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Heedless of the considerable pain or the cries of consternation, he threw himself from the bed and staggered to the neighboring bed where his friend lay. "How is he?" he demanded, clinging to the bedsheets when numerous hands tried to pull him away.

"Mr. Holmes, please! Let us see to your injuries, and the other doctors will tend to Doctor Watson," said a voice behind his shoulder.

"How is he?!" he repeated hysterically, feeling his consciousness fading though he clung to it like he did the sheets.

His grip was gently disengaged and he was dragged back to his bed. "He should be fine," came a whisper in his ear, and he had just a moment to panic about the use of "should" instead of "will" before his mind shut down completely.

~~

"I know you're awake."

"Mycroft. Why are you here?" He kept his eyes closed, maintaining the pretence that he hadn't been feigning sleep.

"Someone must make sure you cooperate," he said with fond exasperation. "And since your Doctor Watson is not currently able to do so, here I am."

"Watson," he repeated, more a gasp than a word. He looked frantically for him, but all he could see was Mycroft sitting in a chair and an empty space for another bed beyond him. He started to roll over to check the other side, but Mycroft stopped him, unyielding hands on his shoulder and hip.

"You don't want to do that," Mycroft said firmly.

Indeed, the abortive motion had set fire to his back, and he stiffened. "How is Watson?" he demanded, trying to distract himself from the pain.

Mycroft sat back in the chair and folded his hands. "He endured a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, but they will heal. However, he has not yet regained consciousness since you both were rescued and brought here."

"He hit his head," Holmes remembered. "When the explosion threw us against the bulkhead. How long has it been?"

"Two days," Mycroft said grimly. "The doctors tell me there is not yet cause for concern, but their voices say otherwise."

"But he was waking when we reached the railing, I'm sure of it," Holmes said.

"By the time you were both pulled from the water, he was barely conscious. You were completely unaware until after arriving here, at which point you got out of bed and demanded to know how Watson fared." Mycroft was visibly amused. "Tell me, Sherlock, what happened on that boat? I believe I have determined the course of events, but there are a few details that elude me."

Holmes grimaced. "After your telegram confirmed my information, I set a watch on the docks and monitored the Dutch steamship myself. Despite having arrived earlier in the day and their scheduled departure not occurring for a week, the crew was preparing the ship to leave. Of particular interest were three bundles carried aboard after nightfall, each roughly the size of a child. As you are aware, three children were missing.

"I sent a message to Lestrade and summoned Watson, and we were able to board in the guise of dockworkers assisting with the loading, and we hid belowdecks. We did not emerge until the boat had cast off, and tried to determine where the children were confined. The rear compartment where we were stowed had no traces of them. The crew were easily subdued and tied to the deck railing. They must have suspected something, however, for the front compartment was a trap. None of the children were there, just barrels upon barrels of explosives, and in stepping foot on that deck we triggered the fuse.

"I realized our danger too late. I tried to push Watson into the far corner, but we had not yet reached it when the first of the barrels burst. Watson was knocked senseless. Somehow I dragged us both back up to the deck and toward the rear of the ship. There was another explosion, most likely the boiler. After that . . . everything is unclear, I'm afraid."

Mycroft nodded. "The boiler did explode, and blew the ship to pieces. You and Watson were found half-drowned, clinging to some of the wreckage. Only two of the crew were recovered; one has since died of his injuries."

"The children?"

"Recovered by Scotland Yard in a warehouse not far from where the Friesland was docked."

"At least one part of this case wasn't a complete failure." Holmes sighed, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. "Mycroft . . . how bad is it?"

"We needn't speak of it," Mycroft said stoutly.

Holmes quirked a smile. "Ah, I see. That bad." He hesitated, then shook his head slightly and closed his eyes. He didn't need to ask.

~~

Mycroft greatly disliked watching the doctors change Sherlock's bandages, but he insisted upon being present so he could see the condition of the wounds for himself and judge the doctors' words afterward accordingly. His foolish brother had taken the brunt of the initial explosion on his own back, resulting in extensive shrapnel wounds and even some burns.

The doctors were careful to keep the injuries clean and covered with bandages steeped in antiseptic but were worried about the possibility of infection. Mycroft saw their concern though they didn't speak of it, and knew by their faces when their fears were realized three days after Sherlock and the Doctor were rescued. Sherlock quickly developed a raging fever, murmuring incoherently and thrashing about enough that the doctors sedated him so he wouldn't do himself further damage.

Mycroft settled in for a long stay, knowing that Sherlock wished him to remain and watch over the Doctor so long as he was unable, and inferring that Dr. Watson would desire him to do the same for Sherlock. He commandeered one of the movable tables used by the doctors and set it between the beds as a makeshift desk and had his assistant bring him some of his paperwork as well as a few personal items.

Several of the doctors objected strenuously to his continued presence, unprepared and unwilling to conduct their work around him. Mycroft made it clear that he would be staying so long as he thought it necessary; the few doctors who took exception to this stance and persisted in their displeasure found themselves unceremoniously reassigned to other patients. The nurses thought it was sweet that he cared so much for his brother and their friend and several went out of their way to make sure meals were delivered and his other needs cared for; one even arranged for a bed to be brought in for his use. Mycroft ensured they, too, received their due and found the results most satisfactory: Sherlock and Dr. Watson were receiving the best care of anyone in the hospital.

But still Dr. Watson remained comatose, and still Sherlock burned with fever. Mycroft spent nearly a week of anxious days and sleepless nights, trying to get some work done but finding it difficult to focus. When Sherlock's medication began to wear off, he would start muttering and Mycroft listened despite himself; the words were just what he'd expect to be on his sibling's mind: complaints about the pain of his injuries and, most of all, concern for Watson.

Mycroft was relieved when Sherlock's fever began to abate and Sherlock was able to wake and converse rationally, though he tired quickly and was obviously distressed that Watson had yet to wake. The doctors tried to reassure them both that Dr. Watson was beginning to respond to stimuli and encouraged them to talk to him, as familiar voices were often effective in rousing such patients. Mycroft felt quite foolish addressing an unresponsive man, but Sherlock latched on to the idea quite readily and spent much of his waking time talking to Watson, telling him what had happened and apologizing for being the cause of his injuries.

There was no response to his efforts. Mycroft removed himself from the room whenever Sherlock talked to Watson; Sherlock wondered just how much he had said in his fever, and how much Mycroft might have deduced about his unexpressed feelings for Watson -why else would he give them privacy so?

Finally, Watson opened his eyes while Holmes was talking to him. Holmes was beside himself with joy until he noticed Watson's expression was one of utter confusion. His expression didn't change when Holmes removed himself from his bed and took Watson's hand, murmuring reassuringly to him. Watson's eyes soon fell closed, but Holmes remained standing beside his bed, clutching his hand, for some time. The lack of recognition in Watson's face was worrying, and a knot formed in Holmes' stomach as he considered for the first time that there could be lingering effects of Watson's injury even after he woke.

He nearly didn't make it back to his own bed, having stood next to Watson's for longer than his meagre strength could support, and had to be helped by a nurse with impeccable timing who had come to check on them. She tried to assure him that confusion was quite normal and didn't necessarily indicate there was memory loss or permanent damage, but he was in a daze, trying to comprehend that he might have damaged his Watson permanently.

Upon finding out that Watson was beginning to wake, Mycroft took his leave. He wasn't needed anymore, he said, and had been away from his work for long enough. Holmes tried not to care, but something in him was hurt that his brother was abandoning them before Watson was fully awake and aware. He had the nurses move his bed a little closer to Watson's so he could touch him without getting up -apparently that earlier misguided effort of standing beside Watson's bed had ripped out some stitches and reopened several shallower wounds.

Nearly every waking hour was focused on Watson's still frame, talking to him and urging him to wake, holding his hand and waiting for an answering squeeze, apologizing repeatedly and weeping over him. Watson did open his eyes again, and even squeezed Holmes' hand, but his face maintained a look of bewilderment and sometimes frustration as he tried to speak but couldn't. Holmes would keep his composure while Watson was awake, putting up a calm, reassuring face, but when Watson lapsed back into sleep, he fought despair.

His own injuries were healing agonizingly slowly, the skin on his back raw and exceedingly painful. Every movement hurt, even breathing hurt, but he didn't tell the nurses that the doses of morphine they were giving him were woefully insufficient. He would suffer for as long as Watson suffered. He deserved to suffer for his failures. It was entirely his fault, after all.

As Watson improved -and even he could see the improvement- he felt himself sliding inexorably deeper into the pit of his black mood. Except this time he didn't have cocaine to keep him afloat. Except this time he deserved all the accusations and recriminations he could throw at himself, for the case had been a failure and both of them had nearly died as a result of his stupidity. And it still remained to be seen whether Watson could return to his former self; he'd never forgive himself if he had added to poor Watson's miseries.

"Holmes." It was a whisper, but a long-awaited one.

Holmes was at Watson's bedside in an instant, standing in the narrow space between their beds, instinctively clutching Watson's hand. "Watson," he said, scarcely able to breathe. Watson knew who he was!

"You don't look well," he said hoarsely.

"You've looked better yourself," Holmes retorted, then added quietly, "It is good to hear your voice again."

Watson smiled slightly, then tried to speak but coughed instead.

Holmes patted his shoulder awkwardly and shushed him. "You can talk later. For now you must save your strength and recover so we can go home."

Watson squeezed his hand and drifted off to sleep again.

Holmes waited until he was sure Watson was unaware, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. He flushed with embarrassment immediately afterward and retreated to his own bed. He laid down facing Watson and watched him, trying to remind himself that this small bit of progress, while promising, was only one step toward Watson's recovery. There was still a very long way to go.

He was roused from an exhausted sleep somewhere in the wee hours of the morning by a brief flurry of activity centered around Watson's bed. He resisted the urge to ask what was the matter, knowing the question would be ignored, so he sat up and tried to deduce what was going on. Watson was being held up in a sitting position by two nurses while a doctor pressed a stethoscope to Watson's back, his expression bland. Watson shivered and coughed, and the doctor directed the nurses to lay him back against more pillows, then turned to leave.

Holmes seized the opportunity. "Doctor?"

"You shouldn't be awake." He looked mildly irritated.

"What-?" he gestured toward Watson.

"A bit of pneumonia, nothing to worry about. It's common in these cases."

Holmes frowned, trying to reconcile 'nothing to worry about' with the ailment that carried off his mother. The doctor took his silence as acceptance and left, the nurses not far behind him. Holmes stole from his bed and crept over to Watson, pressing a shaking hand to his brow. It was a touch warm, but not worryingly so. Perhaps the doctor was right, then.

But he had a hard time believing it. Pneumonia could kill, that much he knew for certain. He found the chair Mycroft had used on the other side of his bed and dragged it between their beds -the small distance between their beds still much too wide for his comfort- then settled upon it, careful not to lean his back against the chair. He wrapped his arms around his bent legs, rested his chin on his upraised knees, and began his vigil.

