Work Text:
15th of April, 1887
“Pardonnez moi, Monsieur Holmes…”
Holmes groaned and squeezed his eyes shut against yet another sting of pain piercing through his skull as the maid gingerly – though not gingerly enough for his taste – maneuvered his head up so she could fluff his pillow before lowering him back down again.
She kept on bustling about the room while he laid motionless, slightly propped up against the pillow and trying to recover from the strain her slight manhandling had put on his weakened constitution. She had tugged the inn’s room’s curtains to the side to let some of the pale sunlight fall in from outside so she could see better while cleaning but even the few frail beams made the panging in his head worsen twofold and the soft noises she made while performing her work, though she put up a noticeable effort at keeping them at a minimum, did the rest.
”Please… s’il te plaît…”, he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut at the onslaught on all his senses she was putting him through. The effort of continuingly talking in french felt too great though and he gave it up with a sigh, hoping beyond hope that she would make quick work of his room and leave him alone again soon.
The case he’d been called to the French countryside for hadn’t looked too complicated at first glance and going by the information provided to him by the French embassy in London. A simple double murder, two main suspects, a small fortune and the survival of a country estate at stake, nothing too grand. Which was also why he’d foolishly assured Watson he’d be fine without his help for this one and not to cancel his hunting plans for the weekend in order to accompany him to the continent. Foolish, foolish mistake!
Very quickly upon arrival the case had unfolded in front of him rather dramatically, revealing complex connections to the influential Netherland-Sumatra Company and the colossal schemes of the infamous Baron Maupertuis.
He’d succeeded, of course, but after five whole days of running around the French countryside, little to no food and drink, even less sleep and two near death experiences, which he should probably keep to himself upon encountering the good doctor again, the neglectance towards his physical health caught up with him again in the most cruel of ways. He’d come down with a bad fever, keeping him bound to the mediocre beddings of a nameless country inn somewhere between Lyon and Geneva.
There he was now, all by himself, in a foreign country and dependent on the kindness and care of strangers, battling death without a familiar soul to share in his suffering. He’d had his host send an urgent message to London as soon as he arrived at the inn of course, but he was not all too hopeful it would result in any help coming hither down to him any time soon. He didn’t assume the post was all that dependable this far down south and into the country. And even if it was and his message had been received at Baker Street – which, if so, it should have been by now – it had been little more than five days since he’d sent it. Highly improbable for anyone to travel at this speed to some village in the south of France, just to assist him during his sickness.
Not that help from England would be able bring any considerable relief to his current state. In terms of medical care, he was well assisted by the physician that had been called in from town and the surprisingly capable hands of his host’s wife and the maids. And it wasn’t as if he longed for someone to hold his hand and whisper sweet nothings to him while he mellowed in his sickness or anything. And yet…
Truth to be told, he felt lonely. His hosts and the inn’s staff were all politeness but they were still strangers, speaking a language that, while understanding it perfectly, wasn’t his mother tongue and looking at him with the guarded apprehension inherent to professional caretakers, not friends attending to a sick loved one.
He missed Watson. A lot. He was aware of how pathetic that might sound and had his brother been here and been privy to his thoughts, he’d probably have something snarky to say about sentimentality and attachment, but after what Holmes had been through these past few days, he didn’t much care at all. His circumstances left him feeling weak and vulnerable and he felt that it might be alleviated by having his dearest companion by his side. He’d been informed by the inn’s staff that, while laying in his feverish frenzy, he’d called out for the doctor on several occasions, pleading for him to stay and help him. He greatly regretted not having him here.
But there was no real use in lamenting it now. Especially considering that Watson had a clinic to take care of in England. Holmes might have been demanding when it came to the good doctor’s attention while they were in each other’s company, but he wasn’t ignorant to his friend’s other engagements, nor was he – in spite of the fever – so delusional to expect him to drop everything and set over to France upon receiving the message. He might sent a message back, containing his regrets and get-well-wishes or he’d pay a servant to come down and assist Holmes in his recovery and afterwards on his way back to England.
These steps seemed the most likely to Holmes and he tried his best to be satisfied by the idea of them.
He’d hardly noticed he’d dozed off into a light slumber before the maid had finished her work and quietly left, leaving him behind in his wonderfully dark room. That was until he was roused out of it by some tumult going up downstairs, approximately around the inn’s entrance hall, if his keen while momentarily fogged senses didn’t deceive him. The doors had been thrown open quite noisily, making him start to full wakefulness in an instant.
Indignant to be awoken like this, yet still somewhat curious of what was going on, he tried paying attention to the noises down below. There were hurried steps, running through the hallway, which he assumed belonged to one of the maids. Had he been in full possession of his wits, he could have easily identified which one of them but as it were, he only noted that it had to be one of the three and that she was making haste towards the kitchen.
There were voices, not quite shouting but talking loud enough that a lot of it was carried up towards Holmes’ tugged away corner room. There was some excitement in the kitchen, some shuffling about, more loud talking, several female voices chattering over each other in quick, thickly dialected French. Some more hastily running about and then the measured, leisurely steps of his hostess making her way down the hallway.
She said something, her words coming up muffled through the wooden floor of Holmes’ chamber. She was talking to whoever was waiting at the entrance, Holmes was sure of it. New patrons, at least two of them, going by the number of voices he could distinguish. One of them spoke French, the other English, probably a British gentleman travelling the country along with someone to translate. For they were gentlemen, as the rumble of both their voices indicated.
