Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Ten
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe 

Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: Watson generally feels like a cad. Holmes is unsure what to make of all of this.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Angst abounds.
Word Count: 7,937
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 10/~14.




Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine


~~~~~



Holmes does not go home that night. He spends an hour explaining what had happened twice to one constable, then again to Lestrade when the Chief Inspector appears. It takes less time than usual to explain the thing in its entirety to Lestrade; despite their show of animosity, Lestrade knows that something is wrong, not as it should be. Holmes speaks to him calmly, with very little inflection and no insults flung over or at his head.

And so, a bit worried despite himself, Lestrade lets Holmes leave without any trouble; he doesn’t even shout at him about the property damage. The Inspector watches out of the corner of his eyes as Holmes leaves, wandering off alone, not meeting even Clarkey’s eyes as he passes. In fact he hardly seems to be paying attention to anything around him, as though he’s not actually inhabiting his own body.

Indeed, Holmes feels as though he’s not in his body. He is halfway to Baker Street before he remembers that he has no seven percent solution, which of course leads him to recall why that should be so... which then leads him to recall what had happened after he had tried to kill Watson for destroying his bottles. And this all leads, of course, to Holmes’ desire to make use of the bottles Watson had destroyed increasing, so much so that after a minute it feels as though he might explode from frustration. And anger, yes still anger, and a lot of it. Normally getting caught in a brawl such as the one they had had earlier would calm him at least for a while, would keep him in high spirits despite himself, but now it seems only to have left him unsatisfied and angry.

He finds himself several hours later still wandering about the streets, not sure where he is or how he got there and not particularly caring. Hours after that, he’s at the Punch Bowl; he isn’t surprised to find himself there, although he doesn’t remember deciding upon it. He has no desire to go home, and he supposes even his subconscious or whatever it is that has kept his body going while his mind is off somewhere else knows that. Where else has he to go? Maybe if he’s lucky some idiot will knock him into unconsciousness. He wouldn’t mind that at all.

Watson doesn't sleep that night, either; this has become a fairly common occurrence for him over the past few weeks, though. He drifts off into a restless doze on the settee at some point before down, but it only lasts less than a few hours before he wakes, unable to force himself back to sleep. Each time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Mary's nervousness when she'd looked at him, and superimposed upon her face is Holmes' as they'd left him behind in the alley the night before. Always the other man's eyes, that same terrible expression that Watson has seen in them far too often in the past weeks.

And so, too worried for his friend and his wife to manage sitting still (he knows Mary will sleep late that day after being out so late the night before, not having to work the next, and Holmes... Christ knows what he'd gotten himself into after Watson had left him...), he dresses back in the same clothes he'd had on the night before, which really means just putting on his waistcoat and outer layers again, and goes out the door without bothering to eat.

He reaches Baker Street quickly enough, walking briskly in the cool air, and hurries inside, still in possession of his key. He doesn't wake Mrs. Hudson, letting himself in quietly, as it's only just past dawn and the poor woman should certainly still be asleep. Hurrying up the stairs, he knocks very quietly, but when he doesn't get a response he slips inside the sitting room... and finds Holmes missing from it, as well as from his bedroom.

But there is a bloodied shirt tossed on Watson's own armchair, Holmes' hat beneath the footstool and his coat dropped heedlessly on the writing desk's chair. He's there... but not in his rooms, nor in Watson's office. The only place to check is Watson's own former bedroom, and he climbs the narrow, familiar staircase from the sitting room to the small upstairs bedroom with some trepidation, knocking quietly again before pushing the door open and freezing when he sees Holmes on the bare mattress.

He looks as though he's been beaten half to death, the bloodied shirt suddenly explained as Watson gapes at the cuts and scrapes littering Holmes' face, and the dark bruises scattered across his torso, a hundred times worse than any normal boxing injuries. "Christ, Holmes," he chokes, lungeing forward across the scuffed wooden floor and cursing himself for not remembering his medical bag. He checks the other man's pulse and his breathing as Holmes' eyes flutter open slowly. Grabbing the other man's unshaven chin very gently, Watson turns his head to face him, careful of the bruises.

"Hell, Holmes, what happened?" His best guess is, of course, the Punchbowl... knows that sometimes, Holmes loses on purpose, just to prove his always-working mind wrong for once, but this isn't a lost round. This is multiple lost matches, or their equivalent. "Christ..."