The next several days were sheer torture. Holmes remained in the chair, steadfastly ignoring all efforts to persuade him to return to his own bed, and kept watch over Watson. During the day he sometimes allowed himself to doze, for there were plenty of nurses around to make sure Watson kept breathing.

The nights were harder. The darkness and silence made it easier for his mind to worry at the small anxieties and make them large and insurmountable, until he was almost afraid to blink for fear he'd miss Watson's last breath. He knew such thoughts were unreasonable, for Watson's fever remained low and his breathing was hardly impaired, but, lacking his usual means of distraction and his mood already tending toward pessimism, he could not keep his mind focused on the positive facts that Watson was alive, had woken, had spoken, had recollected his name.

All he could think about his culpability and the all-consuming worry for Watson. And, of course, if he hadn't been such a failure and gotten them both nearly killed, Watson wouldn't be in such dire straits. The guilt was nearly overwhelming. So this was how he showed regard for his friend!

Friend, and more than friend. He'd never said so to Watson, fearing the reaction, and now he might lose him, just after being reassured that Watson did at least recognize him. So he clung to Watson's hand, touched his arm, his shoulder, his face, letting his heart speak through his hands while Watson was oblivious, trying not to think about what Watson would think of him if he were aware.

He was being foolish, irrational, emotional, all those things he so derided in others. He knew it, but he couldn't care. His entire will was focused on urging Watson to be well, return to him, to the exclusion of everything else. The hospital staff were frustrated over his obstinacy in his refusal to budge from the chair or eat or allow his dressings to be changed and began to threaten him with sedation and being tied to his bed, but he found solace in the fact that they hadn't discerned the reason for his stubbornness.

Mycroft might or might not have paid him a visit at some point on the third? fourth? eighth? (time blurred dreadfully in that wretched place) day in an attempt to make him see sense and cooperate. Holmes might or might not have ignored him, snarling something quite rude when Mycroft persisted in trying to speak with him.

Hours (days?) after the fact, Holmes wasn't entirely certain whether his brother had in fact made an appearance, but decided it would be wise to heed the warning to cooperate. For, if Mycroft *had* come, he would no doubt make good on the threat to allow the staff to do what they would with him if he continued his recalcitrant behavior, since his visit indicated he was already quite displeased.

And if Mycroft had not actually come, that meant Holmes was hallucinating, which did not bode well for his health and sanity. He already felt like the fever was returning -likely due to his wound dressings not being changed in days- but he did not think he was so far gone as to imagine things. He knew from Watson's constant efforts to make him eat and sleep and otherwise behave like a normal human being that he did sometimes feel better when he did so. But only sometimes. And he never mentioned it to Watson.

So he made a few concessions: the dressings could be changed, so long as he was allowed to remain at Watson's bedside; he would eat a little, but only those items of his choosing and when he chose to eat them; and he would leave the chair to stretch his legs so long as he remained within arm's length of Watson at all times. The staff were content with these terms for about a day before the particularly persistent doctors tried to convince him he needed sleep as well.

Holmes wasn't convinced. He could go days without sleep, and had on multiple occasions before. He was fine.

More threats followed, including the promise to contact Mycroft again. Holmes disregarded them, for Watson woke up briefly and Holmes decided he ought not go to bed until Watson could tell him he was all right. To do otherwise would be to abandon Watson, to capitulate to the demands of a weak body. And Holmes was stronger than that.

It should not have been a surprise to wake and find himself in his bed, his arms raised near his head and somehow tethered to the headboard. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was, and his immediate reaction was panic.

He frantically pulled at his bonds, no thought behind the movements other than the absolute need to be freed. Jerking first one way, then the other, but to no avail; he didn't have good leverage lying on his side as he was, though he was relieved to find his feet were not similarly restrained. So he rolled onto his back.

The sudden burst of pain quickly brought him back to his senses, though a gasp of discomfort may have escaped him before he could bring his racing thoughts back under control. Whatever had been used to sedate him must still be lingering in his system, considering the less than rational reaction he had upon awakening, and the continued slowness of his thoughts.

Breathing slowly, Holmes evaluated his options. First, he really ought to turn back over -he now saw why the staff were so careful to keep him lying on his side. His back ached quite fiercely. Somehow, rolling back over was more difficult than it should have been, but he prevailed. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Carefully moving himself up the bed, he examined his bonds; they were leather, short, buckled in a place where he couldn't manage to get them undone, and fastened too tightly to simply slip his hands out. He sighed and leaned his head against the headboard. The restraints really shouldn't have been able to thwart him so easily, but it was exceedingly difficult to think and he lacked the strength to care. Besides, his bed was now much closer to Watson's, so what did it matter?

Hold on a moment. When did the beds move? Where there once was room for a chair, there was now barely sufficient width to stand. Reaching Watson would be quite easy, if his hands were free. Just how long had they kept him sedated? Holmes was loath to admit it, even to himself, but he was terribly confused. It was quite disconcerting.

Then he looked up and saw Mycroft in the doorway, carrying a large stack of newspapers. Of all the people he had to face while feeling vulnerable, it had to be the one person who would be able to see his discomfort. Of course. So he attempted bravado. "I know you had something to do with this, so you really ought to unhand me now."

Mycroft set the newspapers on the end of his bed and gazed at him. Holmes stared back unflinchingly; at length Mycroft nodded slightly and removed the restraints. "It was necessary. You were nearly out of your head with fatigue and fever. Moving your bed closer was a conciliatory gesture for when you were allowed to wake."

Holmes grimaced and sat up, rubbing his wrists. "For how many days was I sedated?"

"Three." Mycroft retrieved the newspapers and set the pile next to him. "Morning and evening papers, starting the day before the accident. You may tear them up however you like, I am finished with them."

Holmes eyed the stack. "An oddly sentimental gesture, but I do appreciate being able to catch up on the news."

"Not sentimental in the least. It was rather evident that you need some sort of occupation other than fretting over Watson."

Holmes glanced at Watson's bed. "How is he?"

"He is not yet quite himself," Mycroft said diplomatically. "But he is much closer to recovery than before."

Holmes could see that Watson's color was better, but could not tell anything more until Watson woke. "Are you going to stay this time, or will you leave us again?" he asked Mycroft candidly.

"I think I shall take my leave," Mycroft replied. "Sherlock, does he know?"

Holmes fixed his eyes on his brother. "Know what?" he asked with forced nonchalance.

Mycroft only grunted. "Just as I thought," he said. "Mind your health, Sherlock. I do not like to be forced to do anything, particularly when it's having my brother restrained to his bed."

Then he was gone. Holmes ignored the papers for a while in favor of watching Watson sleep and ruminating over Mycroft's words. He'd known what Mycroft was asking, of course. He rather hoped his fever ramblings hadn't been incriminating. There was no helping it now if they were, of course, so he turned his attention to the papers instead.

The brief initial story about the explosion of the Friesland did not hint at its connection with the rescued children, who were written about in a separate piece that heartily congratulated Scotland Yard for their fine work. Which was as it should be, but it was still mildly vexing that there wasn't even the slightest mention of him or Watson, not even in the follow-up stories that reported the death of the one deckhand and the investigation into the cause of the explosion.

But, looking at the rest of the usual news, it was likely for the best that the criminal element was unaware of his unintentional hiatus. So he set those thoughts aside and combed the papers for any bits of data that might be of interest.

He digested almost a weeks' worth of papers before he stopped to consider the size of the stack before him. He'd removed maybe a third of the papers; had he and Watson really been here that long? His reverie was broken by Watson's voice saying his name. Watson sounded tired and weak, but he was smiling slightly. "How are you feeling?" Holmes asked in response, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt to see Watson awake and talking.

"Better, I think," Watson said after a moment of thought. "I am glad to see you awake. I shall have to remember that trick the next time you don't take my advice."

"If you ever drug me and tie me to the bed, I shall retaliate in kind whenever convenient," Holmes retorted. "They told you what happened?"

"I was awake when they first drugged you," Watson said.

Holmes winced. "I'm sorry you had to see that, old chap."

Watson shrugged. "I've seen worse."

They fell into a silence that began to grow awkward. Holmes fidgeted with some of the bits he'd torn out of the paper (he should have asked Mycroft to bring scissors). Watson finally asked, "Holmes, what happened to us?"

"What do you remember?"

"Nothing," Watson said in frustration. "Well, I remember many things, but I can't tell whether they happened last month or ten years ago. Everything's muddled."

Holmes frowned but related what he knew and what Mycroft had told him. "I have the newspaper articles, if you'd like to read them," Holmes said, locating a small pile of clippings that had nearly disappeared under his pillow. "In fact, if you'd like to read the papers we've missed, Mycroft brought them for me. Though I fear I've already made one week unreadable."

Watson grinned and reached for the clippings Holmes held out. His hand shook slightly, and Holmes assumed it was due to disuse. Watson took the bits of paper and squinted at them for a while before handing them back. "I'm not much for reading yet, I'm afraid," he confessed, rubbing his head as if it hurt.

Holmes was about to tuck the clippings back under the edge of his pillow when he realized, from the way Watson handed them back, that Watson had been looking at them with the text upside down, apparently without realizing it. He glanced over at Watson with consternation, a horrible thought forming in the back of his mind.

Watson looked back at him and asked with all seriousness, "Holmes, what happened to us?"

Holmes paled and his heart clenched with grief and guilt. Before he could answer, Watson frowned. "No, I've asked that before. I'm sorry, I just can't seem to get things straightened out in my head," he said with evident distress.

"It will get better with time," Holmes assured him, hoping with all his being that it was true. "Would you like me to read you the articles?"

Watson's expression brightened. "If you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind."

~~

One day melted into another, then another, Holmes watching anxiously as the doctors worked with Watson, encouraging him to stand, then walk, until he could hobble unaided from his bed to the door and back. Holmes helped him with regaining his endurance, supporting him with an arm around the waist while he shuffled along the edge of the corridor. When Watson had sufficient physical exertion for the day, they would return to the pile of papers, which, while much diminished, was daily refreshed with additions sent by Mycroft.

Holmes was utterly relieved when another trial at having Watson read met with more success. It was short-lived, for the text on the page was quite blurry and trying to focus gave him a raging headache, but Holmes was more than happy to read to him, content that Watson would not have to suffer the indignity of having to re-learn how to read.

Watson's memory remained unreliable, conflating events that occurred years apart, skipping over other events entirely, or belatedly recalling details requested minutes -or hours- previously. Holmes tried not to be bothered by it, telling himself it would improve and Watson's note-taking ability shouldn't be impaired, but Watson was frustrated and Holmes couldn't help him, so he was frustrated by his helplessness, which in turn made Watson frustrated with him for thinking he ought to be able to fix everything -"You're only human, Holmes!"- so Holmes would retort that he ought to be able to fix it since he caused it . . . they would argue, which invariably ended with Holmes storming out to stalk the corridors or curl himself into some corner to quiet his mind, returning to their room only when he could restore his mask of calm concern.

