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Soldier's Heart Part 12 of 15
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 12
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Author's notes: Thanks always forenkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
They curled comfortably on Holmes’ bed, dressed in their underclothes and nothing else as they wrapped around each other, Watson’s head on Holmes’ chest with Holmes’ arms firmly around him, their legs tangled and toes brushing. The blankets surrounded them in a warm cocoon, and it was only several hours later, at a hesitant knock on the door, that they woke, the last vestiges of the sun painting the room shades of pink and purple.
Hesitant to leave the comfort of the bed, Holmes disentangled himself reluctantly and pulled on his dressing grown, stumbling to the door. When he opened it only far enough to see out, he was greeted by a small, brown-haired maid who smiled up at him.
“Mrs. Everman says supper will be ready in another hour, and you and the doctor should come downstairs so’s we can drain the tub and put the room to rights,” she whispered, as though hesitant to disturb the other occupant of the room.
“Thank you, Clara,” Holmes murmured, smiling despite his embarrassment at the implication of the words. “You may tell Mrs. Everman we’ll be down in a quarter hour.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, and hastily curtseyed before he could close the door.
Holmes smiled fondly after her, remembering how only five years previous she had been a homeless flower seller, hawking her wares on the corners of Baker Street and whichever location Holmes had directed her to. She had been, of course, one of his little Irregulars, and an invaluable source of information.
“Holmes?” Watson called sleepily, his head poking up above the covers to stare blurrily over at him. “Who was that? Is anything - oh, bloody hell!”
This last was gasped as he fell back, groaning as the exertions of the day finally caught up to him.
“Mrs. Everman has requested that we come down a bit early, so that the tub may be drained and the room put back to rights,” Holmes explained, smiling as he made his way over to the bed and the head of red-tinged blond. He had to laugh at the way the strands stuck up in random directions, a look far more appropriate to his own untended hair than to Watson’s. “I suggest you get up and start to move a bit, you’ll be stiff as a plank if you don’t.”
“Yes, yes,” Watson groaned, still making no move to do so. “Just give me a moment while I get over the agonizing pain!”
“As you wish. However, I don’t advise being in here when the servants come to make the bed. It may make things a bit awkward.”
Watson groaned again, far more dramatically, and pushed himself into a sitting position to scowl at his lover.
“You,” he snapped, throwing the blankets aside with an irritated motion, “are an annoying bastard.”
“Yes, but I’m your annoying bastard, and you love me,” Holmes replied easily, smirking as he bent down to kiss Watson on the lips firmly. “Besides, knowing Mrs. Everman, she probably has a poultice waiting for you.”
“Oh, Lord, I need it,” Watson agreed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and hissing. The majority of the bruises were hidden by his smallclothes, but Holmes remembered very well the purpling shades that had colored Watson’s ribs.
“After dinner I’ll rub some liniment into your bruises,” he promised, offering Watson a hand to help him to his feet. He winced in sympathy at Watson’s grimace and indrawn breath.
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, slightly worried he may have overlooked a cracked or broken rib in his earlier examinations.
“No, no I’ll be fine. I’m just not as young as I used to be and, good God, rugby is a young man’s game!” he swore fervently, though his grin was just as fierce as it had been that morning on learning about the match. “ I doubt I’ll be doing this again any time soon.”
Holmes wisely refrained from comment and instead provided Watson a shoulder to lean on until he could retrieve his cane, limping heavily as he dressed and put himself back to rights.
Holmes, keeping nearby in case of a stumble, smiled fondly as the doctor cursed on seeing his hair.
“I’m not the only one who needs to dress,” he reminded Holmes pointedly, not looking away from the mirror as he ran his brush through his hair and pomaded the wild mess. “And if you think my hair is a sight, wait until you see your own.”
Holmes’ grin widened.
***
Mrs. Everman did indeed have a poultice waiting, a towel which smelled strongly of herbs and had been set by the fire in the library to keep warm. Watson accepted it gratefully as he sank down into his customary chair, allowing his head to fall back and his eyes to close as he groaned in appreciation.
Holmes watched him in amusement as he took his own habitual seat on the settee, legs curled up under him as he watched Watson blindly place the towel over his thigh.
The doctor’s left eye had swollen to a dark blue around the outside edge, though his vision did not seem to be at all impaired and the cut had been shallow. It was already scabbed over, needing no further tending than a quick rinse with clean water to remove any lingering traces of blood.
“I must admit, old boy, I rather like having our situations reversed for once,” Holmes teased, smiling fondly as Watson scowled without opening his eyes. “Perhaps you should play a few more matches.”
“Now you’re just being vindictive,” Watson sighed, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. “Can’t you tell I’m in unbearable pain?”
“Oh, yes,” Holmes agreed in false sympathy, his voice practically dripping with it. “You poor, poor thing. However shall I tend to you, in your hour of suffering?”
“Hush,” Watson groaned, finally opening his eyes to glare. “The least you could do is pour me a brandy.”
“That I can do,” Holmes agreed, laughing silently as he uncurled from his relaxed sprawl and set about doing as instructed, pouring a generous glass for himself, as well. “Here you go, my dear.”
Watson accepted the drink eagerly, smiling his thanks as he took an appreciative sip.
“Mr. Holmes?” Clara peeked her head around the door, reluctant to intrude on the men’s sanctuary but obviously having been sent with a message. Holmes motioned her in and Watson peered at her curiously, as though trying to remember where he had seen her before. “Mrs. Everman would like you to know that we’re settling the doctor’s things into your room, and that it should be all set by the time dinner is finished,” she reported faithfully.
Out of the corner of his eye Holmes could see Watson turning a dark shade of red, though the other man fought valiantly to hide his embarrassment. Clara, however, with an eye trained under Holmes’ tutelage and the demands of the street, noticed as well and covered her mouth as she giggled.
“It’s all right, Doctor,” she soothed, smiling cheekily as she turned her attention his way. “We all knew you and Mr. Holmes fancied each other. No offense, but we always did think you a bit balmy for leaving him as you did.”
“Clara, enough,” Holmes cautioned, shooing her out of the room as she bobbed her head in a quick curtsey, still grinning, and left, leaving an open mouthed Watson behind and his friend smiling indulgently.
“What -” Watson finally managed to gasp out, looking from the door to Holmes and back again.
“Surely you remember Clara the flower seller?” Holmes asked, still smiling as he took a sip of his brandy and settled himself back into the cushions of the settee.
“Little Clara?” Watson asked, once more turning his attention back to the open door, as though expecting to see the maid appear again. “The one who broke her wrist trying to fight off that man who stole her basket?”
“The one and the same,” Holmes grinned, enjoying the other’s expression of dismay. “Truly, Watson, you can’t imagine there is much money to be made in selling flowers, can you?”
