heavily on the cool metal of the stethoscope and placed it against Holmes’ bare chest, where the laces of the nightshirt gaped. Despite his precaution, Holmes flinched at the touch, and the doctor placed a steadying hand on his arm.
The room was quiet save for their breathing, Holmes keeping his expression carefully blank as his friend listened intently. Finally, after several minutes, Watson removed the buds from his ears and smiled reassuringly.
“I hear no disturbance, Holmes, nothing to be worried about. Your heart is fine.” He squeezed Holmes’ arm and smiled at the relieved expression which flitted across the other’s face. “You should try and get some rest now. You’ve had a very busy day!” he teased gently.
“It’s barely half past two!” Holmes protested, though his argument was ruined by a wide yawn chasing his words.
“And you barely slept last night, if at all,” Watson reminded, tugging the blankets a bit closer around his shoulders. “You’re exhausted and your nerves are in shreds, old boy.”
“I know,” Holmes sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. “But if I sleep now I won’t be able to do so tonight, and I am loath to rely too heavily upon your aids, Doctor. We both know the danger they present to me.”
“I do, but in my medical opinion, one night of using them will not harm you. If you have trouble tomorrow night, we will think of something else,” Watson promised, cutting off the argument he could see forming on Holmes’ lips. “Trust me, Holmes.”
Holmes snorted rudely, earning a satisfied grin as Watson stood.
“I’ll go make sure the children are not making a nuisance of themselves. You close your eyes and rest,” he ordered.
Holmes couldn’t help the smile as he did so, humming softly as once more the blankets were rearranged to his friend’s satisfaction, and then a soft, whiskered kiss was placed on his forehead. His eyes snapped open, though he was too stunned to do more than blink.
Doubt started to creep into Watson’s eyes, lips already starting to form an apology, when Holmes reached up and gently touched his cheek, his lips curling into a beatific grin.
“Thank you,” he whispered, allowing his hand to linger a moment longer on the smooth flesh before drawing it back under the coverlet.
“Get some rest,” Watson murmured. He hesitated, licking his lips nervously before leaning down and placing another deliberate kiss, this one upon Holmes’ cheek. Then he turned and hastily left the room, as though afraid of the reaction he would receive.
Holmes lay still for a very long time, hand coming to rest on his cheek as his mind whirled with thoughts too filled with emotion to clearly be dissected. For the first time in his life, however, he found he did not care.
***
Part 6
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 and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .When Watson descended the stairs far earlier than was his usual wont the next morning, he was greeted with the incongruous sight of Holmes curled up on the settee, violin held protectively in his hands as he gazed distantly into the banked embers of the fire.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, hesitant to move beyond the bottom of the stairs, lest he disturb his friend. At his voice, however, Holmes shook his head as though to clear it from whatever thoughts had occupied him throughout the night, and he turned to stare at Watson with exhaustion bruised eyes.
“Are you all right, dear fellow?” Watson asked softly, moving to sit gingerly beside the detective and gently taking the violin from his hands. Holmes watched in a daze as he placed it carefully back in its case, which rested beside Gladstone in front of the fire. Only after that action was done and Watson had turned his attention back to his friend did Holmes speak.
“Forgive me, Watson.” He ran a hand over his eyes, the appendage trembling slightly. “I am not myself today.”
“You look terrible, Holmes.” Watson placed his hand on the other’s shoulder, the muscles tense and too warm to the touch.
The laugh which issued from his friend’s throat was more akin to a sob than a mirthful sound, and Watson’s hand tightened.
“I am so very tired,” Holmes whispered, refusing to meet the doctor’s gaze. “And yet when I close my eyes, a million thoughts and sensations overwhelm me and I find myself wondering…” His voice trailed off into a heavy sigh, and he reached up absently to cover his friend’s hand with his own.
“Would you like me to give you something?” Watson asked, shaking Holmes a bit when the detective did not answer.
“No, Watson, not today. I hope that tonight I will be sufficiently tired I can escape into the arms of Morpheus unaided. Thank you,” he added, finally raising weary eyes as he offered an anemic smile. “I have some errands to run today. Perhaps the fresh air -” He stopped and eyed the wan daylight with a resigned frown. “Perhaps the London air will do me some good,” he corrected with a twist of lips that was a bit more genuine.
“At least have a solid breakfast, Holmes,” Watson entreated, standing and pulling his dressing gown tighter across his middle. “I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson and have her bring something up, and then perhaps a wash and shave. You might even look presentable,” he teased, and was rewarded with a sharp bark of laughter.
“What would the neighbors think?” Holmes asked dryly, and stood as well. When he swayed, stumbling back a step, he forestalled Watson’s instinctive movement with an upraised hand.