But if it were simply some new patrons seeking shelter, what was all the excitement about? The inn wasn’t exactly short on rooms, for Holmes knew he was currently the only guest there. Was the British gentleman someone of high consequence and in need of special accommodation? That was the only explanation Holmes could think of.
All of his eavesdropping and speculating had tired him out again and he decided with a shaky sigh that it would be best to stop paying attention now. Easier said than done though, seeing as the voices downstairs grew louder and more agitated. His hostess and the translator talked back and forth rapidly, but the British gentleman’s voice drowned them all out. Holmes didn’t have the slightest clue of what he was saying, but he sounded demanding and was apparently forcing his way through the hallway.
Heavy footsteps; a tall man with just the hint of a limp; probably an old wound, maybe received while hunting or in battle; battle seemed more likely since, going by his stride, he was a soldier; not a young man and yet not geriatric either; of imposing statue as evidenced by what little resistance he received by the inn’s staff.
Holmes closed his eyes with a quiet whine, trying to shut out the flood of information his brain unhelpfully and unpromptedly provided him with. Who cared about an impertinent countryman of his who wouldn’t take no for an answer when refused at the inn’s door? The real question was why no one informed him that there was a sick patient in the house that needed peace and quiet!
Holmes’ curiosity was once again triggered however, at the sound of the same heavy footsteps coming up the stairs of the inn and moving right towards his room at a fast pace.
He barely had time to be puzzled by this before the door to his room opened widely and Doctor Watson himself came barging in, finding Holmes’ flabbergasted expression with a wide-eyed look of his own.
Holmes had seen his friend in an immense variety of uncommon situations, but he was quite sure in that moment that he’d never seen him this disheveled before. His face was flushed and his hat was sitting somewhat crooked on top of his head, some strands of blond hair poking out beyond the rim on the left. He’d shed his tweet jacket, holding it tugged under one arm and one of the buttons on his waistcoat was missing. His mustache could have used a comb through and the rest of his usually clean shaved face was covered with a light, golden stubble. All in all he looked like a man who’d travelled for a while without pause.
Before anything could be said between them, one of the maids stumbled into the room behind the doctor, followed closely by the hostess and a gentleman in a grey coat Holmes had never seen before but who he assumed was the one who’d been translating for the doctor at the inn’s door.
”No no, no enter!”, the hostess cried at the doctor in broken English and with a nervous look towards Holmes. “He’s too bad, you must left now!”
”That’s alright, I’m his doctor”, Watson easily replied over his shoulder without leaving Holmes out of his sight.
”Watson”, Holmes breathed out weakly, immense relief immediately flooding him at the sight of his friend. He felt all the last few days’ anxiety being lifted from him like a ton heavy weight. Everything would be alright, of that he was sure now.
He still vaguely registered the hostess and the maid being ushered out the door by the grey coated man and the well known voice of his friend gently, though with a slightly teasing undertone, chiding him: “Oh Holmes, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Before the exhaustion and relief made him slip into a much more restful slumber than he’d experienced all throughout the past week.
When he awoke again it was once more to the quiet sounds of someone busy at work around and next to him. The familiarity of the footsteps’ sound, the quiet huffs and the rummaging however immediately served to put him at ease and when he opened his eyes it was to the much welcome sight of Watson washing his hands in a basin at the window. It had not been a dream then, he’d actually come.
The Doctor looked much the same as he had some time prior upon entering, except for the fact that he’d ditched his hat and tweed jacket somewhere, unbuttoned his waistcoat and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. He had a focused look on his face that put a crease between his eyebrows.
”Watson…”, Holmes repeated almost tonelessly, but in the silence of the room, it was enough to rouse the doctor from his thoughts and make his head snap upwards and turn to look at Holmes. An immediate tenderness softened his features.
”Holmes”, he sighed and quickly fetched a wet rag from the basin before moving over to sit on the edge of the bed, scooting close to sit beside Holmes and put the rag on his forehead. Holmes sighed gratefully at the relieving coolness of the damp piece of fabric and how it somewhat alleviated the ache and temperature of his head. “How do you feel?”, the doctor asked as he took one of Holmes’ lax, sweaty hands into his, squeezing it affectionately while subtly feeling for his pulse.
”Quite awful, I have to admit”, Holmes replied, cutting himself off with a small coughing fit. Watson moved quickly and picked a glass of water from the nightstand, helping Holmes to prop himself up and take several long swigs from it before steadily lowering him down again. “Thank you for coming”, Holmes added, his voice weak and dry after the fit.
”Of course”, Watson replied immediately, like it was the most natural, self explanatory thing in the world.
”You must have made great haste to make the journey in two days…”
”One”, the doctor corrected nonchalantly as he picked up another woolen blanket from the trunk at the foot of the bed and spread it over Holmes, adding it to the layers.
”You travelled the whole distance without pause upon receiving my message?”, Holmes wondered incredulously.
Watson looked down at him as if it was foolish of him to assume anything else. ”Of course I did. I was so worried upon reading it that I dropped everything and took the next ship to Calais.”
Holmes smiled up at him faintly.
”I assume it would be the polite thing now to chide you for taking up so much trouble on my account”, he wondered, “but we both know being overly polite has never been one of my follies. I’m truly glad you’re here, Watson. To have you by my side in this difficult hour.”
”As am I, Holmes”, replied Watson softly. “As am I. Sleep some more now, you’ll need it. We’ll get you back into top form in no time and then you may chide me to your heart’s desire.”
Holmes would have chuckled if his aching, sore throat had allowed it. All he could manage was another faint smile before shutting his eyes, fully laying his fate into his friend’s capable hands.