“Well, no, but -” Watson stuttered, obviously trying to come to terms with his friend’s magnanimity. “I just hadn’t realized you had given her a position.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Everman came into the room, looking more harried than usual, her tight bun escaping in wisps of grey hair around her plump cheeks. “Your brother just sent a telegram! He’s to be joining you by the end of the week, and bringing three of the boys with him. Goodness, this will be the first time you’ve both been home in ages!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in her excitement.
“Three boys for what?” Watson asked curiously, smiling despite his confusion at the woman’s obvious glee.
“Why, for training, Doctor!” Mrs. Everman explained, as though the answer should have been obvious. At his continued confusion, she turned her eyes to Holmes, as though expecting an answer from him.
Holmes stared deeply into his brandy, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.
“He never told you?” she asked, turning back to Watson with a look of mixed horror and disbelief.
“Told me what?” Watson demanded, looking over to Holmes as well. “Holmes, what have you not told me this time?”
“It’s nothing, Watson,” Holmes sniffed, taking a large drink from his glass. “Mrs. Everman is easily excited.”
“Oh, stop you!” she scolded, making a swatting motion with her hand. “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I can’t believe you never told him!”
“Told me what?” Watson snapped, his patience finally starting to wear thin.
“Why, that when his children get too old for the streets, Mr. Holmes has them sent to us for training and placement of proper jobs!” she explained, keeping a glare firmly on the man in question. “My boys and girls train them up proper like and then help them settle in their new positions. They’re such hard workers, bless them, everyone wants to hire them. Why, we already have several inquiries. Mr. Hampshire will be so excited to learn he’s finally going to be able to fill his stableboy position!”
“Mrs. Everman -” Holmes protested, finally returning her glare with one of his own. “Please.”
“No, do go on,” Watson insisted, motioning for Holmes to be silent. “I had no idea.”
“There really isn’t anything to say, Watson,” Holmes muttered, not letting up on his glare until Mrs. Everman let out a put upon sigh and left, patting Watson’s shoulder in sympathy as she did so and calling over her shoulder, “Dinner will be set in a half hour!”
“Truly, Holmes,” Watson observed, admiration suffusing his words. “Why did you never tell me you did such a thing for your little army?”
“It wasn’t important,” Holmes grumbled, finishing off his brandy and standing to replace the glass on the sideboard. At his questioning glance Watson held up his still half full glass and shook his head, though he did not abandon his questioning.
“How many Irregulars have you found positions for?”
Realizing he wouldn’t be able to drop the subject until Watson’s curiosity had been satisfied, Holmes threw himself back into his seat and scowled at the ceiling.
“All of them,” he said, not letting Watson get another question in before adding, “Since I first started using their services in, oh, 1878 or so. Young Dominic Grandige. My brother had an associate who needed a young lad to work in his smithy, and Dominic was quite capable of it. Mycroft arranged for his training and it’s been rather a tradition ever since.”
For several minutes the only sound in the room was the fire crackling and Watson’s finishing off his brandy.
“Until the day I die I think you shall always continue to amaze me,” Watson said fondly. He twirled the empty glass between his fingers, gazing so adoringly at Holmes that the other man began to blush under his attention.
“I’m not a hero, Watson,” Holmes protested, curling his legs tighter under him.
“To them you are,” was Watson’s only reply.
***
Dinner passed quietly, and shortly after finishing their cigars in the library, they both agreed to call it an early night. Despite the hour and their nap from previous, both men were exhausted from the day’s activities, and it was with an unspoken relief that they climbed the stairs to their room, another of Mrs. Everman’s poultices in hand to ease the ache of Watson’s thigh which had only increased as the night wore on.
Both men blushed when they entered the room to find two nightshirts placed enticingly on the bed, the covers turned down and a fire burning steadily. It was a cozy, welcoming atmosphere, and Holmes wondered briefly if Baker Street would be quite so welcoming when they returned.
He hastily pushed such thoughts aside as he changed and brushed his teeth, ridding his mouth of the lingering taste of cigar and brandy. Beside him, Watson did likewise, the two of them sharing the basin easily, finishing their grooming and falling into bed eagerly to curl around each other.
“Did you want me to rub that liniment into your muscles? You’ll be a bit better off tomorrow if I do,” Holmes asked, absently running a hand over Watson’s ribs, his finger unerringly finding the bruises through the cloth of his nightshirt and ghosting over them.
“Yes, I suppose you should,” Watson agreed.
He only moaned quietly when Holmes gently applied the strong smelling cream, taking care to make sure every inch of skin which sported a discoloration was covered. When he was done, the small jar placed back in Watson’s bag, the two of them settled comfortably and extinguished the candles by the bed.
They kissed slowly, lazily, for some time, though there was no ardor behind the kisses. Hands only wandered so far as to caress a shoulder or twine their fingers, and it seemed that between one kiss and the other, they both were asleep.
It was not a restful night for Holmes, however. Despite the day’s activities, or perhaps because of them, his dreams were dark, filled with the sounds of screaming and bodies colliding. When he woke, sweating and shivering in the middle of the night, his gut twisting unpleasantly and his hands clenched tightly under his chin, he found himself nearly gasping for breath as he forced his mind away from the unpleasant experience. Instead, he tried to focus on Watson’s deep, even breathing beside him.
He gazed wearily at his friend’s face, so close he could count the eyelashes if he chose. He concentrated on the smooth contours of his cheeks, the way his mouth was slightly parted, the delicate flesh of eyelids.
When his heart had stopped racing quite so frantically, Holmes slowly disentangled himself from the bed and made his way blindly to the facility. He thanked God with a fervor he rarely employed that Mycroft had had the foresight to update the plumbing in recent years as he spent nearly a quarter hour huddled and shivering in the dark room, cursing his body and his weakness.
Once the episode had passed he made his way back to the bedroom, pausing briefly to wipe tepid water over his face to eliminate the sweat from his nightmare and stomach trouble, then climbed back into the bed. His limbs felt leaden, and although he did not relish the thought of attempting to sleep again, he was too exhausted to fight its pull.
“All right?” Watson asked drowsily beside him as he started to drift off. “You were gone for a while.”
“Summer complaint,” Holmes mumbled, too sleep muddled to lie. “Fine now. Sleep.”
He felt a delicate touch at his brow and did not try to resist, instead letting himself fall, if not gratefully, then resignedly, into the sleep that beckoned.
There were no more dreams.
***
When morning came, Watson was the first to rouse. Weak sunlight entered the room grudgingly, casting shadows over the furniture and signaling an approaching rainstorm. Beside him, brow creased slightly even in sleep, Holmes curled around his pillow, legs drawn close to his body as though he were cold. Watson drew the blanket closer about his lover, making certain it was snug under his chin. Then he lay back and regarded the other man fondly.