“I merely stood too fast,” he assured, making a shooing motion when Watson continued to regard him dubiously. “Go, ring for breakfast, and I shall build the fire up. It looks to be another cold day, and I find that I feel it all too often in my old bones.”
Watson scoffed even as he turned to do as bid.
“Might I remind you that you are younger than me?” he asked teasingly.
“Yes, well, then you should know exactly what I refer to.”
He grinned cheekily at the scowl thrown his way, and then turned to his chore, making nonsense noises at Gladstone as the bulldog shifted slightly to accommodate him, grumbling at the imposition of having to move.
“You may wish to get dressed before taking Gladstone for his walk,” Holmes called a moment later, and Watson could not help the sigh that seemed to come from his very toes.
Some things, he was discovering, never changed when Sherlock Holmes was involved.
***
After breakfast the two sat comfortably by the fire, reading the newspaper and going through the mail of the past few days. Despite him being strictly forbidden to work any cases, Holmes still insisted on being kept up to date on anything which might prove interesting. Luckily for Watson’s nerves, none of them caught his attention, and once they had been consigned to the fire, Holmes set about tidying up.
Watson remained by the fire, cigarette in hand as he lazily finished perusing the newspaper, Gladstone snoring peacefully at his feet. Though he had dressed to take the dog on his morning constitutional, the doctor was once more down to shirtsleeves and trousers, cuffs and collar discarded for what he hoped was the rest of the day.
When Holmes emerged from his room, freshly shaved and hair pomaded into a slicked black shine, only the dark circles under his eyes and the unnatural paleness of his features betrayed his respectable figure.
“I shall only be a few hours, Watson,” Holmes informed him as he finished doing up his coat. “Is there anything you would like while I’m out?”
“Yes. I’m out of tooth powder, if you would be so kind as to pick some up,” Watson asked without looking up.
“Sanitas?” Holmes clarified, and Watson hid his smile behind the paper.
“Yes, please.”
“Very well, I shall see you shortly.”
With a swift pat to Gladstone’s head, Holmes was gone, his voice ringing out from below as he teased the landlady, her reply lost to the sound of the front door closing with a particularly loud bang.
“One day she truly is going to poison his tea, and not a soul will blame her,” Watson murmured.
Gladstone belched his agreement.
***
His first stop was several streets away, a tobacconist whose blend Holmes knew Watson particularly favored. The shop next to it would also have his tooth powder, as well as the soap Holmes found exceptionally pleasing. It was one of the few brands which did not leave his skin feeling dry and scratched, and the scent was mild enough as to not be an irritant.
He hummed as he made his way down the street, avoiding puddles as he did so and keeping an eye to the sky, where heavy clouds threatened more rain to come.
“Keep out of the water, Charlie. Not only does it provide proof of your whereabouts, but it will not do to get your boots too wet. Spring still has a way to go yet, and you’ll need them a bit longer,” he called as he passed a narrow alley, pausing a moment as though to adjust his gloves and hat.
“Sorry, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a penitent voice called from between the two buildings. “You wasn’t s’posed to notice me.”
“Quite all right, Charlie. I heard you splash in that rather large lake that has formed by the barber’s. If it were anyone other than myself, you would have remained undetected.”
“Thanks, Mr. ’Olmes!”
Resuming his walk, Holmes could not prevent the smile as the footsteps of his little shadow seemed to disappear, turning the expression to a few passing ladies and tipping his hat.
It had been too long since he had last wandered the streets of the city he loved, and the ability to stretch his legs, unhindered by the need for disguise or any matters more pressing than simple errands, was a heady freedom.
He had forgotten how very loud and busy London was, though, and the noises sang to him, telling a thousand tales with all their varying degrees of intricacy, all of them vying for his attention.
The newspaper seller on the corner shouting his business and the street musician a few buildings down battled for supremacy over the clacking of carriages. Women and men taking their morning constitutions chattered, while young children screamed and mothers scolded. Down the street a cabby yelled for his payment, and even as he crossed the road, the bells from the nearby church sounded the hour.
When he reached the little shop that had been his goal, Holmes found it a relief to enter the warm and welcoming building. The heady scents of various blends of tobacco greeted him, and he paused for a moment on the threshold, breathing in the familiar odor as he gazed about.
Shelves placed evenly across the walls and in rows throughout the store held various jars of tobacco, pipes and cigarette paper. It was a pleasant shop, and throughout his travels Holmes had rarely encountered one so well provisioned.
Removing his hat as he entered he smiled his greeting to the owner, who was currently helping another gentleman, and set about his task of finding not only his preferred blend, but Watson’s as well.
By the time he made his purchases, a new pipe had been added to his selections, a black clay bowl with an elegant stem and a smooth texture which appealed to him. Though he had been in the shop for little more than a half hour, he still found it a bit disconcerting as he stepped out, the noise and bustle of the street a jarring contrast to the peacefulness of the store.