Assisting Watson in his recovery was a painful pleasure. Painful in that every moment he watched Watson struggle, felt him stumble, witnessed him trying so hard to calm his trembling hand long enough to simply feed himself, it twisted the knife of guilt until he wasn't sure he could stand the strain much longer. Pleasure in that he could be close to Watson, touch him, put his arm tightly around him, sit almost touching him, and have it be mere helpfulness, the concern of a close friend.

Whether and how his own injuries were healing was of no real concern to him; they were, in fact, healing, and that was sufficient. Watson saw his back once while the on-duty doctor was deciding if it still required constant bandaging and was astonished by the amount of scarring he saw developing. Holmes shrugged it off -what did it matter to him what his back looked like?- and changed the subject; Watson didn't need to worry about him, he would heal and that was that.

At long last they were allowed to return to Baker Street, roughly six weeks after that fateful night. Mrs. Hudson fussed over them both, scolding them for not sending a message ahead so she could plan a nice dinner, but she didn't seem too angry, especially after Watson made one of his customary remarks complimenting her cooking. Holmes spared a moment to be grateful that his brother had let Mrs. Hudson know what had become of them, or her ire would no doubt be quite formidable, as he hadn't thought about her even once and Watson had been in no condition to remind him of that social nicety.

Watson needed a bit of help up the stairs -that was one thing they had not thought to try at the hospital, as their room had been on the ground floor- and then they beheld their familiar sitting room. Watson settled into his armchair while Holmes fetched a pair of cigars from the coal scuttle. They sat and smoked in comfortable silence, relieved to be home.

After his cigar was reduced to ash, Holmes rose and started to sort through the heap of mail Mrs. Hudson had piled on the table in their absence. Some of it was Watson's, and he dutifully took it to its proper owner, but the rest was (unsurprisingly) his and he selected a handful at random to take back to his armchair.

Most of the correspondence was time-sensitive and far beyond a time when any response would be helpful; these he crumpled and tossed toward the fireplace to be burned. Of the more recent letters, there were several he had solved by the time he finished reading them, so he set them aside to be responded to. A few fell in neither category, having arrived several weeks ago but still potentially worth pursuing; these he gathered and affixed to the mantel with the jackknife for consideration later.

Sorting the mail did not take much time, all told, and was quite finished by the time Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner. Holmes was tempted to write his responses yet that evening, but decided to let it wait until morning -there was no way to tell how soon a case might come his way, so it was best to keep himself occupied for as long as possible. Watson helped sort through some of the mail, and chided Holmes for leaving so many of the older letters without any sort of response; Holmes invited him to mind those replies himself, if he thought them worth sending, so Watson gathered several and settled himself at his desk.

It wasn't long before Watson admitted that, perhaps, the writers of these letters already knew by now that no response would be forthcoming, so sending any missive now might not be appropriate. Holmes thought Watson had realized the difficulty of determining what to say in such a reply -"So sorry to keep you waiting, and sorry, we're not taking your case"?- and refrained from teasing Watson about retreating from the task so quickly. It wasn't until later, after Watson went to bed, that Holmes saw
the sheet Watson had been using and the shaky, wandering handwriting that covered it. Evidently Watson's remaining troubles with the coordination in his hands included difficulty writing.

Watson retired early, citing exhaustion and a headache, which Holmes could well believe. Holmes suggested that Watson use his room for the night, since Watson's room required ascending another flight of stairs. Watson would have preferred to sleep in his own bed, but had to agree with Holmes that the stairs might be a problem should he require anything during the night. So he settled in Holmes' bed, Holmes having fetched his nightshirt and dressing gown from upstairs for him, and Holmes would sleep on the settee.

If he slept at all. Holmes was restless, his mind obsessively circling around a few well-worn subjects. He tried playing his violin for a while just after Watson went to bed -he limited himself to those pieces he knew would serve to usher the doctor into well-earned slumber- but he felt uninspired, his fingers and arm moving almost mechanically as he forced his way through pieces that, on a better night, were so expressive as to move Watson nearly to tears. With frustration he returned the instrument to its case and took up pacing instead, a pipe full of tobacco clenched in his teeth.

But pacing outwardly echoed the circling of his mind, and he cast himself into his armchair, wincing when the fabric of his shirt rubbed roughly over still-tender skin. The stack of letters requiring reply came into his sight then, and he decided he might as well make his wakefulness useful.

By midnight he had replied to that stack of letters, updated his commonplace books with the articles he'd collected while in hospital, re-read and solved four of the five inquiries that had been on the mantel (the other was tossed in the fire as a waste of time), and written three telegrams to the Yard concerning investigations mentioned in the day's paper. He even checked on Watson, who slept soundly, accustomed to Holmes' late-night activity. Holmes paced a while longer, then flung himself onto the settee with a deep sigh of discontent.

He remained there, unmoving, for what must have been several hours, for the lamp burned low and the fire in the grate had long gone cold. By then his thoughts had become nearly unbearable, for all that they were so familiar. It took quite an effort, but he pushed himself back onto his feet and went for Watson's medical bag. Setting it on the table, he rummaged through it until he found what he was after and prepared himself a generous dose. After injecting himself, he left everything on the table and stumbled back to the settee, feeling the warm forgetfulness thrumming in his veins.

~~

It must have been nearly mid-morning when he woke. Watson was dressed and sitting in his armchair, reading the paper. Holmes' eyes narrowed when he noticed Watson was not wearing the clothes from yesterday; he'd made it up to his room and back, then. Without Holmes' help. Holmes knew this time would come, but he'd rather hoped it would take a little longer to arrive.

Watson no longer needed him. It should have been a cause for joy, but the thought was unaccountably depressing. Well, if he was no longer needed, at least he could stop the act that all was well -it was truly exhausting. He sighed and forced himself to sit up.

Watson peered over the paper at him. "Good morning, Holmes," he said cheerfully. "If you had told me you were in pain, I would have given you some morphine before I went to bed and saved you the trouble of searching my bag."

"I didn't need it until later," Holmes replied lamely, rising from the settee with a groan. "You made it to your room, I see."

"Yes. I had to be very slow and careful, but I made it," Watson said, sounding quite pleased. "I shan't keep you from your bed another night."

Holmes grunted in response and shuffled to his desk, where he shoved something in his dressing gown pocket. He retreated to his bedroom, closed and locked the door behind him, drew the case from his pocket, and sought solace in his needle and solution. Watson heard the lock slide into place and shook his head, not pleased that Holmes was already sinking into a black mood.

The cocaine didn't help. It set the circling thoughts to racing 'round his head like a dog after a fox, until he'd barely begun a thought before it ended and a new one replaced it. The sheer volume and chaos in his mind made him wish he could climb out of his skin and flee in a million directions to relieve the pressure.

It was a relief when the cocaine wore off. Watson had slipped a telegram under the door whilst he was being driven mad by his own mind; when a glance revealed it was from Lestrade, he held it over the lamp and watched the flimsy paper burn. The licking flames were the most fascinating thing he had seen all day.

Holmes slipped out of the flat while Watson took an afternoon nap and went to the druggist for something that would silence the endless whirl of repetitive thoughts. He couldn't decide between morphine and laudanum, so he bought plenty of both.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed in a blissful morphine haze, the thoughts still undeniably present but muted enough that existence was bearable. He even ventured out into the sitting room and sat with Watson, who seemed on the brink of scolding him but didn't end up saying anything. The post brought several more letters for his perusal, all but two of which he had replied to the night before. Those remaining two were dull and obvious; he would have to consider whether he would even bother to respond.

A quiet evening followed the quiet day, and this time Holmes retreated to his bedroom when Watson turned in. He allowed the thoughts free rein for a while; the doubts about his abilities, the guilt about his actions, the accusations that he hadn't done enough, the steadfast belief that he wasn't good enough, and the ringing condemnation that he would never deserve anything but this echoed in the dark.

The laudanum served its bitter purpose to remove him from consciousness, but the thoughts followed him in his dreams, forcing him to relive all those moments when Watson had been injured or nearly so. He woke feeling more exhausted than before.

Holmes remained in his bed long after waking, having neither the energy nor the inclination to move. At some point in the morning -at least, Holmes thought it was still morning- he could hear a knocking on the main door of their rooms. The knocking repeated, louder, twice more before ceasing, and Holmes took a moment to wonder why Watson didn't answer it. He should be awake by now.

Almost without conscious effort his mind raced through the possibilities and probabilities. Watson could be taking a nap, but given the hour this was unlikely. He might be also be out for a stroll, though in light of his recent injuries, Holmes would expect that he wouldn't do so without a walking companion. As he hadn't asked Holmes to take a walk with him, this possibility, too, was unlikely. Thus, Watson ought to be in the sitting room and able to answer the door. The only alternative was that something happened -perhaps a fall- and Watson required assistance.

Since Watson had not answered the door, the most reasonable explanation was that he required assistance. This was the only possible thing that could spur Holmes to stir from his bed in his present state -even the threat of fire would not budge him; after all, so long as the smoke was sufficiently thick, he would be completely unaware by the time the flames reached him. Not a bad way to die, really, compared so some of the alternatives he regularly faced in his line of work.

So he stirred himself, taking care to slide his syringe case into his dressing gown pocket -after he ventured all the way to the sitting room, he wouldn't want to have to go all the way back to his room for a while- and shuffled into the sitting room. No Watson. He was about to head for the stairs to Watson's room when he noticed that Watson's hat and cane were missing from their usual places. Watson had gone for a walk. By himself.

It was a relief to know Watson hadn't taken a tumble down the stairs, but him going out alone only confirmed that Holmes was unneeded. Holmes settled himself on the settee, his arm flung over his eyes to keep out the light.

He was roused by the sound of Watson's footsteps on the stairs. Quite slow, his limp exaggerated by weariness, then there was a clatter and a thump -Watson had dropped his cane, and fallen without its support, or so Holmes assumed. He was up and to the door even before he had finished processing the import of the sounds. "Watson?" he said as he opened the door and saw Watson perched awkwardly near the top of the stairs.

"Ah, Holmes," Watson replied, sounding relieved. "The rough spot in the carpet got the better of me, I'm afraid." Holmes wordlessly helped him back to his feet. "I dropped the post-" he started.

"I will fetch it and your cane once you are safely in the sitting room," Holmes assured him.

"You are too kind," Watson said, leaning heavily on Holmes as they ascended the last few stairs and crossed the sitting room to his armchair.

"Are you injured?" Holmes asked, hovering anxiously near the chair.