Thick black hair fanned the pale face in wild tangles, and Watson delicately tucked a strand behind the shell of a perfect ear. Beneath his fingers Holmes twitched, a hand jerking absently in sleep to swipe at the touch.
Watson smiled fondly at the movement and took pity, remembering his lover’s long absence in the middle of the night and his confession of sickness. It was not an uncommon affliction, though the doctor knew his friend found the whole business distasteful and even shameful. Such a weakness of the body that could not be controlled or marshaled was a personal affront to the detective, and Watson doubted that Holmes would take kindly to the knowledge that such bouts would probably plague him for a while.
Deciding to let his friend sleep, he slowly untangled himself from his blankets and set about his morning ablutions, wincing at his own pains and aches. His leg throbbed gently in time with his heart, and his muscles resented the workout they had received the day before, but overall he felt he had managed to escape lightly.
He shaved quietly and washed his face, poking absently at his now thoroughly blackened eye, then dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, abstaining from collar and cuffs until it was nearer time for breakfast.
Retrieving his writing journal and pen from his bag, he settled himself comfortably at the desk near the window, the dim light forcing him to turn up the gas slightly. When Holmes showed no sign of consciousness, Watson turned his full attention to setting down yet another of Holmes’ adventures.
It was an exercise he had not enjoyed in quite some time, and soon was lost in fond memories and the attempt to capture Holmes’ brilliance for the world to enjoy.
***
The sound of a pen scratching was at once familiar and comforting. It penetrated his sleep and brought him back to the world slowly. For a long while he lay, happily content in the warm blankets and the peaceful room, listening to Watson scribble down his romantic fantasies.
He moved his legs slightly, easing into a more relaxed position, and felt his body protest. His stomach, still aching hollowly from the night before, was a distant annoyance, as was the throbbing in his head. He ignored them, concentrating instead on the blanket pulled up to his chin, the soft pillow beneath his head, and the sheets so well woven it was like sleeping on a bed of moss.
He hummed contentedly to himself, still more asleep than awake, and shifted again simply to revel in the luxury of being so comfortable. The scribbling stopped, followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back and then a loud, deep groan.
Holmes couldn’t help himself and started to laugh, a snickering chortle that he tried to stifle as he turned his face into the pillow. Another ill concealed moan of discomfort as Watson pulled himself to a standing position had Holmes clutching his stomach.
“Forgot yourself, did you?” he gasped out between chuckles, finally opening his eyes to blink lazily up at his lover, who stood leaning heavily against the back of the chair, glaring at him.
The look should have been intimidating. It was one of Watson’s finer efforts, and normally he would have accepted the other man’s irritation and backed off. The sight of him, though, eye blackened roguishly, weight resting against the furniture as his muscles protested the previous day’s abuse, set him off again, and he found himself wheezing for breath as merriment overtook him.
“Stop, stop,” he managed, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Don’t make me laugh!”
“This is what I get for trying to immortalize your exploits!” Watson mock growled. He could not hide his twitching lips, however, or the way his eyes were squinting against the urge to laugh, himself. “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, it’s not that funny!”
“Yes, yes it is!” Holmes protested, finally managing to bring in a deep breath, wincing as his own muscles protested. “Oh, Watson, if you could only see yourself. Such a dashing fellow, saving the chair from being swept away by an errant gust of wind!”
“That’s it!” Watson swore, limping over to the bed and throwing himself on top of it, beating Holmes soundly with the nearest pillow at hand.
By the time they managed to settle down the bed was a mess of twisted blankets, lumpy pillows, and the two men who lay tangled together, legs wrapped around each other and heads resting close.
“Feeling better?” Holmes asked, running a hand slowly up Watson’s side, gently smoothing over bruised ribs and abused muscles.
“Yes, actually,” Watson chuckled, caressing Holmes’ cheek. “How about you? I was a bit worried last night, you were gone for so long.”
Holmes snorted, rolling his eyes at the question. “I was gone barely fifteen minutes, mother hen. It was just an attack of the summer complaint and I’m feeling much better.”
“It was twenty-six minutes, and you were pale as a ghost and shaking when you came back,” Watson admonished, moving his hand from Holmes’ cheek to his forehead. “I woke when you left the bed and checked the time, and then again when you came back. Do you know what set it off? Were you feeling sick yesterday? You didn’t mention anything, but then again, you rarely ever do.”
Holmes scowled as Watson’s tone turned clinical, the doctor’s eyes inspecting his face as he felt for fever.
“Must you be so - so medical?” Holmes asked plaintively, moving his head away from the cool hand pressed against his brow. “Whatever happened to the romance? The mystery? Aren’t you even going to try to woo me anymore?”
Watson laughed at the shameless play on his affections and leaned closer to press a kiss to the tip of Holmes’ nose.
“I thought you were the one who wanted the romance and mystery to be left out in favor of keeping to the facts and the facts alone,” he replied, grinning unrepentantly at Holmes’ scowl. It was not often he could throw the detective’s words back at him, and he was enjoying the exchange greatly.
“I may have to amend my opinion on that,” Holmes muttered mutinously. “Faced with your implacable medical inclinations!” This last was said accusingly, as though Watson’s medical concerns were something he found distasteful.
“How about a compromise?” Watson asked, pushing himself up on his elbows so he could lean over Holmes, their faces nearly touching and his breath ghosting over Holmes’ cheek as he spoke. “I will woo you,” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss to Holmes’ lips. “And give you plenty of romance.” Another kiss followed, this one deeper and more passionate. “And you will be honest and upfront with me about your condition.”
Holmes returned the kisses just as passionately, his lips curling into a smile as Watson eased himself back down to rest his head once more next to Holmes’, grinning in return.
“You have become much more cunning and underhanded over the years, Watson,” Holmes whispered, closing the distance between them for another kiss, this one gentle and lazy.
“Is that a yes?” Watson asked, lips still pressed to Holmes’.
Holmes snickered, moving back slightly to look into his friend’s eyes without crossing his own, grinning in fond exasperation. “That is an… I will try.”
“Good,” Watson murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him once more. “Now, do you feel ready to get up? I think breakfast should be almost done, and we may wish to make an appearance.”
“Yes, I think I can do that,” Holmes agreed, bestowing one last kiss before he pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing slightly as his stomach protested. “Though perhaps I should refrain from eating for a bit.”
“Still a bit touchy?” Watson asked sympathetically, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand.
“A bit,” Holmes sighed, his hand splayed over his stomach as he pushed away from the bed. “I’ll be a few minutes in the facility, I fear.”
Watson watched him go, frowning slightly despite the earlier levity. He doubted Holmes would appreciate his concern, though, and so instead turned his attention to finishing getting dressed.