Barely conscious and not appreciating even that much consciousness at all, Holmes simply stares up at him for a long moment, going from uncomprehending to understanding to not particularly caring to answer in about two seconds’ time. He can feel everything, every single limb and muscle, all of it, and it feels just as though every bit of him is broken or scraped or bruised. Quite enough to distract him from just about anything, or at least it was until just a moment ago.

What happened? Holmes turns that question over in his mind several times, trying to recall precisely. On the one hand, he hardly recalls doing anything the night before, not after the alleyway. On the other, it feels as though he watched his entire night from some remote vantage point, a spectator. Watched as he fought, beating several men viciously before the first time he’d decided to let his opponent hit him... and then again... and again. It was like a game, putting up just enough of a fight to keep taking a beating, over and over until it all blurred together enough and he was coughing blood, thinking vaguely that that couldn’t have been healthy, laughing, and then...

And then... Holmes has no idea what happened after that. He has no idea how he got here. He doesn’t remember anything except laughing and coughing blood all at once, tasting the coppery liquid in his mouth even now and it made him think of that paralytic and Watson and then he passed out and where did Watson come from why does he always do this?!

Holmes doesn’t know which of them he means by that, himself or Watson, and that thought suddenly makes him laugh again... or try to. Instead, he ends up coughing again, which hurts and oh, there is the blood again, which only makes him want to laugh harder at the absurd cyclical nature of it all, the laughing and the blood and copper and Watson and then laughing again... at the cycle... which is part of the cycle...

He tries to mumble something, might have told Watson that he has no idea what happened, Watson is holding on to his head or he would curl into a ball. He would prefer to be a ball of misery right now. Then he won’t think about anything. Maybe. But maybe is good enough. But he can’t, so he settles for closing his eyes, thwarting Watson’s attempts to make him look at him. He doesn’t want to see Watson, that worried look in his eyes overcoming even his exasperation, the way his brow furrows and if he could just move, Holmes would break his nose for looking so fucking worried, for being here at all, for the fact that even wanting to break his nose, Holmes is still relieved to see him.

Jaw tightening, Watson just stares down at Holmes, worry and anger warring within him. That, and a terrible sense of guilt, that this is his fault, and that feeling has nothing to do with his guilt over what had happened the week before. In the end the guilt wins out, and he hauls himself back to his feet. "I'll be back," he says quietly, leaving his walking stick leaning against the wall and carefully navigating the stairs to retrieve what he needs.

Some ten minutes later, he brings up a pan of water and some clean clothes; a second trip brings bandages and the liniment he'd left here when he'd moved his things, for this very reason, in fact, and some of the anesthetic cream he keeps in his emergency case. He can clean Holmes up, wrap the broken ribs he'd spotted, and pray there's no internal damage. It's all he can do, and it never seems like enough.

Shrugging out of everything but his shirtsleeves in an effort not to dirty his clothes, he rolls up his sleeves above his elbows and gets to work, ignoring Holmes' attempts to push him away. There's no strength behind them, and he sees the relief on his friend's face once he smoothes the anesthetic onto the bruises and slices. He's silent the entire time, not commenting or offering criticism, but simply working. And yet, it's anything but simple, and Watson can't keep from thinking about the week before, about how it had felt to pin Holmes down beneath him and--

He cuts his thoughts off deliberately each time they turn in that direction, forcing himself back to the present, which is exactly the problem, isn't it? Touching the other man's bare skin, even with the clinical hands of a doctor... well, he's not feeling very doctorly at the moment, to put it mildly.

"Sit up," he orders quietly, picking up the bandages to wrap Holmes' ribs, the first he's spoken since he'd arrived. When the detective doesn't move, just stares at him with eyes that are darker than usual, Watson refuses to look away, staring right back. "Don't make me lift you. They need wrapped; you're not breathing easily."

Briefly, Holmes considers making Watson lift him, considers how he would have to put an arm or two around him to lift him up and then keep him there... but that errant thought is crushed quickly. Watson is staring at him, he would know he’s doing it on purpose, it doesn’t matter he is not going to get the same reaction he’d gotten the week before no matter what he does or says. It’s hopeless and he knows it, so doing things that even by his standards are dangerous and outlandish is useless.

Except that lying there, half-clothed and Watson having removed so many layers of his own, touching him even just with hands meant to heal... Holmes is having a hard time convincing his body that it’s a lost cause sitting there, staring back at him, blissfully unaware of the way his eyes turn a darker shade of blue at times like this, and it does horrible things to Holmes every time and Holmes hates him, hates him for it.