"Only my pride is wounded. I will be quite all right. Thank you, Holmes."

Holmes accepted this and fetched the dropped items, as promised. One letter was for Watson, the other two and a telegram -from Lestrade again- were for him. He considered dropping the lot of them in the fire, but Watson was watching, so he took a seat in his own chair and ripped open the envelopes.

He frowned. The first letter was from a rather hysterical female scolding him for "impertinent, slanderous, and wholly false" accusations he had made against her in a letter to her husband. It continued, detailing how the husband had humiliated her and etc., etc., but Holmes skipped to the signature. The name wasn't familiar; perhaps the husband's inquiry was one he'd answered upon returning to Baker Street. He didn't clearly recall the details of any of those.

In any case, the hysterical cast-off wife was harmless, and her situation wasn't wholly his fault. The husband had likely neglected some pertinent details in the original letter. Petty household squabbles were usually quite straightforward, but some did present unique features that required more effort to resolve. Evidently, this was one such case.

He tossed the letter in the fire.

The second letter was a follow-up from a client -another name he didn't clearly recall, but probably recent- and included an article clipping from the previous evening's paper. The brief article mentioned only that a Mr. so-and-so had been found dead in a park after having been missing for four days. His wife had sought Holmes' help as soon as her husband went missing, and Holmes had replied with an insinuation that he was likely abroad with the maid that had recently been dismissed from the household. She was, quite understandably, rather upset about her husband's death and concerned about what made him think adultery played a role in the disappearance.

It, too, went in the fire. If he hadn't supplied the proper answer the first time, he would not be able to provide one now, not without going out to the home in person and conducting a thorough investigation. He hadn't the energy to do so, and he suspected his efforts at this juncture would not be entirely welcome. He'd made a real hash of things for this one, that was certain. One more thing to feel guilty about.

Lestrade's telegram referred to the one yesterday, providing additional detail about some investigation he evidently wanted Holmes to examine. As the details were provided without any context -it having arrived and been burned yesterday- the information meant absolutely nothing to Holmes and he discarded the telegram as he had the letters.

"Nothing of interest?" Watson inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Nothing whatsoever," Holmes said morosely. He slouched in his chair and longingly fingered the case in his pocket. Watson wasn't watching him -he was reading the morning Times- but he had an uncanny knack for knowing when Holmes was in the middle of an injection and frowning disapprovingly until Holmes put it away. So he was stuck unless he wanted to leave the room. Which he didn't. Moving required too much effort.

He was distracted from his dilemma by Watson lowering the paper with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. "Holmes, old chap, would you mind?" Watson asked, holding out the paper to him.

Holmes considered for a moment. "Not at all, Watson," he said, taking the paper and opening it to where Watson had left off. "Where shall I begin?"

"You might as well read the whole page," Watson said, discontented.

So Holmes did, though he skipped over the advertisements, realizing as he did so how very many advertisements there were scattered all over the page. Not all of the articles were of interest to either of them -the brief bit relating how well the local poultry club had done at an American show, for instance- but Holmes read it anyway, then noticed an advertisement beneath it. He had to wonder how effective a small-print advertisement for an optician would be for those who truly needed one.

"Watson? Have you given thought to consulting an optician about your difficulty reading?"

"I've considered it," Watson replied reluctantly. "But the blurriness is much better than it was and doesn't occur nearly so often as it did, so I'm rather hoping it will subside completely, given time."

Holmes watched him over the top of the paper for a moment and recognized that Watson was hesitating over the idea of having to wear glasses. "Spectacles would suit you," he commented, then turned the page and resumed reading.

They had just gotten to the agony columns when Mrs. Hudson knocked and escorted Lestrade in. "Mr. Holmes, did you see my telegrams?" he asked, getting right to the point even before he took a seat on the settee.

"I saw them," Holmes acknowledged. "I did not read them."

Lestrade huffed impatiently. "Whyever not?" he demanded.

"I am not accepting new cases at present," Holmes replied as he languidly filled his pipe, having just made the decision at that very moment. He saw Watson gaping at him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze focused on Lestrade, who was opening and closing his mouth like a land-bound fish.

"You- I- Are you serious?" Lestrade sputtered.

Watching him was truly comical. "Quite serious," he responded after a moment of deciding what to say that would most effectively get Lestrade to leave.

Lestrade appeared befuddled -not that it was altogether much different than his usual expression- and started to speak, but shook his head and stood instead. "Well, then, Mr. Holmes, I will cease troubling you. Do let us know when you change your mind." He left as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Holmes, what was that about?" Watson sounded almost hesitant.

"I am taking a bit of a break," he said carelessly. "With as often as you hound me to rest, I thought you would approve."

"Usually I would," Watson agreed. "But it's been weeks since your last case. I rather think that, this time, a bit of work is just what you need."

"Perhaps I'll retire," Holmes continued musingly as if Watson hadn't spoken. "I do tire of doing the Yard's work for them."

"Holmes, are you certain you are quite yourself?" Watson asked worriedly.

"I'm quite all right, Watson, there is no need for concern." Holmes waved his hand dismissively and knocked the remainder of his tobacco into the fire. He stood, wavering slightly, then headed toward his bedroom.

"Holmes." The tone of Watson's voice halted him in his tracks. "I insist you eat something before you leave this room. Your part of breakfast is still on the table."

Holmes heaved a sigh and diverted to the table, where he took one piece of very cold, very hard toast. He waved it in Watson's direction and took a bite, then returned to his previous course.

"You will eat all of it before leaving this room," Watson said sternly, rising from his chair and glaring forbiddingly at him.

So he choked it down (and decided he should've taken the cold bacon instead), and left the room only when Watson was satisfied. It was a relief to be within the safe confines of his bedroom once again; as soon as he closed the door he slid down it to huddle on the floor. He took a few deep breaths, then withdrew his syringe case with a shaking hand. He needed this, needed it badly, and he hated himself for it.

Once the morphine had calmed his thoughts enough for him to think, he reflected that the morning had gone rather well, all things considered. Taking no cases meant his "logic" was no longer a menace to society; he could ruin no more lives as he had those two clients'. As he had Watson's.

As he would his own, if he continued in this fashion. But what did it matter? He couldn't think, and thus couldn't work. What else was there? He loved Watson dearly, that was true, but Watson would be better off without Holmes constantly leading him into danger. Perhaps . . . no. It wasn't worth considering. These black fits always passed, he just needed to be patient.

Watson stood outside Holmes' door for at least the dozenth time, straining to hear any sound that would assure him Holmes was still alive in there. He wasn't above going in without permission, but past experience had taught him that letting Holmes have his distance was the only way these moods passed. Still, he hadn't seen Holmes for three days, since just after he'd announced he wasn't taking any new cases, and he was beginning to worry.

Particularly with Holmes' strange behavior of late. Watson wasn't sure what to make of Holmes deciding not to take on any new cases, for instance, but it was unsettling. It just wasn't like Holmes to do something like that.

A heavy sigh and the shuffling of feet from inside the bedroom ended Watson's watch. For now. He sighed and slid a few letters and telegrams under the door. Holmes may say he wasn't taking cases, but Watson didn't expect that resolution to last.

Watson came around several hours later, as usual. This time a few sheets of paper had been shoved under the door from Holmes' side; Watson picked them up and perused them. They appeared to be responses to some of the letters he'd given Holmes, but the handwriting was erratic, frantic almost, and the words written there made little sense. Watson frowned and knocked on Holmes' door before he could think better of it.

There was no answer. "Holmes?" he called as he knocked again. He thought he heard something like a grunt, and he took that as permission to enter. "Holmes, what are these supposed to be?" he asked, holding up the papers as he took in the dim, disordered room and the bed's listless occupant.

"Answers," Holmes replied dully, as if it took an extraordinary effort to force the word through his lips.

"To what? These don't make any sense!"

Holmes shrugged and looked away, resuming his careful study of the side of his bedside table.

Watson gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and set his hand on Holmes' shoulder, which soon turned to him rubbing Holmes' upper back. "Holmes, please, tell me what's troubling you."

The only response was a tremulous sigh and a barely perceptible shiver. Watson stayed a few minutes longer, hoping Holmes would bestir himself enough to say something, anything, but he remained silent. Patting Holmes' shoulder, Watson rose and retreated, leaving the bedroom door mostly open.

Watson poured a measure of brandy and swallowed it in one gulp before he sank onto the settee, the nonsensical letters still in his hand. He glanced toward Holmes' door -he could see it much better from here than from his armchair- and tried not to think about the sharpness of Holmes' shoulderblades beneath his hand. There was something very wrong here, and perhaps these letters could shed some light on whatever was going on in Holmes' head.

He read them, re-read them, studied them backwards and forwards until his head was spinning. It was enough to give him a headache, but he made no apparent progress despite several hours of poring over the letters. He stood and stretched, hobbling the length of the sitting room several times until most of the stiffness was gone from his leg. Mrs. Hudson brought up afternoon tea, of which he had little. His mind simply wasn't on food.

Watson tried to settle down for the remainder of the afternoon with a pipe and a book, but his mind kept straying to Holmes. Finally he decided he might as well go check on him again. He lit a lamp and hesitated in the open doorway for a moment; he could see Holmes lying in the same position as before, his side slowly moving with his breaths. Should he venture further, or was that sufficient?

Watson made his way to the bedside, sat on the bed, and gently brushed Holmes' hair back from his face. Holmes' breath hitched, and he opened his eyes. He had been taking something, Watson knew that already, but now he realized it wasn't the usual cocaine. "Morphine, Holmes?" he said, disappointment creeping into his tone.

Holmes didn't answer, but Watson knew he was correct. And he knew Holmes must be nearing overdose for his pupils to be so contracted. "How much did you take, Holmes?"

"Enough," he murmured, a breath more than a word.

"Enough for what?" Watson pressed.

"To quiet the noise."

"Noise? What noise?"

"In my mind. The thoughts, they won't stop."

That response was almost a whimper, and Watson felt his heart clench in sympathy. How maddening it must be to have a mind like Holmes', always seeing, observing, analyzing. "Which thoughts?"

In this manner Watson slowly extracted bits of the story from Holmes -Watson was certain there was more than what Holmes told him, from his hesitation and certain pauses that lasted a little too long. Things were clearer, now, though as much as he wanted to convince Holmes not to feel guilty about what happened on the ship, he knew Holmes would continue to blame himself. But Watson wasn't completely helpless.

"Holmes, you're forgetting that the solutions you are so fond of will also impair your thinking," he said gently. "Now, come, I want you on the settee where I can keep an eye on you."

But their exchange had exhausted any energy Holmes could lay claim to, the lassitude of his mood and the morphine utterly thwarting Watson's initial attempts to induce him to rise from the bed. Anxiety that this indicated Holmes may have strayed into taking more than his present physical condition could handle overrode Watson's usual objections; he injected Holmes with a small dose of cocaine to counteract the worst of the morphine. After several agonizing minutes, this proved sufficient, and Watson was able to get Holmes to his feet.