When Holmes rejoined him a few minutes later he looked a bit paler than normal, though his smile was genuine and he touched Watson’s shoulder briefly as he passed him to reach the basin for his own ablutions.
“All right?” Watson couldn’t help asking, and received a put upon sigh for his efforts.
“I’m fine, mother hen,” Holmes assured him, washing his face and chest with a damp flannel before discarding his nightshirt to quickly wash the rest of his body.
Watson leaned back against the dresser to watch in open appreciation, smiling at Holmes’ raised eyebrow. Though the two of them had been to the Turkish baths several times, this was the first time Watson had ever been allowed to stare openly in appreciation, and he found himself grinning from pure delight as Holmes finished.
He said nothing, however, as his friend continued to dress, and instead set about putting his writings away and helping Holmes do up his cuffs. With a quick press of lips, the two of them set off for breakfast, shoulders brushing as they made their way downstairs.
***
The heavens opened up shortly after they sat down, the rain lashing the windows of the dinning room loudly, the room dark enough that the gas had to be turned up so they could see their meals.
Mrs. Everman tutted over Holmes’ lack of appetite and Watson‘s black eye, but seeing Watson’s slight shake of the head, didn’t comment other than to offer them both more juice. When breakfast was finished, the two men retired once more to the library, since the weather made it inadvisable to do anything out of doors.
They settled down before the fire, hot tea and biscuits laid out for them, and spent the better part of the morning reading and idly chatting about whatever caught their fancy. They made plans for their return to Baker Street, operas and plays they wished to attend, and the possibility of Holmes resuming cases.
“We’ll see,” was all Watson would concede to, earning a pout from the detective.
Near midday lunch was announced, and once more they retired to the dining room, though Holmes barely touched his food and winced at the bright light from the lamps.
“Headache?” Watson asked softly, watching as Holmes listlessly moved his roast chicken about his plate with his fork, nibbling a bite every now and then but grimacing as he did so.
“Yes,” Holmes admitted grudgingly, giving up on any pretense of eating and pushing his plate away from him. “I fear it may be one of my bad ones, old boy. If you don’t mind, I think I may go lie down for a while.”
“Would you like something to help?” Watson asked cautiously, trying not to wince at the hurt look which flashed in Holmes’ eyes before he turned his head.
“No,” he answered shortly, pushing himself away from the table and standing wearily. “I promised, Watson,” he said softly, looking into his friend’s eyes only long enough for his seriousness to be marked.
“I know,” Watson soothed, laying his own meal aside as he stood and made his way around the table to place a comforting hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “But I know your headaches, Holmes, and if you should need help, you have only to ask. There’s no shame in taking something when it’s warranted.”
Holmes hung his head a moment, as though the weight of it was too much for him, and then nodded. He squeezed Watson’s hand before removing it from his shoulder and making his way out of the room towards the stairs. Watson watched him go worriedly, hesitating before returning to his meal. He knew his friend would not wish him to hover, and determined he would wait a half hour before making an attempt to check on him.
When Mrs. Everman came into the room ten minutes later, she cast Watson a worried look at Holmes’ absence.
“He has a bit of a headache, Mrs. Everman,” he assured her, pouring himself another cup of tea as he lingered over his own half-finished meal.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, shaking her head as she started to clear Holmes’ side of the table. “The poor thing always did suffer them, even as a child. I doubt he’ll be wanting anything for the rest of the day.”
“No, I don’t think he will,” Watson agreed. “Does Mycroft suffer such afflictions? Holmes hasn’t mentioned anything, but I’ve noticed that such conditions tend to run in families.”
Now that he had the chance to ask the housekeeper about his friend’s past and family, Watson found himself struggling not to overstep his bounds. If he kept the questions medical, he assuaged his conscience, it wasn’t truly a breach of his friend’s privacy.
“Not nearly to the extent of Mr. Sherlock, but yes, he does,” Mrs. Everman sighed. She paused, hands filled with plates and empty bowls. “Their mother suffered from them as well, God rest her,” she added, turning to leave. “If you need anything, just ring and one of the lasses will see to it,” she called.
Watson digested the new information, wondering what other ailments ran in his friend’s family, before deciding he had left Holmes alone long enough. He finished his tea and made his way back upstairs, entering their room quietly.
The bed was empty, the lights turned off to spare Holmes’ head, and for a moment he wondered where his friend had got to. Then the sound of retching reached his ears, and he made his way quickly to the closed door of the facility.
The knob turned easily in his hand, and he was thankful he had not been locked out when he entered the small room to find Holmes knelt before the toilet, coughing piteously into the bowl.
“All right, old boy,” he whispered softly, moving to place a gentle hand on Holmes’ back, resting it gently to see if it would be accepted. He knew from experience that sometimes the headaches would make the other man over sensitized to any form of contact, but Holmes seemed to welcome his presence and did not make any move to escape the touch.
For several minutes Watson sat beside him, rubbing a soothing circle on his back as he struggled to bring up whatever was in his stomach, spitting bile and looking pale and wan in the shadows. When the fit finally seemed to have passed, Watson allowed him to rest with his head against he cool porcelain as he retrieved one of the flannels by the basin in the bedroom, wetting it thoroughly and then bringing it into the bathroom to lay it across the back of Holmes’ neck.
“Do you think you can make it to the bed?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, and at Holmes tentative nod, helped him to his feet. “Just keep your eyes closed, I’ll guide you.”
Holmes’ face was devoid of color as he stepped into the slightly more illuminated bedroom, lines about his eyes and across his forehead signaling his pain level. Watson slid an arm around his waist and placed the other under his elbow, guiding him to the bed and helping him settle. He placed the damp cloth over his eyes as he pulled the blanket up to his chin, keeping his movements slow to decrease any noise he might make. Holmes had already removed his waistcoat, collar and cuffs, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, so he had no fear for his friend’s ease of movement.
Once Holmes was as comfortable as he could make him, Watson retrieved a rubbish bin from beside the writing desk and placed it by the bed.
“If you feel sick again, the bin is on the floor,” he whispered. At Holmes nod, he continued. “Would you like something for the pain?”
Holmes hesitated, which was answer enough as far as Watson was concerned, and he moved to retrieve his medical bag. He prepared the syringe quickly, and within only a few moments had injected the morphine into his friend’s arm, watching as the lines of pain slowly started to fade.
“Get some rest. If you need me, I’ll be in the other room reading.”
Holmes nodded again, one hand worming its way out of the blanket to grope blindly for Watson’s. The doctor squeezed it gently before placing it back under the covers, kissing Holmes’ cheek tenderly before retrieving a book from his valise and making his way to the adjoining room.
He settled comfortably on the bed, turned the gas up a bit so he didn’t strain his eyes, and turned his attention to his book. He kept his ears open, however, for any indication that his lover was in distress, and did not relax fully until he checked on Holmes some forty-five minutes later to find him deeply asleep.