But finally, as he always does with Watson even when he knows that he shouldn’t, Holmes gives in, sitting up. He does this not without some trouble, groaning when it hurts more than he’d thought it would and the world tilts a little. Swaying, Holmes manages to lever himself up, but not without nearly falling back; his eyes widen, and instinctively he frantically grasps for something to hold on to. He ends up latching on to Watson’s arm, his grip tighter than it should be (in his current state) on the other man’s wrist, but he manages to stay upright.

He ends up sitting, staring at the ceiling, and refusing to let go of Watson’s arm just yet on the grounds that if he does, he will fall backwards. “Do you know... what I was wondering?” he asks after a moment, voice hoarse and pained; at least he’s not coughing blood anymore, although the more he talks he imagines the more likely it is. But he doesn‘t care. Staring at the ceiling, trying so hard to ignore Watson’s face and his eyes and his arm still in his hand, Holmes remembers what he was pondering the night before as he was having the bloody hell beat out of him. “If there are... colors the human eye cannot identify... would they still exist with... with no one to see them?”

Accustomed to strange musings and odd thoughts coming from Holmes in the vacuum of time between cases, Watson waits patiently until he thinks the other man is steady enough that he can start wrapping his ribs. "I don't know," he says just as quietly. "I suppose they do. An animal could see them, or... perhaps they don't exist until we have the means to see them."

He has no idea where that came from, but he decides he doesn't need to know, reaching back for the bandage and resting one end at the center of Holmes' chest, at the bottom of his breastbone, holding it there as he starts to wrap snugly, ending up with his arms around the other man's torso each time he goes around. This isn't any different from the many other times he'd done this exactly over the years, but somehow... something isn't the same. Or perhaps it is, and he's only just realized it so recently.

Holmes grunts a bit at the tightness (and undoubtedly the pain) of the bandages, but Watson doesn't relent, finally knotting the ends. "Don't take them off unless I can rewrap them," he threatens, not moving from his spot on the edge of the bed. "... Can you breathe more easily?"

His hand is resting lightly on the other man's chest, checking his breathing the most direct way possible without a stethoscope... and really, it's for purely medical reasons that he doesn't remove it right away. He'd never noticed before, not really, exactly how pale Holmes is compared to Watson's darker skin, which had never really lost its tan after he's returned from the East.

But the skin beneath his hand is noticeably warmer than normal, as well, and he looks up at Holmes, unable to think of anything but their... well, their encounter the week before, for lack of a better descriptive term. It had been different, or more than that, but he doesn't have the words for it. Even he, the supposed wordsmith. "Better?" he manages after a moment, his voice a bit hoarse as he lets his hand fall into his lap, certain he should be embarrassed, now.

Still looking back at Watson even once he removes his hand, Holmes takes that question completely differently from how Watson intended it, or perhaps Watson didn’t know how he intended to ask that question. Better? What, better his mind? No, yes, maybe. Better with the bandages? Probably. Better with Watson here? Maybe. Yes. Better than what? What an unspecific question. For a moment all Holmes can do is stare over at Watson, eyes wider than usual, from the pain he’s sure, from the idea of colors he can’t see, maybe he’s trying to see them.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, trying not to stare at Watson’s mouth and consider attacking it, trying not to feel the handprint Watson must have left behind on his chest when he pulled away, trying not to want to frown at the loss of his hand. Instead, Holmes swallows visibly, shifting to stare down at the bed. Watson’s bed. Not anymore. “I never know,” is mumbled after that, so quietly they can pretend he didn’t say it or not to know what he meant.

There’s silence for a moment; Holmes feels oddly tired, feels the encroaching bleakness that will be everywhere when Watson is gone trying to sneak up on him, wonders what hole he could crawl into that Watson wouldn’t find him, what he would have to do to keep Watson from looking in the first place. Wonders what sorts of animals might see colors that humans do not and why that might be so. Spotting prey, predators?

“An animal could see them,” he mumbles, staring down at the bed but not seeing it at all. “I suppose so. We could be missing... something phenomenal, Watson, but we will never... never quite know.” Tragic, he thinks. It’s all quite tragic.

Watson doesn't look away when Holmes does, continues staring at him even when Holmes is looking down at the mattress. "We could be," he agrees quietly, turning to stare down at the floorboards, himself. He swears he can actually feel the blood pumping through his veins much more quickly than usual, can feel it rushing and making his hands, his feet tingle. All of him tingle, actually, with a pin-pricking situation.

"Holmes," he blurts finally, staring quite fiercely down at his hands, "I've... I’ve done something... you may never forgive me for, and if you feel the need to hit me when you're better go right ahead." Not just now, though. There'll be no hitting just now. Watson will knock him unconscious first.