Holmes insisted upon proceeding without assistance, so Watson could only follow close behind him, noting that he seemed almost shrunken, his dressing gown hanging so loosely it appeared to swallow him whole. Holmes arranged himself on the settee, refusing Watson's help by shrugging away his hands, and turned his back on the room. Watson stood and watched him for a few moments, to ensure he was in no danger of expiring on the spot, then left to talk briefly with Mrs. Hudson about the issue of dinner.

It was a relief to hear Watson's footsteps receding downstairs and have some time, however brief, to compose himself. During the entirety of their conversation, Watson had been touching him, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, resting his hand on his arm, and he had been hard-pressed not to come apart beneath those hands. His very skin still burned from the caresses, longing to feel those attentive hands without clothing between them, and Holmes wondered how much longer he could endure this without being driven mad.

He had to keep Watson at a distance. It was the only way he would be able to subdue this reaction and lock it away where it belonged. It pained him that he had so little control over himself that Watson's friendly, comforting touches could nearly undo him.

Mercifully, when Watson returned, he sat in his armchair and picked up his book as if it were any other evening. Holmes let his mind drift until Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner, at which point Watson handed him a bowl of soup and made it clear that he was to eat all of it.

He wasn't hungry -had been wondering, in fact, whether it was possible to starve to death without ever feeling hungry- but it seemed likely that Watson would try to feed him if he didn't do it himself, and Watson feeding him was not at all compatible with keeping Watson at a distance. So he drank the broth and slowly chewed the vegetables, finally finishing long after Watson had concluded his own meal. Watson's obvious pleasure was almost worth the vaguely nauseated feeling coiled in his stomach. That is, until he realized that Watson was proud of him simply for eating, that routine act every normal living human being did at least once a day without fanfare. How pathetic had he become that merely eating was an accomplishment? Disgust with himself rose like bile in his throat and he wished he hadn't left his syringe case in his bedroom.

It wasn't until Holmes looked to see if Watson was watching him -to gauge whether he'd have opportunity to retrieve his syringe- that he realized Watson wasn't even in the room. Watson reappeared almost immediately, emerging from Holmes' bedroom with a pile of letters in his hand and something tucked under his arm. He noticed Holmes' eyes on him and said, "I thought I'd fetch your mail so I can redirect your clients to Scotland Yard. Just for now, you understand. Until you're back on your feet."

Holmes grimaced but didn't speak.

"You were right about one thing, you know," Watson continued as he crossed over to his desk. "Turning away cases was the proper thing to do, under the circumstances. I'm sorry I doubted your decision."

Holmes looked away, not ready to accept that he could possibly have been right about anything at all since that night that everything went so terribly wrong.

"And Holmes," Watson's voice drew Holmes' eyes back to his face. "I've taken your syringe and bottles. I think you understand why."

Holmes did. He didn't like it, but he understood. He sighed heavily and turned his face toward the back of the settee once again.

It was a long, trying night. Watson stayed up with him until well past midnight, trying to engage him in conversation and otherwise help him endure his insomnia. Finally Holmes convinced him to get some sleep and promised he would not look for or take any of the drugs in Watson's absence. Watson reluctantly left him, but slept in Holmes' room for reasons Holmes didn't fully understand.

Holmes didn't look for his syringe, though he guessed where it was, and contented himself with pacing until sheer physical weariness forced him to return to the settee. He finally dropped off to sleep just before dawn and slept for a few hours before waking again, now feeling the first wave of physical symptoms resulting from the abrupt cessation of the morphine.

Watson was awake by then, and suggested he take a bath. It had been days since he'd bathed, it was true, and while Holmes didn't particularly desire a bath, he grasped the opportunity. Watson ran the bath for him while Holmes ate a bit of porridge and drank some water; when Holmes was ready, Watson stepped out of the bathing room to allow him a modicum of privacy, though he remained just outside the door. It was like he suspected Holmes was going to do something.

The warm bathwater did wonders for his aches, but he focused his attention on Watson and somehow luring him away from the door long enough for Holmes to shut and lock it. He didn't want Watson to have to see him in a few short hours' time, when the withdrawal effects were at their worse. Watson didn't deserve having that kind of misery in his presence, however much Holmes deserved to endure it.

A fortuitous knock at the door drew Watson away; Holmes nearly fell in his haste, but he succeeded in his mission and was back in the soothing water before Watson returned. Evidently Watson had stayed close in case Holmes needed him, not because he suspected any action on Holmes' part, for the key had still been in its place in the lock. When Watson did return, predictably he pounded on the door and demanded Holmes open up.

"I will open the door when I am ready to do so, and not a moment sooner," Holmes replied.

"Then I will remain right here until you decide to appear," Watson shot back, and Holmes heard him drag a chair to the spot in front of the door.

Holmes shrugged and added more hot water to his bath.

As midday came and went, Holmes' misery increased, and he was soon grateful for being in the bathroom for more reasons than just the bathtub. The first time he succumbed to the nausea and vomited into the toilet, the banging on the bathroom door was renewed, this time with entreaties that Holmes allow Watson to help him. Holmes ignored it and huddled in a towel, shaking and shivering, as he let the bathwater drain.

In the absence of the morphine, his thoughts resumed their dizzying spiral of blame and doubt and hopelessness. At several points he considered submerging himself in the bathtub and letting nature take its course, but when he tried it, he simply couldn't force his lungs to take in that fatal breath of water. If he had the strength, he could break the mirror or the window and let his life bleed dry, but he hadn't the strength. And Watson would hear the noise and force his way in to investigate, locked door or no.

The day waned, the room grew dark -he hadn't lit a light, relying instead on the light from the small window- and Holmes felt like he was descending into hell. It had been a long time since he'd last had morphine, and now he remembered why he'd been avoiding that particular drug: coming off it was truly miserable.

After the fact, Holmes found there was a period that he couldn't remember clearly; only fragments remained: turning the hot tap on full-force, the tub water growing so warm as to make his skin pink with heat, and still he shivered. Drinking from the cold tap to slake a burning thirst, throwing up, and starting over again. Alternating between bathtub and toilet, and finally when he couldn't manage even that short distance, curling on the floor next to the toilet, wearing only a towel. A soaking wet towel even though he hadn't been in the tub for hours.

The door bursting open, hands patting his cheeks, a blanket being tucked around him. Watson's voice, a glass of water, a pillow.

Holmes opened his eyes. Every inch of his being ached dreadfully and his mind was slow and unresponsive, so it took longer than it should have to recognize that he was still lying on the bathroom floor, staring at the porcelain of the toilet. He slowly moved his head a bit, and a pair of feet abruptly appeared in his field of vision. "Holmes?" a distant voice asked.

"Watson," he said, his voice sounding as terrible as he felt. A pair of knees hit the floor just in front of the feet, and a hand touched his face. He tried to move away from it.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a cab." He turned his head just enough that he could peer up at Watson. "You look quite ghastly, old fellow."

Watson chuckled. "You look worse," he returned. "Can you get up?"

Holmes carefully maneuvered himself onto hands and knees, then stopped, the blanket draped over his back beginning to slip off. "Where am I going?"

"I thought you might prefer to sleep in your bed rather than on the floor," Watson replied, amusement audible in his voice.

"I need a bath first."

"All right, I'll start the water running."

The tub filled while Holmes gained his feet long enough to step into the rising water. He sank down and sighed, leaning his forehead against the lip of the tub and watching the water swirl around his body. For a brief moment he thought about sliding beneath the surface and ceasing to exist, but it was only a passing thought. He'd already proven he was incapable of performing that act.

"I hope you don't mind I've been reading your post," Watson said after he'd shut off the taps. "I've been directing any potential clients to contact the police instead."

Holmes shrugged listlessly.

"There are a two telegrams and a letter from your brother that I can't quite make out. I can give them to you after you're finished here."

Holmes nodded, his forehead still pressed against the edge of the tub, his chin skimming the surface of the water and sending ripples out in every direction. After a moment he spoke. "Why don't you leave them on my bed and go sleep a while? I don't need to trouble you any longer; I can reach my bed on my own."

"It's no trouble," Watson insisted, "and I don't share your confidence. You don't have any idea how long you've been ill, do you? Six days, Holmes. It's been five days since I broke that lock to get in here, and you've spent the entire time lying on this floor. You're still not well, you're weak, and you're going to need help for a few more days at least."

Holmes' face burned with humiliation. "Perhaps I ought to stay here, then," he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

"I said you'll need help, not that you'll still be violently ill," Watson corrected. "I believe you're past the worst, so there's no reason you can't be more comfortable for your recovery."

You don't deserve comfort. You deserve to suffer naked on a cold, hard floor. Holmes shrank back from the unbidden thought but had to recognize it as truth. You cause him nothing but trouble. Trouble and injury and pain, and he still worries about your comfort. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve to love him.

"Holmes?" Watson was kneeling beside the tub, his face even with Holmes'. "Why wouldn't you let me give you anything to ease your symptoms?"

Holmes couldn't remember doing so, but he had no doubt that he did. "I took the drug willingly, so it is reasonable that I should suffer the full consequences."

"It's never reasonable to suffer!" Watson cried in exasperation. "Why do you torment yourself like this?"

Holmes met his eyes for only a moment before looking away, ashamed of himself for being the cause of that worried expression. Again. As always. "Why do you worry about things that are not your concern?" he asked defensively. "I don't need your pity."

"Pity? This is not pity. Friends care for each other, Holmes; friends care about one another. I thought you'd learned that by now, but apparently I was mistaken."

Watson sounded defeated, and Holmes' heart hurt. Why couldn't he even have a conversation without wounding Watson? His head was too heavy for his neck and he rested his forehead against the tub again.

"Holmes, I care about you. I care for you. I . . ." he stopped and couldn't seem to continue.

"I'm sorry," Holmes said to the water.

Watson sighed; when he spoke, his voice sounded thick. "I'll be in the sitting room. Call when you're finished and I'll help you to your room."

There was a tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat; Holmes curled around his pain and tried to breathe evenly, but his breath persisted in coming out in gasps and gulps. He was startled when Watson abruptly reappeared and hung a nightshirt on the towel rack by the tub.

"So you don't get cold," Watson said lamely.

He turned and left as quickly as he'd come, but not before Holmes noticed his eyes were reddened. Holmes' eyes were still functioning at their usual level, even if his mind was not; in this case, he knew there was only one thing that could make Watson's eyes appear so. He'd made Watson weep.

Holmes remained curled in the tub until the water cooled. He was drying off when Watson came to check on him. Neither one spoke as Holmes dressed and they began the journey through the sitting room, Watson's arm around Holmes' waist. Holmes found it more taxing than he'd expected, and, sweating profusely, had to lean fairly heavily on Watson by the time they reached his doorway.