***
Part 13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .They curled comfortably on Holmes’ bed, dressed in their underclothes and nothing else as they wrapped around each other, Watson’s head on Holmes’ chest with Holmes’ arms firmly around him, their legs tangled and toes brushing. The blankets surrounded them in a warm cocoon, and it was only several hours later, at a hesitant knock on the door, that they woke, the last vestiges of the sun painting the room shades of pink and purple.
Hesitant to leave the comfort of the bed, Holmes disentangled himself reluctantly and pulled on his dressing grown, stumbling to the door. When he opened it only far enough to see out, he was greeted by a small, brown-haired maid who smiled up at him.
“Mrs. Everman says supper will be ready in another hour, and you and the doctor should come downstairs so’s we can drain the tub and put the room to rights,” she whispered, as though hesitant to disturb the other occupant of the room.
“Thank you, Clara,” Holmes murmured, smiling despite his embarrassment at the implication of the words. “You may tell Mrs. Everman we’ll be down in a quarter hour.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, and hastily curtseyed before he could close the door.
Holmes smiled fondly after her, remembering how only five years previous she had been a homeless flower seller, hawking her wares on the corners of Baker Street and whichever location Holmes had directed her to. She had been, of course, one of his little Irregulars, and an invaluable source of information.
“Holmes?” Watson called sleepily, his head poking up above the covers to stare blurrily over at him. “Who was that? Is anything - oh, bloody hell!”
This last was gasped as he fell back, groaning as the exertions of the day finally caught up to him.
“Mrs. Everman has requested that we come down a bit early, so that the tub may be drained and the room put back to rights,” Holmes explained, smiling as he made his way over to the bed and the head of red-tinged blond. He had to laugh at the way the strands stuck up in random directions, a look far more appropriate to his own untended hair than to Watson’s. “I suggest you get up and start to move a bit, you’ll be stiff as a plank if you don’t.”
“Yes, yes,” Watson groaned, still making no move to do so. “Just give me a moment while I get over the agonizing pain!”
“As you wish. However, I don’t advise being in here when the servants come to make the bed. It may make things a bit awkward.”
Watson groaned again, far more dramatically, and pushed himself into a sitting position to scowl at his lover.
“You,” he snapped, throwing the blankets aside with an irritated motion, “are an annoying bastard.”
“Yes, but I’m your annoying bastard, and you love me,” Holmes replied easily, smirking as he bent down to kiss Watson on the lips firmly. “Besides, knowing Mrs. Everman, she probably has a poultice waiting for you.”
“Oh, Lord, I need it,” Watson agreed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and hissing. The majority of the bruises were hidden by his smallclothes, but Holmes remembered very well the purpling shades that had colored Watson’s ribs.
“After dinner I’ll rub some liniment into your bruises,” he promised, offering Watson a hand to help him to his feet. He winced in sympathy at Watson’s grimace and indrawn breath.
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, slightly worried he may have overlooked a cracked or broken rib in his earlier examinations.
“No, no I’ll be fine. I’m just not as young as I used to be and, good God, rugby is a young man’s game!” he swore fervently, though his grin was just as fierce as it had been that morning on learning about the match. “ I doubt I’ll be doing this again any time soon.”
Holmes wisely refrained from comment and instead provided Watson a shoulder to lean on until he could retrieve his cane, limping heavily as he dressed and put himself back to rights.
Holmes, keeping nearby in case of a stumble, smiled fondly as the doctor cursed on seeing his hair.
“I’m not the only one who needs to dress,” he reminded Holmes pointedly, not looking away from the mirror as he ran his brush through his hair and pomaded the wild mess. “And if you think my hair is a sight, wait until you see your own.”
Holmes’ grin widened.
***
Mrs. Everman did indeed have a poultice waiting, a towel which smelled strongly of herbs and had been set by the fire in the library to keep warm. Watson accepted it gratefully as he sank down into his customary chair, allowing his head to fall back and his eyes to close as he groaned in appreciation.
Holmes watched him in amusement as he took his own habitual seat on the settee, legs curled up under him as he watched Watson blindly place the towel over his thigh.
The doctor’s left eye had swollen to a dark blue around the outside edge, though his vision did not seem to be at all impaired and the cut had been shallow. It was already scabbed over, needing no further tending than a quick rinse with clean water to remove any lingering traces of blood.
“I must admit, old boy, I rather like having our situations reversed for once,” Holmes teased, smiling fondly as Watson scowled without opening his eyes. “Perhaps you should play a few more matches.”
“Now you’re just being vindictive,” Watson sighed, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. “Can’t you tell I’m in unbearable pain?”
“Oh, yes,” Holmes agreed in false sympathy, his voice practically dripping with it. “You poor, poor thing. However shall I tend to you, in your hour of suffering?”
“Hush,” Watson groaned, finally opening his eyes to glare. “The least you could do is pour me a brandy.”
“That I can do,” Holmes agreed, laughing silently as he uncurled from his relaxed sprawl and set about doing as instructed, pouring a generous glass for himself, as well. “Here you go, my dear.”
Watson accepted the drink eagerly, smiling his thanks as he took an appreciative sip.
“Mr. Holmes?” Clara peeked her head around the door, reluctant to intrude on the men’s sanctuary but obviously having been sent with a message. Holmes motioned her in and Watson peered at her curiously, as though trying to remember where he had seen her before. “Mrs. Everman would like you to know that we’re settling the doctor’s things into your room, and that it should be all set by the time dinner is finished,” she reported faithfully.
Out of the corner of his eye Holmes could see Watson turning a dark shade of red, though the other man fought valiantly to hide his embarrassment. Clara, however, with an eye trained under Holmes’ tutelage and the demands of the street, noticed as well and covered her mouth as she giggled.
“It’s all right, Doctor,” she soothed, smiling cheekily as she turned her attention his way. “We all knew you and Mr. Holmes fancied each other. No offense, but we always did think you a bit balmy for leaving him as you did.”
“Clara, enough,” Holmes cautioned, shooing her out of the room as she bobbed her head in a quick curtsey, still grinning, and left, leaving an open mouthed Watson behind and his friend smiling indulgently.
“What -” Watson finally managed to gasp out, looking from the door to Holmes and back again.
“Surely you remember Clara the flower seller?” Holmes asked, still smiling as he took a sip of his brandy and settled himself back into the cushions of the settee.
“Little Clara?” Watson asked, once more turning his attention back to the open door, as though expecting to see the maid appear again. “The one who broke her wrist trying to fight off that man who stole her basket?”
“The one and the same,” Holmes grinned, enjoying the other’s expression of dismay. “Truly, Watson, you can’t imagine there is much money to be made in selling flowers, can you?”