But he's started now, and he can hardly just give into cowardice again. "I don't know what I was doing, and... well, you had one of your memory lapses, but that doesn't excuse it, I took advantage of you and the fact that you were..." He waves his hand helplessly, concentrating very hard on his shoes. "... under your bloody chemical influence. Akers and Wickham were here, and then they left and I got angry and broke your solution bottles."

He's silent for a moment, but then keeps going. "That's not the unforgivable part, I know, you knew all this last week, but I... there was a fight, you hit me and I knocked you down, and..." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "And things have been changing, recently, or perhaps I just realized that I may have made an enormous mistake and ruined things for everyone..."

How is he supposed to confess this? His mouth can't form the words, and yet he knows he can't simply end his story there. Holmes deserves to know. Watson can't handle the guilt anymore. "I... there was... an embracing of the... more than platonic sort, and... and I've betrayed your trust, and Mary's, and I don't even know what I'm doing, but I can't just go on as I've been." And he doesn't know if he means as he has the past week or so since that afternoon and the kiss, or if he means as he's gone on since he'd left Baker Street... "I can't go on this way. I don't deserve either of you."

He's run out of words, now, and anything else he tries to say will just be pathetic. He can't even look at Holmes, so ashamed that he'd let it go on for so long without telling him, and hell, who is he kidding? It had gone on much longer than one bloody week, and this whole situation is his fault in its entirety.

Shoving up from the bed, he grabs his cane and starts down the stairs and out of the flat without another word, heading straight for the front door, knowing he just needs to leave, because he's undoubtedly just lost the most important person in his life and it's not Mary and he knows it, knows she's the closest anyone could ever come to Holmes but now Holmes is gone, too, and what the hell is the point of any of it, now?

By the time Watson had begun to really speak in earnest about what it is he’d “done,” Holmes is staring at him, flat-out staring and wearing not a confused, pained, or startled expression but rather one of intense concentration. But Watson is not looking at him, and Holmes supposes that makes sense, considering the enormous amount of guilt he seems to feel. Which is, for this, completely unwarranted... but Watson doesn’t know that, and though he is beginning to feel just a little guilty for letting Watson go on believing that he doesn’t remember what had happened... he doesn’t feel that guilty, because it seems to have done what months of hinting and shouting and depression wouldn’t, which is get through Watson’s exceptionally thick skull to his brain, shocking it out of whatever it has been doing with its time that is obviously not thinking.

Holmes is still staring at him when Watson suddenly stands and makes to flee, marking the second time that Watson has fled from him while he is otherwise incapacitated. Still shocked despite himself, Holmes finds that he can only sit there and watch, eyes huge, as the doctor grabs his cane and makes for the stairs.

He is completely downstairs, having made it to his office (still Watson’ office even now, never anything but Watson's office, which is why Holmes hasn't used it for anything despite his wandering into this room over and over) when Holmes finally shoves himself into action, leaping out of the bed and literally falling flat on his face before he drags himself back up by willpower alone and takes the stairs at a dead run, somehow making it down the entire way without falling headfirst and probably breaking his neck, which would be impressive if he didn't use the door to slow his inertia and end up bleeding again as he bursts into the room, wheezing.

Watson is at the door and clearly not certain if he should flee or if he should wait to hear what Holmes as to say, but Holmes is certain that Watson will stop because if he doesn't, Holmes will keep following him and he'd definitely hurt himself further in the process. One can always count on the doctor in Watson to slow him down at the very least when it comes to such things. Anyway, Holmes is also certain he will stop because he's made the sort of entrance that even wheezing as he is, cannot be ignored. Also, the room is spinning, but Holmes has practice ignoring such things and instead focuses absolutely and completely on the man before him.

"Don't... don't you dare flee yet Watson, I am not... finished with you," Holmes demands, although it comes out more pained than he'd intended, he still manages to sound demanding. He does have a knack. Silently, he demands also that Watson turn around and look at him, for Christ's sake, but Watson has simply frozen, and Holmes only has a set amount of air at the moment and he will gladly use it all to shout at Watson but not if he's going to have to throttle him instead. If he would just turn around, Watson would see the way Holmes is staring at him intently, is suddenly so focused it almost hurts but that is how focused Holmes typically prefers to be.

And yet at the same time... the completely serious way Holmes is looking at him is an abnormal expression for him, so that if Watson would meet the detective's eyes he would understand how important this is, he would understand the gravity of the next question out of Holmes' mouth, would understand that something very important rests on his answer. "When you say... enormous mistake," Holmes begins slowly, very suddenly much less sure of himself than Watson has ever heard him, even trying to hide it behind a quieter tone and his inability to breathe. "Do you mean... what happened then? After we... fought?"