Watson deposited him on the bed and left briefly to fetch the missives from Mycroft and a cup of broth. Holmes drank the broth and read the telegrams and letter, easily interpreting the code language they had used for private communications since Mycroft began his job in the government. Mycroft was concerned about his health and welfare, urged him to "tell the doctor" (as if that would neatly resolve the matter), and ordered him to respond or risk Mycroft "doing as he thought best." As if it was his right to meddle.

Holmes huffed in peeved exasperation and rummaged in the chaos covering his bedside table and the surrounding floor until he located a blank telegram form. He quickly scribbled a terse reply; Watson took it when he was done, no words needing to be exchanged for him to know what was to be done with it. That matter dealt with, Holmes focused his attention on Watson, who looked near to collapsing with exhaustion. His eyes were still reddened, and Holmes found he was reaching out, fingertips skimming over the skin beneath Watson's eye. "Why?" he asked without thinking.

Watson reached up and grasped Holmes' hand, gently guiding it away from his face. "It hurts to see you like this, see you suffering, and know there's nothing I can do to help you," he said slowly, honestly, his voice always on the verge of breaking.

Holmes pulled his hand back and stared at his lap. "I'm sorry," he repeated numbly.

"You are what you are; it's not your fault," Watson hurried to say. "You ought to rest. I'll be on the settee if you need anything."

Holmes frowned at his lap and shrugged. It wasn't until Watson left that he collapsed onto his side and curled into his familiar position that his mind fully processed what Watson had said. It's not your fault . . . it's not your fault . . . it's all your fault . . .

No. This must stop. It had to, for both their sakes. He would go mad and drag Watson with him if it didn't. The only thing to do was to return to what passed for normal, to stop the injections, to resume his cases, to force himself back into a sort of routine and hope that would be sufficient to do away with Watson's worries. And dare he hope it would be enough to banish this inexplicable mood?

It would amount to the greatest charade he'd ever attempted, the most challenging role he'd ever undertaken, to feign his previous interest in his cases, his music, the stuff of his life that now felt so meaningless. But he should do it. He could do it. He would do it.

For Watson.

~~

Holmes had to endure three days in which his only activities were eating, sleeping, and drinking before Watson would even entertain the idea of Holmes attempting anything more taxing -including going out to the settee, though he did relent and allow Holmes his pipe and tobacco. Only after that did Watson agree to let Holmes attempt to resolve matters that came to him through the post, and only on the condition that he would talk over the solution with Watson, who would be the one to put the response to paper.

However, when presented with the day's mail, Holmes was halted by an unreasoning fear that he would fail again. He couldn't put it into words when Watson asked what was the matter, but Watson seemed to understand. Watson went through the papers Holmes had missed during his sojourn in the bathroom and found several that talked of resolved investigations, then went back to the original articles. These he read to Holmes, and they would discuss Holmes' conclusions based on the information in the initial report. Then he read the next article mentioning the investigation, Holmes would alter or maintain his conclusions accordingly, and they proceeded on to the next, and the next, until finally reaching the resolution.

Watson had to coax Holmes through the first few, but when Holmes was invariably correct -often hitting upon the correct line of inquiry before the official force seemed to, based upon the newspaper accounts- he regained some of his confidence. After spending an afternoon, evening, and the next morning engaged thus, Holmes was ready to brave his correspondence.

The first little problem he attempted was one he would have dismissed as having no features of interest, but that was before. Before he failed, before he nearly got them killed, before he had cause to doubt himself so completely. He read it aloud to Watson, and they proceeded to discuss it like the crimes in the newspaper.

Watson chose not to comment on the merits -or lack of them- of the chosen problem, too pleased that Holmes was showing an interest in returning to his normal pursuits. He was, however, unsettled by the hesitance in Holmes' voice and manner as he shifted on the settee like a schoolboy uncertain if he has given the correct answer to the stern headmaster. Encouraging him seemed to be the best solution, and Watson did so, studiously taking notes like always so he could write a suitable response to their client later.

Fortunately none of the three letters currently before Holmes posed any real challenge, so they were able to finish that pursuit with Holmes' ego bolstered and his confidence reinforced. While Watson wrote the return letters, Holmes started catching up on the papers, occasionally jotting notes in the margins of his suggestions and impressions. He fell asleep over this task; Watson had to extricate pipe and pen from his lax fingers before he made a mess of his clothing and nudged him so he slumped over sideways onto a pillow wedged against the arm of the settee.

Watson read Holmes' notes with curiosity, nodding to himself at the familiar lines of reasoning. He rather enjoyed having a glimpse at what Holmes was thinking before the grand reveal at the end of a case; part of him hoped Holmes would continue to be this forthcoming with information when he was back to normal. Probably not, since this amount of sharing wasn't normal for Holmes, but he could hope.

Matters proceeded thus in a quiet and orderly fashion for some days. Holmes got up the courage to wire Lestrade with a few suggestions about his ongoing investigations, though he made it clear he was not yet accepting cases himself, and continued his armchair detective work in the interest of exercising his brain. That is, until one morning when Mr. John McFarlane burst in and Holmes was enlisted in the case. Watson rather suspected Holmes only accepted the case to needle Lestrade, who was so convinced of the young man's guilt.

Watson watched with anxiety as Holmes first decided to investigate on his own, and then as he agonized over evidence that seemed only to support Lestrade's theory. The next morning brought a key development, which Holmes recognized at once as the proof of his client's innocence, and by afternoon the case was settled -Holmes was right, of course- and they had returned to Baker Street from Norwood. Holmes was in higher spirits than Watson had seen since before the matter of the Friesland, and he hoped this was the end of whatever it was that had gripped Holmes so fiercely of late.

And for some weeks this seemed the case. Holmes accepted more clients and assisted the Yard on several occasions, and kept busy enough that there was nary an opportunity for Watson to worry about a return of the black mood. Despite many of the cases being matters too delicate or political to print, Watson took his usual notes, relieved that his usual coordination and eyesight had returned.

Then Mycroft asked Holmes to investigate another matter involving another Dutch steamship. Watson half expected Holmes to turn it down on account of what had happened the last time, but Holmes showed no such compunction as he threw himself wholly into the matter as he had every other problem that crossed his path in those weeks. Holmes did hesitate over having Watson accompany him, but as this problem was delicate and should only involve the authorities if absolutely necessary, Watson was needed.

Naturally, their adversary was protected by a knot of large, well-armed thugs who outnumbered them two-to-one. And naturally, to reach a successful conclusion Holmes had to corner that adversary and persuade him to part with certain pieces of information as well as a few key documents. As would be expected, the thugs intended to repel any such attempts at persuasion.

Holmes did manage to cut off his adversary's escape route onto his boat, so the scoundrel took to his heels and fled into the maze of alleyways found along the river, his thugs following close behind. Pursuit led to an altercation in which two of the thugs were incapacitated, which bettered their odds considerably, so Holmes and Watson resumed the chase.

They rounded a corner and found the second pair waiting for them. Off-balance from the very beginning, this encounter did not go their way as the first one had. Watson's gun was knocked away and skittered into the darkness of the alley behind them. At length Holmes took down his man, but suffered a long gash along his arm for his trouble. Watson finally got the better of his opponent and had just felled him with a final blow from his cane when there was movement in the shadows behind them. Holmes saw the man they had been hunting emerge from a sheltered doorway, a short, stout club in hand. He tried to warn Watson of the danger, but his voice deserted him.

Watson crumpled to the ground without ever having noticed the man behind him.

The blackguard sneered at Holmes as he stepped over Watson's unmoving form, then took off running. Holmes watched him flee with uncomprehending eyes, utter shock immobilizing him for several crucial seconds.

Then Holmes was at Watson's side, feeling for a pulse and calling his name as he cradled the unresisting body in his arms. Holmes' carefully constructed facade shattered as the old guilt and doubt resurfaced. He wept over Watson, stroking his face, his hair, all the while apologizing and pleading for Watson to wake, to come back to him. Watson remained still as death, though he still breathed and his heart was yet beating; Holmes, fearing for his life, pressed kisses to Watson's face -his forehead, cheeks, nose, and yes, lips- in hopes of rousing him with this unprecedented action.

Too many agonizing minutes passed before Watson stirred, groaning as he opened his eyes. "Holmes?" he said weakly as he blinked and frowned. "What happened?"

"He-he was concealed, had a club," Holmes said disjointedly, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands now that Watson was awake and settled for helping Watson sit up.

"Did you catch him?" Watson asked with a wince, one hand straying to explore the growing lump on the back of his head.

"He ran."

"You could have followed," Watson said, recognizing Holmes' choice without him speaking of it. "I would've been here when you returned."

"No! No, no, I couldn't have left you . . . you were lying so still . . . he hit you so hard . . . I couldn't lose you," Holmes stammered, an edge of hysteria in his voice. He noticed his hands were shaking and clenched them together to hide it.

"Holmes, are you quite all right?" Watson was concerned by this unusually dramatic reaction to his injury, and looked Holmes over. "How long have you been bleeding?"

Holmes looked down at his arm as if just realizing that he was wounded, and shrugged. Watson thought shock would explain much of Holmes' behavior, but he didn't seem to have lost quite enough blood to be in that condition. Then he noticed that one of the thugs they'd incapacitated was groaning, and thus possibly close to waking. "Holmes," he hissed. "We need to go. Unless you fancy another encounter with the brute and his knife?"

Despite Watson's warning, Holmes didn't quite register the danger until they were both standing and he saw his earlier opponent attempting to crawl toward his knife, several paces away. They hurried back the way they had come, stopping only to retrieve Watson's gun.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was a quiet affair, Watson nursing a terrible headache and Holmes having fallen eerily silent. After stumbling wearily up their stairs and having a restorative gulp of brandy, Watson pushed Holmes down onto the settee and set to tending the gash in his arm. It was long but not too deep; stitches were only necessary at one end, and these Watson could manage quickly even with a headache.

When Holmes was suitably stitched and bandaged, and Watson had fetched a bit of ice in a towel for his head, he sat down on the settee next to the still-silent, still-pale Holmes. "Holmes, what is the matter?" he asked gently.

At best he'd expected a terse "Nothing"; at worst no reply at all and Holmes retreating to his room. Thus he was quite surprised when Holmes whimpered -whimpered!- and rested his head on Watson's shoulder, his forehead pressed against Watson's neck.

"I almost lost you. Again." It was a whisper, as if his heart was speaking rather than his mouth.

Watson let his head rest against Holmes'. "But you didn't," he soothed. "I'm sturdier than I look."

"What about the next time, or the next after that? I would be . . . utterly lost . . . without you." Holmes' hands clasped his free hand, one hand stroking the back of the hand and the wrist while the other entwined their fingers.