“Well, no, but -” Watson stuttered, obviously trying to come to terms with his friend’s magnanimity. “I just hadn’t realized you had given her a position.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Everman came into the room, looking more harried than usual, her tight bun escaping in wisps of grey hair around her plump cheeks. “Your brother just sent a telegram! He’s to be joining you by the end of the week, and bringing three of the boys with him. Goodness, this will be the first time you’ve both been home in ages!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in her excitement.
“Three boys for what?” Watson asked curiously, smiling despite his confusion at the woman’s obvious glee.
“Why, for training, Doctor!” Mrs. Everman explained, as though the answer should have been obvious. At his continued confusion, she turned her eyes to Holmes, as though expecting an answer from him.
Holmes stared deeply into his brandy, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.
“He never told you?” she asked, turning back to Watson with a look of mixed horror and disbelief.
“Told me what?” Watson demanded, looking over to Holmes as well. “Holmes, what have you not told me this time?”
“It’s nothing, Watson,” Holmes sniffed, taking a large drink from his glass. “Mrs. Everman is easily excited.”
“Oh, stop you!” she scolded, making a swatting motion with her hand. “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I can’t believe you never told him!”
“Told me what?” Watson snapped, his patience finally starting to wear thin.
“Why, that when his children get too old for the streets, Mr. Holmes has them sent to us for training and placement of proper jobs!” she explained, keeping a glare firmly on the man in question. “My boys and girls train them up proper like and then help them settle in their new positions. They’re such hard workers, bless them, everyone wants to hire them. Why, we already have several inquiries. Mr. Hampshire will be so excited to learn he’s finally going to be able to fill his stableboy position!”
“Mrs. Everman -” Holmes protested, finally returning her glare with one of his own. “Please.”
“No, do go on,” Watson insisted, motioning for Holmes to be silent. “I had no idea.”
“There really isn’t anything to say, Watson,” Holmes muttered, not letting up on his glare until Mrs. Everman let out a put upon sigh and left, patting Watson’s shoulder in sympathy as she did so and calling over her shoulder, “Dinner will be set in a half hour!”
“Truly, Holmes,” Watson observed, admiration suffusing his words. “Why did you never tell me you did such a thing for your little army?”
“It wasn’t important,” Holmes grumbled, finishing off his brandy and standing to replace the glass on the sideboard. At his questioning glance Watson held up his still half full glass and shook his head, though he did not abandon his questioning.
“How many Irregulars have you found positions for?”
Realizing he wouldn’t be able to drop the subject until Watson’s curiosity had been satisfied, Holmes threw himself back into his seat and scowled at the ceiling.
“All of them,” he said, not letting Watson get another question in before adding, “Since I first started using their services in, oh, 1878 or so. Young Dominic Grandige. My brother had an associate who needed a young lad to work in his smithy, and Dominic was quite capable of it. Mycroft arranged for his training and it’s been rather a tradition ever since.”
For several minutes the only sound in the room was the fire crackling and Watson’s finishing off his brandy.
“Until the day I die I think you shall always continue to amaze me,” Watson said fondly. He twirled the empty glass between his fingers, gazing so adoringly at Holmes that the other man began to blush under his attention.
“I’m not a hero, Watson,” Holmes protested, curling his legs tighter under him.
“To them you are,” was Watson’s only reply.
***
Dinner passed quietly, and shortly after finishing their cigars in the library, they both agreed to call it an early night. Despite the hour and their nap from previous, both men were exhausted from the day’s activities, and it was with an unspoken relief that they climbed the stairs to their room, another of Mrs. Everman’s poultices in hand to ease the ache of Watson’s thigh which had only increased as the night wore on.
Both men blushed when they entered the room to find two nightshirts placed enticingly on the bed, the covers turned down and a fire burning steadily. It was a cozy, welcoming atmosphere, and Holmes wondered briefly if Baker Street would be quite so welcoming when they returned.
He hastily pushed such thoughts aside as he changed and brushed his teeth, ridding his mouth of the lingering taste of cigar and brandy. Beside him, Watson did likewise, the two of them sharing the basin easily, finishing their grooming and falling into bed eagerly to curl around each other.
“Did you want me to rub that liniment into your muscles? You’ll be a bit better off tomorrow if I do,” Holmes asked, absently running a hand over Watson’s ribs, his finger unerringly finding the bruises through the cloth of his nightshirt and ghosting over them.
“Yes, I suppose you should,” Watson agreed.
He only moaned quietly when Holmes gently applied the strong smelling cream, taking care to make sure every inch of skin which sported a discoloration was covered. When he was done, the small jar placed back in Watson’s bag, the two of them settled comfortably and extinguished the candles by the bed.
They kissed slowly, lazily, for some time, though there was no ardor behind the kisses. Hands only wandered so far as to caress a shoulder or twine their fingers, and it seemed that between one kiss and the other, they both were asleep.
It was not a restful night for Holmes, however. Despite the day’s activities, or perhaps because of them, his dreams were dark, filled with the sounds of screaming and bodies colliding. When he woke, sweating and shivering in the middle of the night, his gut twisting unpleasantly and his hands clenched tightly under his chin, he found himself nearly gasping for breath as he forced his mind away from the unpleasant experience. Instead, he tried to focus on Watson’s deep, even breathing beside him.
He gazed wearily at his friend’s face, so close he could count the eyelashes if he chose. He concentrated on the smooth contours of his cheeks, the way his mouth was slightly parted, the delicate flesh of eyelids.
When his heart had stopped racing quite so frantically, Holmes slowly disentangled himself from the bed and made his way blindly to the facility. He thanked God with a fervor he rarely employed that Mycroft had had the foresight to update the plumbing in recent years as he spent nearly a quarter hour huddled and shivering in the dark room, cursing his body and his weakness.
Once the episode had passed he made his way back to the bedroom, pausing briefly to wipe tepid water over his face to eliminate the sweat from his nightmare and stomach trouble, then climbed back into the bed. His limbs felt leaden, and although he did not relish the thought of attempting to sleep again, he was too exhausted to fight its pull.
“All right?” Watson asked drowsily beside him as he started to drift off. “You were gone for a while.”
“Summer complaint,” Holmes mumbled, too sleep muddled to lie. “Fine now. Sleep.”
He felt a delicate touch at his brow and did not try to resist, instead letting himself fall, if not gratefully, then resignedly, into the sleep that beckoned.
There were no more dreams.
***
When morning came, Watson was the first to rouse. Weak sunlight entered the room grudgingly, casting shadows over the furniture and signaling an approaching rainstorm. Beside him, brow creased slightly even in sleep, Holmes curled around his pillow, legs drawn close to his body as though he were cold. Watson drew the blanket closer about his lover, making certain it was snug under his chin. Then he lay back and regarded the other man fondly.