Watson pales. Well, he’d already been pale when he’d heard Holmes come falling down the stairs after him, but now he’s a rather unhealthy shade of white. It takes him a moment to get his suddenly not-functioning throat to work, and even when it does he has no idea how to answer that question.

Does he think it was a mistake? Well, in the sense that he’s a married man and he’d betrayed his wife, yes, of course it was a mistake, but for himself, for John Watson… it was the furthest thing from a mistake that he can think of, had felt right in a way that nothing has in a long time. But if he tells Holmes that, will he lose his best friend, the closest friend he’s ever had, will ever have? How can he risk their friendship?

Overcome by bitterness suddenly, he spins to face Holmes, so caught up in his own misery that he doesn’t even notice his friend’s intense expression. After all, it’s not unusual to be on the receiving end of Holmes’ stare; he’s rather accustomed to it right now. And Holmes’ question is an important one. “Of course you’d ask me that,” he says in a low voice, his frustration audible. Actually, he’s rather past frustration. It’s well beyond the next level, to say the least. “If I say it was a mistake I don’t lose my closest friend. I don’t break my wife’s heart, and I continue to be miserable for the rest of my rather pathetic existence. But if I say it wasn’t a mistake, that Jesus Christ, Holmes, it’s been that way for I don’t know how long, I lose you both.”

He smiles, but it couldn’t be less of a happy expression. “As I suppose I just have.” He turns, starting for the door, spine straight even though that appears to be the last of his pride in tatters, now, just there. But there’s one down, now he just as to go as he said and shatter his wife’s heart. And then possibly exile himself to the continent, rather than putting them all through the scandal.

Perhaps he’ll just shoot himself. It would probably be the easier path.

He make it two roughly steps before Holmes' pipe hits him square on the back of the head, an impressive throw for a man who is currently only upright from sheer willpower alone. Holmes, after all, has no dignity to lose and no qualms behaving as though that is so. And right now, Holmes isn't paying attention to the fact that he should probably sit down, or that he's bleeding again or that he can't breathe. These are all inconsequential details at the moment. Right now, all Holmes can pay attention to is Watson and Watson's complete and utter stupidity. He's spent months, no, years now, waiting and trying to make his case and then practically beating Watson over the head with the truth and now here he finally FINALLY comes to it by his own self and he's still being obtuse about it.

Holmes should probably feel relieved, should feel triumphant or happy or something, bur right now all he can feel is angry, because none of this matters anyway since Watson is married now. How could he dare figure this out after he's gone and gotten married?

"You are the most imperceptive, fucking obtuse man I have ever met!" he snarls. He would be shouting if he could draw enough air to do so. It comes out as a wheezing growl instead. He thinks the pipe probably drove the point home, however. "If you didn't lose me already from sheer stupidity, when for years you just took your time and didn't bother to notice anything, from getting married and leaving me here and refusing to just observe- yes, OBSERVE, you know that one!- and determine why it was all so wrong, how could you possibly imagine you're going to now? Jesuschristwatson, I don't know how I haven't throttled you!"

Apart from swearing and rubbing the back of his now-pained cerebrum, Watson can’t do more than turn around and stare at Holmes, wide-eyed, as the other man appears to lose his mind completely. He should tell Holmes to sit, to stop trying to shout and stop straining his injuries, but he can’t summon the words and they wouldn’t do any good anyway. The other man appears to be too enraged, and Watson is too… dumbfounded by the outburst to actually respond.

Very slowly, though, the things Holmes is bellowing at him (well, very quiet bellowing, since he can’t actually take in much air at the moment) begin to sink in, and his mind slowly starts to understand, moving past the insults to what Holmes is saying. Years, he didn’t notice what for years, he refused to observe what?

“You don’t,” he says suddenly, his skin going past pale now to gray. “You don’t… you haven’t…” But the pieces are finally falling into place in Watson’s mind, as he recalls the depression, those looks he’d never been able to interpret… subconsciously had, but hadn’t wanted to face it, selfishly… all those times something had passed between them that he hadn’t understood, not really, but apparently Holmes had all along and Watson’s determination not to think too deeply into it because he was an idiot… well, he really had been a fool.

And that fact is entirely shocking.

Very slowly, he sinks down into the chair near his office door, his legs no longer steady beneath him. “Sheer stupidity, indeed,” he says weakly. “Holmes…” He doesn’t know what exactly he’d planned to say, then, but the words come out a moment later without him actually thinking about it. “I’m sorry. Christ, I’m an imbecile.”