"Holmes," Watson said slowly, trying desperately to divine the meaning behind Holmes' words. "Neither of us will live forever."

"But I do not wish to be the cause of your death!" His words were wild, frantic, as he clutched Watson's hand in a near-painful grip. "I could not live with myself if I were."

"I know there can be risks involved with accompanying you, but I choose to do so regardless of those risks. Now for pity's sake, will you tell me what you're getting at?"

"I need you to stop accompanying me on cases when there's a threat of violence."

"Absolutely not," Watson said without hesitation. "It's when there's a 'threat of violence' that you need me at your side. What would you have done this evening if I weren't there? Agreeing to that rubbish would be the same as me being the cause of your death."

"Then I shall retire and remove us both from the threat of violence," Holmes said, his words resolute but his tone uncertain.

Watson tried to peer down at Holmes' expression, but Holmes had angled his head such that Watson couldn't see his face. "Holmes, you know what happens when you don't have cases," he said patiently. "And many of your cases do not involve violence in any way. Are you certain you are quite prepared to cease your profession entirely for the sake of the few instances of danger?"

"But I cannot lose you," Holmes reiterated weakly.

"What is the reason for this sudden emphasis on my wellbeing? You allowed me to think you dead, but now you are willing to retire so that I am not injured? I must confess I don't understand."

Holmes didn't answer at first; he only drew closer to Watson, who could feel him trembling. "I . . . you . . . I don't . . . " Holmes started and halted repeatedly. "I don't know if I can explain. Or if I ought to," he said finally, pulling away from Watson a little in his uncertainty.

"I don't see why you shouldn't. You know I am quite discreet." Watson tried not to be hurt by Holmes' unwillingness to share this whatever-it-was, but he was tired, it was late enough that it had long ago crossed over into being early, and his head was aching fiercely. He just wanted to go to bed, but knew that if he let Holmes go without confessing whatever-it-was, he'd likely never be able to wrangle it out of him.

Holmes still hesitated.

"If you need a few moments, I'm more than happy to wait." Watson removed his hand from Holmes' and slowly rose, wincing at the way his head swam as he did so. He went to the sideboard and poured himself another brandy, then considered a moment and poured another for Holmes as well. He handed it to Holmes over the back of the settee and started nursing his. Holmes downed his in two gulps, then handed the glass back with a wordless plea for more. Watson poured another generous measure; Holmes drank it almost as quickly as before.

"I did not realize the depth of my . . . regard for you until I was . . . away," Holmes said meditatively, studiously not looking at Watson, who still stood behind the settee.

Watson set his glass down and sat next to Holmes again, sitting close but not touching him. When Holmes didn't say anything more, he prodded gently, "Holmes?"

Holmes looked at him with an expression Watson couldn't even begin to interpret. His eyes glittered; Watson suspected the alcohol had gone straight to his head, considering how little he usually ate while on a case (which is to say, nothing).

Then Holmes was kissing him, one hand clutching Watson's shirtfront as if to keep him from pulling away, his lips tasting of brandy. Holmes ended it quickly, lingering just long enough that Watson could interpret the intent, and rested his forehead on Watson's shoulder. "I could not bear to lose you again, my dear Watson, whether or not you return my regard," he said, continuing his prior train of thought as if it hadn't been interrupted.

Abruptly Holmes was standing and moving away. "Do with that what you will," he said, and disappeared into his bedroom.

The door was closing before Watson gathered his wits sufficiently to speak. "Holmes," he called, but the door closed gently and he heard the key turn in the lock. He sighed heavily and pushed himself up off the settee, intent to say his part. He knocked lightly on the door; Holmes didn't answer but he could hear clothing rustling on the other side of the door, so he knew Holmes was listening.

"Holmes, I love you too," he said simply. The rustling ceased and utter silence reigned. Watson waited for any additional reaction from Holmes -though he didn't expect any- and after a few minutes he returned to the settee. While the settee wasn't as comfortable as his bed, the thought of braving the set of stairs to his room was unappealing.

Watson woke sometime before dawn to find Holmes sitting on the floor next to the settee, staring at him, one hand splayed on Watson's chest over his heart. "Holmes," Watson mumbled, "You should be sleeping. Go back to bed."

Holmes shook his head slightly and slid his hand from Watson's chest to Watson's face, cupping his cheek and stroking his cheekbone. His touch was light and slightly hesitant.

Watson laid a hand over Holmes', moving it so he could press a kiss to the palm. "I'll still be here in the morning, you know."

"It is morning," Holmes reminded him with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Well, yes, but it's too early to be up and about," Watson grumbled, yawning.

"Then sleep," Holmes said softly, gently resuming his stroking of Watson's cheek.

Watson sighed. "You should, too," he murmured before returning to his slumber.

Holmes watched him sleep for a while longer, feeling the first rush of euphoria that Watson returned his affection giving over to the all-too-familiar doubts. He didn't doubt Watson's honesty in his proclamation -far from it, he knew Watson had been absolutely truthful. He did doubt his worthiness of Watson's regard, particularly now that he knew it was deeper than friendship. Not that he'd deserved Watson's friendship, either.

He loved Watson. Watson loved him. It should be so simple. So why was he fighting a strong urge to flee, to lock himself in his bedroom until he repented of this folly?

Holmes got up from the floor and fetched his pipe and tobacco, packing the pipe with unsteady hands and gnawing the stem nervously once he'd managed to get it lit. He paced the length of the sitting room, always casting a glance at Watson on his way past, and tried to reason with himself. There would be no sleeping for him tonight; he knew he couldn't so much as step foot into his bedroom or his urge to flee would be too much to bear, and Watson would be distressed.

He was nearly finished with his second pipe -the full light of morning was visible through the curtains- when the answer struck him. He'd already considered and dismissed the idea of using Watson's bedroom as a liberty he wasn't willing to take. And yet he had to admit exhaustion was taking its toll. But this, this! Why didn't he see it before?

Holmes went into his bedroom, retrieved the key from the inside of his door, and returned to the sitting room. Watson was still asleep, one hand resting on his stomach. Holmes carefully lifted that hand and slipped the key underneath it, then set Watson's hand firmly down over the metal object. After he finished his pipe, he kissed Watson's forehead and went to bed. He was asleep almost immediately.

 

Watson woke to the smell of pipe smoke and a pounding headache. There was a steady stream of traffic on the street below, from the sound of it -every rattling carriage that passed seemed to be running over his very nerves- but there was no sign of Holmes. He sat up and was startled when something slid to the floor. It was a key, he recognized as he picked it up, but to what he couldn't imagine. He needed to do something about his headache first.

Once he'd taken something and had a cup of tea, he considered the key. It wasn't for their outer door, nor for the bathroom (that lock was still broken, anyway), nor for his bedroom. Which left Holmes' bedroom, the key being too large to be intended for anything but a door. Holmes' bedroom door was slightly ajar and Holmes was sleeping, sprawled on his bed atop the bedclothes, still fully dressed.

Watson shook his head with fond exasperation and slipped into Holmes' room, pulling off Holmes' boots and covering him with a blanket. In ordinary circumstances he would've tried to divest Holmes of some of his clothing for comfort's sake, but given their conversation he didn't want to appear presumptuous. The last thing he wanted was to startle Holmes with the intensity of his feelings -it was obvious Holmes was still struggling to fathom his own.

On the other hand, if he behaved differently than his norm, Holmes might interpret it in a negative light and make assumptions that simply were not the case (Holmes may argue that he makes 'inferences' not 'assumptions', but Watson knew the result could be equally wrong no matter what he called it). Watson dithered for a moment, idly playing with the key he'd slipped into his pocket, and decided that continuing in his usual behavior was safest and least likely to lead to misunderstanding. So Watson carefully removed Holmes' coat and waistcoat and settled the blanket over him once again.

Satisfied, Watson left Holmes to sleep. He left the door slightly ajar the way he'd found it, and went upstairs to change his clothes.

Watson let Holmes sleep until Mrs. Hudson brought up a late lunch (at Watson's request). It was difficult to resist the temptation to kiss Holmes awake, but he resisted and shook his shoulder instead. Holmes woke fairly quickly, though it took him a moment to gather his wits.

"I let you sleep through breakfast, so now I'm waking you for lunch," Watson supplied helpfully while Holmes groggily regarded him and the room around them.

"How is your head?" Holmes asked, watching Watson's face keenly.

"Aching, but I shall be fine."

"No lingering effects?" Holmes prodded.

"No, no lingering effects," Watson assured him. Holmes didn't appear convinced. "I spent the morning working on my notes, writing a few letters, reading the paper, and spending some time with a novel. Now are you satisfied?"

"And you went upstairs to change."

"Yes, I also went upstairs to change," Watson confirmed, slightly exasperated with Holmes' persistence on the subject. Holmes' worry was understandable, but his refusal to believe that Watson was all right was frustrating. "Now sit up and I'll bring the lunch tray in."

The tray was set over Holmes' lap and Watson sat on the edge of the bed next to Holmes. Though it was a light lunch, Watson was expecting to have to force Holmes to eat his share, but the exasperating man put up no complaint whatsoever. Watson decided not to voice his surprise as it wouldn't help the awkwardness between them, and brought up a more neutral subject. "Will we be attempting to finish the case from yesterday?"

"No," Holmes answered shortly, stabbing his roast beef as if it had personally offended him. "I wrote to Mycroft while you were sleeping and told him to use his own staff for such pursuits, particularly if he doesn't want the official forces involved. I expect I shall receive a response by the end of the day that attempts to convince me otherwise."

"I see. Would you like to see the morning's correspondence and papers, then?"

Holmes paused, glancing quickly at Watson and looking away immediately when he saw Watson was watching him. "No, not yet," he said softly, but offered no explanation. He put down his silverware shortly afterward and gazed vacantly toward his window.

"Are you finished?" Watson asked. Holmes nodded once. Watson moved to pick up the tray, but hesitated. "Would you mind telling me why I have your bedroom key?"

Holmes' cheeks flushed. "It was . . . a gesture of sorts," he confessed, meeting Watson's gaze briefly before looking away again. "I . . . it is difficult to explain."

Watson set a hand on Holmes' knee briefly as he said, "I think I understand." He stood and lifted the tray. "Holmes, I-" he started, then floundered, and stared down at the jumble of dirty dishes for a moment to get his bearings. "I just want you to know I have no expectations. We can remain as we have been, if that's what you prefer. Whatever you're comfortable with, I am prepared to follow your lead." As always, he supplied in his head.

He tried to hurry out of the room, blushing furiously, but was stopped by Holmes' gentle call, "Watson." Watson half-turned; Holmes was smiling slightly. "Thank you."