He wasted no time in picking up the toiletries, feeling one of the rare headaches which sometimes assaulted him beginning to form behind his eyes. It would not be long, he knew, before even the gloomy light of the overcast sky would be too much, and the noise which assaulted him as he set out across the street was nearly overwhelming.
A sudden scream, followed by the staccato beats of a horse given its head, had him diving to the sidewalk, barely avoiding the carriage as it careened around the corner, the driver cursing and yelling a warning as he struggled to regain control.
For several moments the only sound was the harsh beat of his heart in his ears, and the metallic tang of copper filled his mouth as he struggled to regain control of his suddenly shaking limbs.
His chest ached when he managed to make it to his feet, as though a tight band had been wrapped too tightly around his breast. The air stuttered in his lungs, and he fought the almost overwhelming urge to curl up on the dirty street, hide his face from the world and let all that was passing around him fade into the blackness of oblivion.
Someone grabbed his hand, and it was only his iron control which prevented him from lashing out, remembering only at the last instant that there was no danger to him on the familiar street, and it would be beyond humiliating to strike a helpful shopkeeper or passing gentleman.
“Come on, Mr. ‘Olmes,” a child’s voice prompted, and the hand in his tugged once more.
Recognizing a familiar presence, though he was still too dazed to take in more than the slight figure and too dirty clothes, Holmes allowed himself to be dragged off the street and into a side alley. He stood, hunched and gasping for breath, clutching his chest as pain blossomed throughout his middle. The boy stood fearfully by his side, uncertain and hesitant, yet unwilling to leave his charge.
“Don’t worry, Mr. ‘Olmes. We’ll take care of ye! Just please, ‘old on!” the boy pleaded.
He helped Holmes as he staggered back against a slimy brick wall, sliding down it’s slick surface without a care for the smell or filth. He continued to gasp for breath as a small hand rested on his shoulder, fighting nausea and pain as he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the bricks.
He would be all right. He had to be.
***
“They’s comin’, Mr. ‘Olmes! I can see ‘em now!”
The Irregular which had been his steadfast anchor throughout the ordeal suddenly fled, leaving Holmes propped against the wall as he dashed to the mouth of the alley, waving his arms frantically.
“Jasper!” he yelled, and then returned to Holmes’ side.
“Just a bit more, and then yer doctor will be makin’ ye right again,” the boy promised, and Holmes cracked his eyes open to stare into the earnest, mud smeared face.
The child could not have been older than six or seven, with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles which dotted his cheeks and nose. He was missing his two canine teeth and a bottom front tooth, though at that age it could have been the natural course of things rather than from a skirmish. His clothes, rolled at the sleeves and above his boots, were clearly castoffs, patched and stained yet sufficient enough to ward off the remaining chill of spring. As Holmes had observed on the walk over, his feet were shod in sturdy boots, and the cap on his head appeared newer than anything else he wore.
“Who did…you send?” he managed to gasp out, words struggling past the tightness in his throat and the feeling of not enough breath to wheeze the question.
“Me brother, Jasper,” Charlie responded, keeping his eye on the alley even as he gripped Holmes’ shoulder. “’e runs like a ‘orse, ‘e does, and was watchin’ me watch you so’s I wouldn’t mess up too bad. They’re almost ‘ere now!”
A moment later two figures skittered into the alley, Watson with his coat hastily donned and medical bag in hand, no collar or cuffs in sight and his hat perched precariously on his head. His cane was gripped tightly in his hand, and his face was near gray with fear.
“Holmes!” he shouted when he saw his friend slumped against the wall, hastening over to him and nearly falling to his knees in his haste to reach his side. “What happened?” he demanded of the two boys, even as he ran quick hands over Holmes shuddering body, looking for injury.
“ A carriage almost ran ‘im over,” the new boy explained, gasping for breath with hands on knees as he struggled to speak.
His hair was just as curly and ginger as Charlie’s, and his face so spotted with freckles it looked as though his cheeks and nose were brown rather than his brother’s pale pink.
“’E fell and was gaspin’ like, clutchin’ ‘is chest,” Charlie continued. “I grabbed ‘im and tugged ‘im in ‘ere.”
“Holmes?” Watson asked, placing his hands on either side of the other’s face, tilting his head down so he could look into his eyes. “You need to clam your breathing, old boy. Try and follow me. In -” Watson took a deep breath, Holmes echoing the motion in a shuddering gasp, “- and out.”
They repeated the exercise several times, until Holmes’ breathing began to calm, and his hand slowly relaxed the tight grip he had on his chest.
“That’s it, just keep breathing. Slow and easy,” Watson soothed, pulling out his stethoscope and fitting it into his ears even as he continued to speak gently. “You’re safe now, Holmes, no one is going to hurt you, I promise. Deep breath in, that’s it.”