Abruptly, Holmes deflates. He’d been completely ready to continue, despite the fact that now he is drawing breath in in sharp gasps, but Watson admitting that he is an imbecile, apologizing, well... Holmes doesn’t know what he’d been expecting (hadn’t really had time to expect anything), but... it hadn’t been that. And now, Holmes is at a loss, a very uncommon occurrence. And also he feels like he might pass out.

Spots are trying to take over his vision, but he fights them, taking a couple of steps back to lean against the wall, and then slowly to use the wall to help lower himself to the floor before he falls onto it unintentionally. But he makes it on his own, ending up sitting silently and not so much running a hand through his hair as pulling at it. A moment ago he was angry enough that he would have hit Watson if he could have, frustrated enough to throttle him. Now he’s just... spent. And content, for a moment, to concentrate on breathing.

And maybe- not that he’d ever admit it- maybe to give Watson a moment to stop looking so horribly pale. Watson shouldn’t be pale, Holmes doesn‘t like him looking like that. Watson is the hale one.

“Yes you are,” he finally adds, all fight gone from him. “Yes you are, Watson.” If he had anything else to throw, he would be throwing it. But he has nothing, aside from... well, just his trousers, and no strength anyway.

Watson watches all of this, his own troubles once again being pushed aside in favor of Holmes’ physical condition. The curse of being a physician, he supposes, managing to get to his feet without extensive lightheadedness and to move over to slide down next to Holmes, his legs sprawled out in front of him.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” he says after a moment, the doorframe poking him in the back. But he doesn’t complain, leaning his head back against it and resting his eyes for a moment. “You’ve two broken ribs and a concussion, plus God knows how many bruises and contusions.”

Two broken ribs and a concussion? Holmes does not respond immediately, instead leaning his head back against the wall to stare up at the ceiling for a moment before turning to look at Watson, whose eyes are closed. He still looks sort of... gray, which is worse than pale, and Holmes frowns at him for a moment.

“A concussion?” he repeats after a moment, turning to look up at the ceiling again. “I suppose that explains the room spinning.” By this point, half the time Holmes doesn’t even wonder why the room is spinning, he just takes it in stride.

Anyway, it hardly matters, Watson can stop worrying. He is done moving. Forever. He is just going to sit here and never move again. Ever.

They don’t move, in fact, for some time, not until Mrs. Hudson knocks on the sitting room door and is summarily called into Watson’s office, where she is startled despite herself to find both men sitting on the floor just inside the door, neither one looking particularly healthy.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson says, sounding a bit faint. He’s realized, after some thought, that it’s likely been at least a day since either of them had eaten. “Would it be a terrible imposition to inquire about some breakfast?”

The landlady, quite accustomed to their antics and oddities (both of them, although the good doctor to certainly a much lesser extent than Mr. Holmes), simply nods, disappearing back out into the hallway and shutting the door behind herself.

Once she’s gone, Watson looks over at Holmes, who is still awake. He can’t be permitted sleep for twenty-four hours, is frankly lucky he’d woken up at all after the beating he’d taken. “What am I supposed to do now?” he asks quietly, content to leave the question as rhetorical if Holmes doesn’t feel like answering. “I’ve hurt you unforgivably, and now I’m going to do the same to Mary. How on earth am I going to tell her?”

To this, Holmes does not move, but can only shift his gaze to Watson next to him without moving his head. Despite the fact that his face is severely bruised and battered, it’s quite obvious from the expression in his eyes that he is more than a little surprised that Watson would bother asking him any questions of this nature. He really is the only person Holmes has ever known who would dare.

“I haven’t the slightest,” he says after a long pause, during which it had seemed as though he might not respond. This response would be shocking, except he is seriously considering passing out and good luck to Watson trying to stop him.

Not only that, but... he hasn’t the slightest, really. It’s the truth. He doesn’t want to think about Mary. He doesn’t want to think about anything. Watson’s finally coming to the desired conclusion doesn’t change anything. It only means they’re both miserable and now they both finally understand why that is so. It doesn’t solve anything. Life is not that neat, much to Watson’s dismay, Holmes imagines.