Watson nodded awkwardly, and made his escape. Once Mrs. Hudson had departed with the tray (leaving a pot of tea, the dear woman), Watson settled in his armchair and tried to focus on the novel he'd been reading earlier.

He must've dozed off, for he woke with a crick in his neck and his closed book sitting on his knee. Holmes was sitting in his own armchair, smoking and reading an evening paper, his hair wet and slightly curling -he must have taken a bath. Watson hadn't expected Holmes to emerge from his bedroom until tomorrow at least, so to see him clean and calmly sitting in his chair was a bit of a shock.

"We can ring for dinner whenever you're ready," Holmes said from behind his paper as he turned a page.

Watson didn't even bother asking how Holmes knew he was awake. The change in his breathing, no doubt, or the rustle of his clothing as he shifted and tried to work the crick out of his neck. "I'll just be a minute, if you'd like to go ahead and let Mrs. Hudson know we're ready."

Holmes folded the paper and rose, then opened the door and yelled down to Mrs. Hudson. Watson tried to shake his head, but had to stop mid-motion when a stab of pain convinced him the movement was unwise. He rubbed ineffectually at the cramped muscles until he felt Holmes' hands on his shoulders. "Holmes? What-"

"Let me help," Holmes said, leaning over the back of Watson's chair to speak near his ear. As soon as Watson moved his hand, Holmes began gently digging into the tense muscles, slowly working inward toward the neck. Watson relaxed and sighed deeply as those clever fingers found knots he didn't know he'd had. He let his head droop forward and spared only a brief thought to wonder why Holmes was doing this.

Then Holmes' questing fingers reached his neck and grew more tentative, probing until Watson gasped sharply as Holmes found the sore area. Holmes studiously avoided that area, carefully working around it to soothe and relax and succeeding to the point that the pain was reduced to a twinge by the time he next ventured over the spot. Now he massaged the length of Watson's neck, sweeping up into the hair at his nape and down under the edge of Watson's loosened collar until Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and he moved to answer it.

"Thank you," Watson said quietly before Holmes reached the door. Holmes tipped his head in acknowledgement and let Mrs. Hudson in with their dinner.

The meal was a comfortable affair, lacking the awkwardness of lunch. Holmes couldn't remember afterward precisely what it was they had -something pork, perhaps- but he could clearly call to mind how Watson looked during their easy conversation and he wondered if Watson had any idea how . . . alluring he could be. His clothing was rumpled from sleeping in his chair, his hair was slightly mussed, his manner was more relaxed than it had been in days, and he smiled often. He was truly irresistible.

Holmes had an overwhelming urge to touch him. He slid one foot toward Watson until he found one of Watson's feet and left it pressed up against Watson's foot. But that wasn't enough. Carefully he drew his foot from his slipper and stroked Watson's anklebone with his instep, going so far as to insinuate his toes under the pantcuff.

Watson's expression betrayed no surprise. Instead, he raised one eyebrow and quirked a small smile. Holmes had a bit of difficulty hiding his own reaction when Watson began retaliating in kind; he'd never suspected the full erotic potential of a foot caressing a leg through clothing. He rubbed his foot up Watson's shin one more time, then returned his foot to its slipper and continued in the pretense that nothing had occurred.

They remained at the table long after having finished eating, lingering over the last of the wine. Once finished with his glass, Holmes sat and tried not to stare at Watson as he talked animatedly about something; Holmes had stopped paying attention to his words long ago, content to watch Watson's face, his eyes often lingering on Watson's mouth. At length Watson's mouth stopped moving abruptly, and Watson's hand strayed across the table to touch his. "You look tired. Why don't you turn in?" Watson said.

Holmes considered this a moment -it did not escape his notice that Watson's hand was still on his- and recognized weariness beneath his contentment with the evening. "You're quite right," he said, "I believe I shall retire." He left his hand beneath Watson's for as long as he could when he stood; Watson stood also. Holmes took a step toward Watson then hesitated for a moment. "Good night, Watson," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed him.

Well, he tried to kiss him. His aim was slightly off and his upper lip ended up mostly caressing mustache -a rather tickling endeavor- but Watson didn't seem to mind and shifted his mouth beneath Holmes' to line them up better. Holmes tried to observe what Watson was doing that made this simple pressing of mouths feel so thrilling, but his mind was too caught up in sensation to catalog the individual small motions. It was a wonder that he was so overwhelmed when only their mouths were touching.

Holmes pulled away, his breathing somewhat labored. "Good night, Watson," he repeated.

"Good night, Holmes," Watson said with a fond smile.

Holmes had a hard time falling asleep, but when he did, he dreamt of Watson. Of kissing him, of touching him, of lying with him pressed skin to skin . . . He was rather chagrined when he woke up to find that, not only did he have a mid-night release that soiled his nightshirt and his sheets, he was mostly hard again. Such a thing had not happened to him since he was in the throes of puberty. So he did the only thing he could do: took off the nightshirt, thought of Watson, and stroked himself to completion, using the nightshirt to capture his release.

 

Despite the dreams, or perhaps because of them, Holmes decided not to pursue any further physical activities just yet. He was sufficiently content with the small gestures -walking arm-in-arm, sitting close enough that their knees or thighs just brushed, a touch to the elbow or shoulder, all of which they had done before but was now imbued with new meaning- and the periodic kisses, particularly their new custom of kissing good-night.

More difficult was allowing Watson to take his usual previous role in their cases, for Holmes found himself distracted with concerns of Watson's safety as well as by Watson himself. In one particularly memorable instance, Holmes would have suffered injury but for Watson's quick reflexes; Holmes had a far easier time trusting his Watson's ability for self-protection after that, though he'd known all along that Watson was quite capable. That they argued, afterward, also had something to do with it, since Watson pointed out that he was just as worried about Holmes as Holmes was about him, so Holmes ought to cease being ridiculous and mind himself and Watson would do the same.

Their relationship had been altered for only a matter of weeks when Holmes felt himself sliding into another of his moods. He fought it, not understanding how he could feel so hopeless when he ought to be quite contented with his life as it was. After all, his logic had been restored, his Watson was well and loved him, they were respected and lacking for nothing . . .

The fit set its merciless claws in him during the night; he woke in the morning and wished he hadn't, so he lay immobile on his bed and longed for an end to his miserable existence. Watson looked in on him at some point but didn't disturb him. Watson. He was worried.

Holmes took himself out to the settee for the remainder of the day. Watson didn't speak to him; Holmes knew he was still worried, yet felt some relief that Holmes was willing to be within sight. Holmes watched Watson peacefully go about his afternoon and tried not to lose himself in his mind.

He fell asleep at some point, and woke to find the sitting room cool and dark; Watson had gone to bed hours ago, but covered him with an afghan before he left. Holmes sighed and tried to go back to sleep, but the darkness was pressing in most suffocatingly. He needed to get away, to escape . . .

Watson was sound asleep when Holmes stole into his bedroom. Holmes stood beside the bed for a while, listening to Watson's deep, even breaths, before sliding onto the bed beside him. Watson made a sleepy sound of protest when Holmes pressed himself against his side. "Holmes?" Watson mumbled.

"I didn't say good night," Holmes murmured before kissing him gently.

Watson snorted and touched his cheek. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," Holmes said as he settled his head next to Watson's on the pillow.

Watson sighed and moved over to give Holmes a bit more room. He fell back to sleep quite quickly after; Holmes rested his arm over Watson's chest and felt the steady thump of his heart, and tried to let it soothe him. It didn't, but being with Watson was better than being alone in his room -for now- so he lingered there until nearly dawn.

As the pre-dawn light filtered in Watson's window, being with Watson, in Watson's bed, became unbearably stifling. He needed room, needed air. He carefully withdrew from the bed without disturbing Watson and staggered down the stairs, collapsing on his own bed with his back to the door.

An unknown amount of time passed, then Watson was slowly entering the room. Rather than standing in the doorway or beside the bed, he climbed up onto Holmes' bed and laid down behind him, curling himself around Holmes in wordless support. Holmes took a deep, shuddering breath and clutched the hand Watson had pressed against his chest, sliding it downward. "Watson, I need you . . ." he said faintly. "Give me better thoughts." He settled Watson's hand on his pubic bone, his intentions clear.

Watson stiffened. "Holmes, I can't," he said pleadingly, sliding their hands to rest on Holmes' hip instead.

"Can't, or won't?" Holmes asked cynically.

"Holmes, I cannot have the first time I touch you be like this. You're not fully in your right mind, you can't consent to this."

"I have wits enough to know what I want."

"How do I know that's not the cocaine talking?" Watson's voice was gentle.

"There has been no cocaine," Holmes said unhappily. "I haven't bought any since you took away my bottles."

Watson sat up and leaned over Holmes, looking into his eyes and feeling his pulse; Holmes met his gaze evenly, knowing he told the truth, and waited for Watson to draw his conclusions. A moment, and Watson relaxed slightly. "Even so, I would rather wait until you're feeling more yourself. But I do think I can help . . ." He laid his palm against Holmes' cheek, then leaned forward and began kissing him thoroughly.

The position was awkward, so Holmes shifted onto his back, then onto his side so he faced Watson, which was much easier for both of them. Then all thoughts fled except those focusing on Watson: kissing him, feeling him, tasting him, stroking his hair, the rasp of his mustache against Holmes' stubbled cheek... the slow, sensual exploration of his mouth by Watson's tongue...

Holmes murmured a protest when Watson stopped kissing him in favor of speaking. "How is that for better thoughts?"

Holmes opened his eyes and smiled slightly. "It's an improvement," he admitted. "I don't deserve you."

Watson studied him for a moment, then said with feigned lightness, "Even if that were true, you're stuck with me."

Holmes cupped Watson's cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking across Watson's bottom lip. "And I am so very grateful for it."

Watson flushed and changed the subject. "Feeling up to joining me in the sitting room?"

"Later," Holmes said, considering. "Stay a little longer?" He didn't mean to sound desperate, pleading, but he did not think it wise to be alone with his thoughts again just yet.

"I haven't moved, Holmes," was Watson's reply as he held him more firmly with the arm he'd slid underneath Holmes.

Holmes pressed a little closer to him, tucking his head under Watson's chin. He took a long, deep breath and tried to relax, tried to rest. As he was near to dozing off, he could hear Watson murmuring reassuringly, could feel him stroking his back, and he focused on thoughts of Watson to keep away the other thoughts that were resurfacing.

When he woke he found he felt rather better. Not fully back to himself just yet, but better than before. Watson had left, but Holmes could hear him humming in the sitting room. Holmes smiled into his pillow. Dear, dear Watson. His earlier distraction was most effective, perhaps even as effective as cocaine to make the mood endurable. Further testing would be needed on that subject, but Watson surely wouldn't mind. Neither would he, really.

Holmes rose and donned his dressing gown. He needed to go express his . . . appreciation for one John Watson. What might happen after that, even he couldn't say.