Thick black hair fanned the pale face in wild tangles, and Watson delicately tucked a strand behind the shell of a perfect ear. Beneath his fingers Holmes twitched, a hand jerking absently in sleep to swipe at the touch.
Watson smiled fondly at the movement and took pity, remembering his lover’s long absence in the middle of the night and his confession of sickness. It was not an uncommon affliction, though the doctor knew his friend found the whole business distasteful and even shameful. Such a weakness of the body that could not be controlled or marshaled was a personal affront to the detective, and Watson doubted that Holmes would take kindly to the knowledge that such bouts would probably plague him for a while.
Deciding to let his friend sleep, he slowly untangled himself from his blankets and set about his morning ablutions, wincing at his own pains and aches. His leg throbbed gently in time with his heart, and his muscles resented the workout they had received the day before, but overall he felt he had managed to escape lightly.
He shaved quietly and washed his face, poking absently at his now thoroughly blackened eye, then dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, abstaining from collar and cuffs until it was nearer time for breakfast.
Retrieving his writing journal and pen from his bag, he settled himself comfortably at the desk near the window, the dim light forcing him to turn up the gas slightly. When Holmes showed no sign of consciousness, Watson turned his full attention to setting down yet another of Holmes’ adventures.
It was an exercise he had not enjoyed in quite some time, and soon was lost in fond memories and the attempt to capture Holmes’ brilliance for the world to enjoy.
***
The sound of a pen scratching was at once familiar and comforting. It penetrated his sleep and brought him back to the world slowly. For a long while he lay, happily content in the warm blankets and the peaceful room, listening to Watson scribble down his romantic fantasies.
He moved his legs slightly, easing into a more relaxed position, and felt his body protest. His stomach, still aching hollowly from the night before, was a distant annoyance, as was the throbbing in his head. He ignored them, concentrating instead on the blanket pulled up to his chin, the soft pillow beneath his head, and the sheets so well woven it was like sleeping on a bed of moss.
He hummed contentedly to himself, still more asleep than awake, and shifted again simply to revel in the luxury of being so comfortable. The scribbling stopped, followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back and then a loud, deep groan.
Holmes couldn’t help himself and started to laugh, a snickering chortle that he tried to stifle as he turned his face into the pillow. Another ill concealed moan of discomfort as Watson pulled himself to a standing position had Holmes clutching his stomach.
“Forgot yourself, did you?” he gasped out between chuckles, finally opening his eyes to blink lazily up at his lover, who stood leaning heavily against the back of the chair, glaring at him.
The look should have been intimidating. It was one of Watson’s finer efforts, and normally he would have accepted the other man’s irritation and backed off. The sight of him, though, eye blackened roguishly, weight resting against the furniture as his muscles protested the previous day’s abuse, set him off again, and he found himself wheezing for breath as merriment overtook him.
“Stop, stop,” he managed, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Don’t make me laugh!”
“This is what I get for trying to immortalize your exploits!” Watson mock growled. He could not hide his twitching lips, however, or the way his eyes were squinting against the urge to laugh, himself. “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, it’s not that funny!”
“Yes, yes it is!” Holmes protested, finally managing to bring in a deep breath, wincing as his own muscles protested. “Oh, Watson, if you could only see yourself. Such a dashing fellow, saving the chair from being swept away by an errant gust of wind!”
“That’s it!” Watson swore, limping over to the bed and throwing himself on top of it, beating Holmes soundly with the nearest pillow at hand.
By the time they managed to settle down the bed was a mess of twisted blankets, lumpy pillows, and the two men who lay tangled together, legs wrapped around each other and heads resting close.
“Feeling better?” Holmes asked, running a hand slowly up Watson’s side, gently smoothing over bruised ribs and abused muscles.
“Yes, actually,” Watson chuckled, caressing Holmes’ cheek. “How about you? I was a bit worried last night, you were gone for so long.”
Holmes snorted, rolling his eyes at the question. “I was gone barely fifteen minutes, mother hen. It was just an attack of the summer complaint and I’m feeling much better.”
“It was twenty-six minutes, and you were pale as a ghost and shaking when you came back,” Watson admonished, moving his hand from Holmes’ cheek to his forehead. “I woke when you left the bed and checked the time, and then again when you came back. Do you know what set it off? Were you feeling sick yesterday? You didn’t mention anything, but then again, you rarely ever do.”
Holmes scowled as Watson’s tone turned clinical, the doctor’s eyes inspecting his face as he felt for fever.
“Must you be so - so medical?” Holmes asked plaintively, moving his head away from the cool hand pressed against his brow. “Whatever happened to the romance? The mystery? Aren’t you even going to try to woo me anymore?”
Watson laughed at the shameless play on his affections and leaned closer to press a kiss to the tip of Holmes’ nose.
“I thought you were the one who wanted the romance and mystery to be left out in favor of keeping to the facts and the facts alone,” he replied, grinning unrepentantly at Holmes’ scowl. It was not often he could throw the detective’s words back at him, and he was enjoying the exchange greatly.
“I may have to amend my opinion on that,” Holmes muttered mutinously. “Faced with your implacable medical inclinations!” This last was said accusingly, as though Watson’s medical concerns were something he found distasteful.
“How about a compromise?” Watson asked, pushing himself up on his elbows so he could lean over Holmes, their faces nearly touching and his breath ghosting over Holmes’ cheek as he spoke. “I will woo you,” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss to Holmes’ lips. “And give you plenty of romance.” Another kiss followed, this one deeper and more passionate. “And you will be honest and upfront with me about your condition.”
Holmes returned the kisses just as passionately, his lips curling into a smile as Watson eased himself back down to rest his head once more next to Holmes’, grinning in return.
“You have become much more cunning and underhanded over the years, Watson,” Holmes whispered, closing the distance between them for another kiss, this one gentle and lazy.
“Is that a yes?” Watson asked, lips still pressed to Holmes’.
Holmes snickered, moving back slightly to look into his friend’s eyes without crossing his own, grinning in fond exasperation. “That is an… I will try.”
“Good,” Watson murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him once more. “Now, do you feel ready to get up? I think breakfast should be almost done, and we may wish to make an appearance.”
“Yes, I think I can do that,” Holmes agreed, bestowing one last kiss before he pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing slightly as his stomach protested. “Though perhaps I should refrain from eating for a bit.”
“Still a bit touchy?” Watson asked sympathetically, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand.
“A bit,” Holmes sighed, his hand splayed over his stomach as he pushed away from the bed. “I’ll be a few minutes in the facility, I fear.”
Watson watched him go, frowning slightly despite the earlier levity. He doubted Holmes would appreciate his concern, though, and so instead turned his attention to finishing getting dressed.
When Holmes rejoined him a few minutes later he looked a bit paler than normal, though his smile was genuine and he touched Watson’s shoulder briefly as he passed him to reach the basin for his own ablutions.