But even so, Holmes can’t seem to keep to himself. There are other things that someone should say. “You needn’t tell her anything,” he points out, knowing Watson is averse to lying but feeling that someone should point out the obvious. Nothing happened but the once, and Mary doesn’t know about it. There’s no need to end his marriage. “She won’t know anything had happened at all if you don’t tell her, provided you stop moping about like a teenaged girl. If you don‘t tell her what happened, your life will remain intact.” Not surprisingly, Holmes cannot continue looking at Watson as he says this, but he says it nevertheless, staring almost blankly up at the ceiling. It’s all true, of course; even now, Holmes can’t shut off the unbearable logic of his brain, even though he knows if Watson does not tell Mary about what had happened, that would mean nothing has changed and therefore Watson’s revelation means nothing in the face of his marriage.

Of course, Holmes has already spent months living with the knowledge that in the test of him versus Mary, Mary had won. But it’s different now, even if he won’t admit that out loud. And yet he knows that no matter what Watson does... he’ll just... be here, letting things go on as they have. He’ll take what he can get because frankly, what are his options? If marriage is what Watson really wants, then Holmes will at least try not to stand in his way.

Watson's eyes have widened, and he's silent for a moment too long, trying to decide how the hell he's supposed to respond to that. "Is that what you want?" he asks after a moment, knowing that needs to be asked as well. "Do you want me to not tell her?" He looks forward, then, jaw tightening again. "All evidence to the contrary, or so I thought, but I'm clearly not as skilled at interpreting your feelings as I'd thought I was."

He looks down, and then across the office at the window, missing its anatomy statues. The sun is shining brightly in, meaning that it's close to nine, but he feels no desire to move, strained subject matter or not. "Perhaps I don't wish my life to remain as it is."

He pauses. He's going to have to speak to Mary... and that will not be a pleasant conversation. He's going to break her heart, and he knows it, and dreads it, because honestly... he does love her. But not the way he... oh, dear.

He pales again. This is not the time for that conversation with Holmes. There will be a time, later, but it is not right now. "To keep everything as it is would be cruel to all three of us. Mary deserves the chance to find someone who actually does want the same things she does, who..." Well, who isn't in love with his best friend.

God, divorce. He has no idea how to even begin thinking about it... Separation would be the first step, though, and despite himself... the thought does hurt. A great deal, in fact. But the idea of going back to Cavendish Place and pretending none of this had happened, leaving Holmes here alone again, miserable... that is worse. Much worse. Unbearable.

He wants them all to be happy. All of them. And if he maintains some sort of charade he'll hurt both Holmes and Mary out of selfishness. He won't do that.

"I'm going to be thrown out on my arse," he says after a long moment of quiet, resigned. If Mary isn't the one to leave, that is. He would of course agree to that. In fact... he'll have to find a way to have her divorce him, thus preserving her reputation. His will be slandered, of course, but thankfully his patients really only care about his abilities as a doctor, not his personal life. He doesn't mind being labelled a philanderer if that's what it takes...

He sneaks a glance over at Holmes, hesitant. "I suppose... you don't need to put me up, old boy, if that's... if you prefer I go somewhere else I understand completely, I won't take offense." He swallows. "Standish wouldn't mind loaning me his couch for a while, I'm sure."

By this point, frustration has returned to take up residence in a very tired Holmes’ brain, and he turns his eyes to Watson again, scowling. “If only I had something more to throw at you,” he laments dryly, which translated means “no I do not want you not to tell her, you imbecile” as well as “if you move in with Standish, I will murder you both.”

And yet... even frustration can’t beat down the tiny seed of hope all of that had just created. Holmes almost hates Watson for that, too, because even after everything, he shouldn’t be able to hope anymore and every time Watson has given him hope in the past few months, he has proceeded to crush it swiftly and painfully.

But there it is, hope again, and Holmes can’t even stop to feel guilty about how guilty Watson looks. It’s not his fault. He didn’t do this. And Holmes would feel worse for Mary if he hadn’t been the one left behind for months. Maybe. Probably not. Well, at least he’d think about feeling worse for her.

“On that subject, if your thick skull has broken my pipe, I’m going to murder you,” he says, quite seriously*, looking back over at Watson again.

"You've only just had to buy yourself a new one," Watson counters. "You blew the last one to disarm Blackwood's device. Surely you don't value it so much as the old one."

He lets out a long breath, wishing he could just go to sleep. He feels as though he could, now, after nights upon nights of insomnia. Whenever he comes to Baker Street he finds that he can sleep once again. Now he knows why, or rather, now he's not refusing to think about why that is.

"I'll go after breakfast," he says quietly, still staring forward out the window. "Or I might fall over halfway there." Not to mention it would likely put a damper on the confession if he were to lose consciousness in the midst of it.