He listened to his friend’s racing heart, frowning in concentration as the noises from the street kept interfering.
“I need to get you home. Do you think you can stand?” he asked worriedly, running a critical eye over too pale skin bathed in perspiration and the continued hitching of his breath.
“If I have to crawl! Get me out of here!” Holmes growled, and with the help of all three managed to make it to his feet.
He leaned heavily against Watson’s side, breathing in the scent of him and allowing the smells of tobacco and soap and Watson to wash over him. When he was no longer swaying, the four of them made their way back to Baker Street, Charlie clutching Holmes’ purchases to his chest as though they were a rare and priceless treasure.
None paid attention to the odd looks they received, and when they entered 221 B, Holmes was too exhausted and brittle to do more than offer his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as she wrapped him in a blanket and made distressed sounds. Watson led him up the stairs, the two Irregulars trailing hesitantly behind him, and when he sank down onto his bed, he could only attempt to smile reassurance at them as they hovered in the doorway.
“You lads go and sit in the other room,” Watson urged when he followed Holmes’ gaze. “Mrs. Hudson should be bringing up some tea soon, and you can ask her for some sandwiches.”
The boys did as instructed, Charlie still clinging to the tightly wrapped parcels as his brother led him out of the doorway with an arm around his shoulders, discreetly closing the door behind them.
“Come on, old boy, let’s get you out of these clothes and into something more comfortable,” Watson prompted, already working on removing Holmes’ shoes and socks. “You’re covered in something, probably from that alley. I doubt you’ll want to wear these trousers again until they’ve been cleaned.”
“They’ve certainly acquired an odor,” Holmes agreed, trembling fingers unbuttoning his coat and removing the garment with distaste. “Please give Mrs. Hudson my apologies,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he set about working on his shirt. “The poor women has to deal with enough rotten smells in the kitchen as is.”
“Holmes,” Watson scolded, though his lips twitched and a small chuckle escaped before he could control himself. “Really, you should be more easy on her.”
“Not until she admits to intentionally using the soured milk in the tea that day,” Holmes vowed, and shuddered, either in remembrance of the incident or from a hidden chill.
“Come on, off with the clothes and then under the covers,” Watson prompted, and between them it was only a matter of minutes before Holmes was dressed in a warm nightshirt and wrapped in blankets.
“Now hush a moment, I need silence.” Watson exhaled heavily on the cool metal of the stethoscope and placed it against Holmes’ bare chest, where the laces of the nightshirt gaped. Despite his precaution, Holmes flinched at the touch, and the doctor placed a steadying hand on his arm.
The room was quiet save for their breathing, Holmes keeping his expression carefully blank as his friend listened intently. Finally, after several minutes, Watson removed the buds from his ears and smiled reassuringly.
“I hear no disturbance, Holmes, nothing to be worried about. Your heart is fine.” He squeezed Holmes’ arm and smiled at the relieved expression which flitted across the other’s face. “You should try and get some rest now. You’ve had a very busy day!” he teased gently.
“It’s barely half past two!” Holmes protested, though his argument was ruined by a wide yawn chasing his words.
“And you barely slept last night, if at all,” Watson reminded, tugging the blankets a bit closer around his shoulders. “You’re exhausted and your nerves are in shreds, old boy.”
“I know,” Holmes sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. “But if I sleep now I won’t be able to do so tonight, and I am loath to rely too heavily upon your aids, Doctor. We both know the danger they present to me.”
“I do, but in my medical opinion, one night of using them will not harm you. If you have trouble tomorrow night, we will think of something else,” Watson promised, cutting off the argument he could see forming on Holmes’ lips. “Trust me, Holmes.”
Holmes snorted rudely, earning a satisfied grin as Watson stood.
“I’ll go make sure the children are not making a nuisance of themselves. You close your eyes and rest,” he ordered.
Holmes couldn’t help the smile as he did so, humming softly as once more the blankets were rearranged to his friend’s satisfaction, and then a soft, whiskered kiss was placed on his forehead. His eyes snapped open, though he was too stunned to do more than blink.
Doubt started to creep into Watson’s eyes, lips already starting to form an apology, when Holmes reached up and gently touched his cheek, his lips curling into a beatific grin.
“Thank you,” he whispered, allowing his hand to linger a moment longer on the smooth flesh before drawing it back under the coverlet.
“Get some rest,” Watson murmured. He hesitated, licking his lips nervously before leaning down and placing another deliberate kiss, this one upon Holmes’ cheek. Then he turned and hastily left the room, as though afraid of the reaction he would receive.
Holmes lay still for a very long time, hand coming to rest on his cheek as his mind whirled with thoughts too filled with emotion to clearly be dissected. For the first time in his life, however, he found he did not care.
***
Part 6