“All right?” Watson couldn’t help asking, and received a put upon sigh for his efforts.
“I’m fine, mother hen,” Holmes assured him, washing his face and chest with a damp flannel before discarding his nightshirt to quickly wash the rest of his body.
Watson leaned back against the dresser to watch in open appreciation, smiling at Holmes’ raised eyebrow. Though the two of them had been to the Turkish baths several times, this was the first time Watson had ever been allowed to stare openly in appreciation, and he found himself grinning from pure delight as Holmes finished.
He said nothing, however, as his friend continued to dress, and instead set about putting his writings away and helping Holmes do up his cuffs. With a quick press of lips, the two of them set off for breakfast, shoulders brushing as they made their way downstairs.
***
The heavens opened up shortly after they sat down, the rain lashing the windows of the dinning room loudly, the room dark enough that the gas had to be turned up so they could see their meals.
Mrs. Everman tutted over Holmes’ lack of appetite and Watson‘s black eye, but seeing Watson’s slight shake of the head, didn’t comment other than to offer them both more juice. When breakfast was finished, the two men retired once more to the library, since the weather made it inadvisable to do anything out of doors.
They settled down before the fire, hot tea and biscuits laid out for them, and spent the better part of the morning reading and idly chatting about whatever caught their fancy. They made plans for their return to Baker Street, operas and plays they wished to attend, and the possibility of Holmes resuming cases.
“We’ll see,” was all Watson would concede to, earning a pout from the detective.
Near midday lunch was announced, and once more they retired to the dining room, though Holmes barely touched his food and winced at the bright light from the lamps.
“Headache?” Watson asked softly, watching as Holmes listlessly moved his roast chicken about his plate with his fork, nibbling a bite every now and then but grimacing as he did so.
“Yes,” Holmes admitted grudgingly, giving up on any pretense of eating and pushing his plate away from him. “I fear it may be one of my bad ones, old boy. If you don’t mind, I think I may go lie down for a while.”
“Would you like something to help?” Watson asked cautiously, trying not to wince at the hurt look which flashed in Holmes’ eyes before he turned his head.
“No,” he answered shortly, pushing himself away from the table and standing wearily. “I promised, Watson,” he said softly, looking into his friend’s eyes only long enough for his seriousness to be marked.
“I know,” Watson soothed, laying his own meal aside as he stood and made his way around the table to place a comforting hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “But I know your headaches, Holmes, and if you should need help, you have only to ask. There’s no shame in taking something when it’s warranted.”
Holmes hung his head a moment, as though the weight of it was too much for him, and then nodded. He squeezed Watson’s hand before removing it from his shoulder and making his way out of the room towards the stairs. Watson watched him go worriedly, hesitating before returning to his meal. He knew his friend would not wish him to hover, and determined he would wait a half hour before making an attempt to check on him.
When Mrs. Everman came into the room ten minutes later, she cast Watson a worried look at Holmes’ absence.
“He has a bit of a headache, Mrs. Everman,” he assured her, pouring himself another cup of tea as he lingered over his own half-finished meal.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, shaking her head as she started to clear Holmes’ side of the table. “The poor thing always did suffer them, even as a child. I doubt he’ll be wanting anything for the rest of the day.”
“No, I don’t think he will,” Watson agreed. “Does Mycroft suffer such afflictions? Holmes hasn’t mentioned anything, but I’ve noticed that such conditions tend to run in families.”
Now that he had the chance to ask the housekeeper about his friend’s past and family, Watson found himself struggling not to overstep his bounds. If he kept the questions medical, he assuaged his conscience, it wasn’t truly a breach of his friend’s privacy.
“Not nearly to the extent of Mr. Sherlock, but yes, he does,” Mrs. Everman sighed. She paused, hands filled with plates and empty bowls. “Their mother suffered from them as well, God rest her,” she added, turning to leave. “If you need anything, just ring and one of the lasses will see to it,” she called.
Watson digested the new information, wondering what other ailments ran in his friend’s family, before deciding he had left Holmes alone long enough. He finished his tea and made his way back upstairs, entering their room quietly.
The bed was empty, the lights turned off to spare Holmes’ head, and for a moment he wondered where his friend had got to. Then the sound of retching reached his ears, and he made his way quickly to the closed door of the facility.
The knob turned easily in his hand, and he was thankful he had not been locked out when he entered the small room to find Holmes knelt before the toilet, coughing piteously into the bowl.
“All right, old boy,” he whispered softly, moving to place a gentle hand on Holmes’ back, resting it gently to see if it would be accepted. He knew from experience that sometimes the headaches would make the other man over sensitized to any form of contact, but Holmes seemed to welcome his presence and did not make any move to escape the touch.
For several minutes Watson sat beside him, rubbing a soothing circle on his back as he struggled to bring up whatever was in his stomach, spitting bile and looking pale and wan in the shadows. When the fit finally seemed to have passed, Watson allowed him to rest with his head against he cool porcelain as he retrieved one of the flannels by the basin in the bedroom, wetting it thoroughly and then bringing it into the bathroom to lay it across the back of Holmes’ neck.
“Do you think you can make it to the bed?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, and at Holmes tentative nod, helped him to his feet. “Just keep your eyes closed, I’ll guide you.”
Holmes’ face was devoid of color as he stepped into the slightly more illuminated bedroom, lines about his eyes and across his forehead signaling his pain level. Watson slid an arm around his waist and placed the other under his elbow, guiding him to the bed and helping him settle. He placed the damp cloth over his eyes as he pulled the blanket up to his chin, keeping his movements slow to decrease any noise he might make. Holmes had already removed his waistcoat, collar and cuffs, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, so he had no fear for his friend’s ease of movement.
Once Holmes was as comfortable as he could make him, Watson retrieved a rubbish bin from beside the writing desk and placed it by the bed.
“If you feel sick again, the bin is on the floor,” he whispered. At Holmes nod, he continued. “Would you like something for the pain?”
Holmes hesitated, which was answer enough as far as Watson was concerned, and he moved to retrieve his medical bag. He prepared the syringe quickly, and within only a few moments had injected the morphine into his friend’s arm, watching as the lines of pain slowly started to fade.
“Get some rest. If you need me, I’ll be in the other room reading.”
Holmes nodded again, one hand worming its way out of the blanket to grope blindly for Watson’s. The doctor squeezed it gently before placing it back under the covers, kissing Holmes’ cheek tenderly before retrieving a book from his valise and making his way to the adjoining room.
He settled comfortably on the bed, turned the gas up a bit so he didn’t strain his eyes, and turned his attention to his book. He kept his ears open, however, for any indication that his lover was in distress, and did not relax fully until he checked on Holmes some forty-five minutes later to find him deeply asleep.
***
Part 13