He wants to lean over against Holmes, has the sudden (and very nearly irresistible) urge to do so, but he forces himself to resist. He can't, not until he's been honest with Mary about everything, much as there is a spot on Holmes' shoulder that has no bruise, and he can't help staring at it and stifling the unexpected urge to reach over and bite it. Blinking, he shakes his head slightly. This is all... rather new.

As luck would have it, though, Mrs. Hudson rescues him from any potentially poor decisions (or rather any more of them), knocking and then carrying in a tray with toast and jam on it, as well as some breakfast tea. Watson finds that he's quite hungry for the first time in days, his stomach growling audibly. "Please excuse me," he mutters, embarrassed, pulling a chair closer with his good leg so the tray can rest on it and they don't have to get up.

Accustomed to the two men's odd habits, Mrs. Hudson doesn't blink at Watson's decision to eat on the floor, and bids them a good morning before sweeping out, having cast a worried glance at Holmes' mottled and bandaged torso on her way.

Much as he is now awake and somehow still among the world of the living, Holmes finds that he has absolutely no desire to eat just now, despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten in days. He imagines it has something to do with his ribs. But he also knows that if he doesn’t, Watson will likely force it down his throat, and Holmes... is quite sure he would lose that struggle at the moment. Although normally he would be willing to test it simply to annoy Watson, right now he hardly has the energy for an argument.

So, forcing himself to lift his head back from the wall and take the weight of it himself, Holmes eyes the toast and in the end manages to take a single bite of it, swallowing without too much trouble. And then... he stops. Just for a moment. Maybe in a minute he’ll eat some more. Right now he’s too tired.

“The old one was preferable,” he concedes quietly, his mind wandering off a bit to escape the way the room is spinning and the idea of Watson leaving, even to go talk to Mary... even for this. What if he changes his mind on the way? What if he leaves and never returns? Could Holmes really blame him? He couldn’t, and so instead he thinks about what Watson had said. His pipe. Watson has a point. It does happen occasionally.

Watson raises a brow, amused despite himself. "Mmph," he grunts, which translates roughly to yes, of course it is, old boy. But as his mouth is currently full of toast, he doesn't respond otherwise. It's only after they've eaten, he making sure that Holmes at least has two pieces of plain toast, that he knows he has to finally get up.

Knowing he's going to regret it, he leans down and puts his arm beneath the other man's shoulders, lifting. It's not nearly so bad as the last time he'd had to do something similar, since there are no stairs, and he gets Holmes into the settee. "Don't sleep," he orders. "I'm getting Mrs. Hudson to sit with you while I'm gone." Holmes' eyes are closing, and he thwacks the other man on the arm, deliberately on one of his bruises, provoking a quiet howl of pain. "It's your own fault for nearly getting yourself beaten to death."

Five minutes later, he returns with the landlady, who pulls a chair close to the settee, having come armed with her knitting needles and having been given instructions to keep Holmes awake in any manner she sees fit. Watson pulls on his jacket, coat, and hat, then, promising to return soon. "I don't know how long I'll be," he informs Mrs. Hudson, his eyes on Holmes, whom he can tell is watching him from beneath his lashes, even though he's clearly attempting to hide it. "But I'll return as soon as I may." It's a promise, and he hopes the other man knows that.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he turns and walks out, shutting the door on his way and going down the stairs and out to the street this time, starting back on the now-quite-familiar route from Baker Street to Cavendish Place. This... is undoubtedly going to go terribly. But honestly, he'll be relieved when it's over.

In the space in between Watson’s leaving and his return, Holmes is violently stabbed out of unconsciousness twenty-seven times, thus proving once and for all that he cannot be trained. Once he makes a wild grab for Mrs. Hudson’s knitting needle and does manage to take it from her for the space of thirty seconds before she stabs him with the other and yanks the first out of his grip when he’s swearing. Tricky goddamn woman.

Holmes ends up lying on the settee rather than seated, sprawled so as to take up the entirety of the thing with his legs hanging over the side, and glowering at Mrs. Hudson, who is thoroughly ignoring him... or at least it seems so until he tries again to sleep, at which point she viciously attacks him every time.

He would undoubtedly protest more if, deep down, he wasn’t glad for the distraction. He can imagine just how the discussion with Mary is going... and how Watson will look when he returns. If he returns, a voice points out from the back of his head. Holmes takes that opportunity to close his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to drift into unconsciousness and let all of it go... and is stabbed once more. “Sadist,” he grumbles, wishing fiercely that Watson hadn’t broken the remaining bottles of his solution.


~~~~~

Part Eleven