Chapter Text
It is not possible to live with Sherlock Holmes and be unaware of his black moods. From a medical perspective, I have noted they do not come with any greater frequency since his return from that three-year hiatus where I thought him dead, but they do present with a greater severity. At times, these episodes have rendered Holmes in a near-catatonic state for short periods. It is about the worst of these moods yet that I make these notes, not for publication – although there may be some small data of medical interests which I may later revisit – but for my own remembrance of what happened and the changes it brought to our lives.
I had noted his darkening mood for days. The symptoms of these episodes were usually much the same: loss of sleep, loss of appetite, increased agitation – which included snapping at Mrs. Hudson and myself for any and every perceived infraction – and days of Holmes laying fitfully on the settee in his dressing gown, arm thrown over his face, face always turned away from the light or room’s occupants. As I’ve noted elsewhere, the episodes normally lasted some days and presented between cases when his extraordinary mind was at a loss of some problem with which to occupy its faculties. This particular episode, however, curiously lacked the agitated mood and fitful flailing and tossing about. He lay on the settee, eyes open but vacant, and seemed to descend almost at once from mere discomfort into despondency. At first, I worried he had taken too strong a quantity from his syringe, but I noted the drawer, which set slightly askew in its track and required some measure of force to open, remained in its crooked position, showing it had not been opened.
Returning from my patients in the evening, Mrs. Hudson greeted me as soon as the front door opened. She expressed concern for Holmes, saying she’d taken tea up that morning, and he’d not responded to her. When she’d returned to the flat to see about dinner, he’d not touched any food or drink from the day and had failed to shift positions on the couch since morning. She’d drawn the drapes as she’d found him staring, eyes unfixed, towards the bright afternoon light.
I attempted to reassure her, ascending our stairs with some concern about the strength of this latest episode. I hung up my coat and hat, calling a greeting, which was not answered. I intended to stoke the fire, thinking I would not appear overly concerned or “fussing as a mother hen,” as Holmes often accused me. However, the medical man in me took over when I caught sight of him. He looked paler than usual, and his eyes stared unfocused towards the window. The movement of my walking by him elicited no response or even a blink of an eye. He looked, for all the world, like a dead man. I dropped to my knees in front of him, grasping his wrist to check his pulse. He was indeed alive, but he made no movement nor indication of being aware of my presence.
“Holmes,” I said, noting the shock in my voice, “Holmes, what is wrong? This is not normal, even for you, man. Holmes, this won’t do. You’ve got to snap out of this.”
My hands roved over him, palpating the glands in his neck, checking his forehead for fever, pulling his lower eyelids down to check capillary color, and clenching his cold, stiff fingers in mine in an effort to gain some response.
I am not a specialist of the brain or mental conditions, but I’ve seen my share of broken and shell-shocked men. Holmes’ present countenance took me back to the battlefield hospital. There, I had experience with men who appeared to become trapped in a kind of mental prison, and I knew first-hand that the longer these men were left to their mental confines, the harder it became for them to free themselves.
I thought, too, of my personal experience facing the mental demons that accompanied my own injury, illness, and recovery. I shuttered to remember the time spent invalid in hospital, the tedium of the pain and delirium from fever, the monotony in that hospital bed. Time had seemed to stretch so that days became weeks and reality seemed to shift so that the walls would close in around me. Laying in hospital, I could feel my mind slipping into a rut – like the wheels of a cart going around and around the same path, sinking deeper into the mud so it became harder to change direction. I thought back to the things that would pull me out of that rut: the physical stimulus of pain and touch when the doctor examined me, the shock of cold water from the nurse’s sponge, the scream of pain from a soldier carted in, the novelty of a visiting comrade offering a friendly word and a swig of brandy. Absent these stimuli, I would feel myself falling back into myself, sinking into that rut. The sadness, anger, and fear had threatened to consume me.
Towards the end of my stay in hospital, my body had made improvements, but my mind still threatened to trap and hold me. It was only through my coming to live with Holmes and being brought into his work that I’d found the unexpected stimuli that had helped invigorate my mind and keep me out of that prison. Thinking on it now, I could see that prior to my injury, I’d gone from the period of my most significant mental and physical exertion – operating on the battlefield around the clock – to a period of almost total psychological and physical stagnation in hospital. There was some similarity, I could see, to how Holmes’ attacks came at the end of a case when the excitement had ended.
It was with these thoughts (and newfound gratitude for every chemical explosion and late-night violin serenade which had acted like medicine to me) that I considered my friend’s condition. Holmes had advised me to ignore his black moods in the past, and it was true he had always come out of them without my assistance. But this one seemed different. And it occurred to me then that if I could engage the body with stimulus to help awaken the brain, perhaps I could speed his recovery and allow him to return to himself more quickly.
I struggled to sit him upright, fighting as if I was upending a sandbag. He slumped against the side of the settee, his gaze unseeing. I believed he could both hear and understand my words, so I attempted to keep up a calm, natural stream of conversation to reassure him of my presence (and perhaps reassure myself in some small measure) and monitor him for any reactions.
My thoughts turned to improvement in blood flow, knowing that an increase in circulation could help stimulate the brain. I took one of his long, pale feet, cold despite the slippers, and tried to rub life and warmth into one and then the other. I then turned my attention to his hands. I had a moment of trepidation as I stared at those delicate hands, which were almost always in motion and which now lay lifeless at his sides. It was disconcerting to see those hands so still, where they usually tapped irritability, packed pipes, conducted silent orchestras, fiddled with chemical experiments, or waved expressively while he spoke. Seeing those motionless fingers made my heart ache. I rubbed vigorously to get the blood flowing, straightening each finger, massaging, and grasping gently. I pressed one of his smooth hands between mine, feeling the callouses from his violin on the tips of some fingers and noting the acid stains on others.
“Now, Holmes, getting the blood moving in your extremities is good for the brain. The more circulation we have, the healthier our minds. As soon as I’ve got some warmth into these hands and feet, I will ring Mrs. Hudson for tea. I know you don’t want to eat, but you must at least drink something for me. The longer you starve your body, the harder it is going to be for your mind to pull out of this. I believe you can hear me. I will have her put a little ginger and a lot of sugar in it. It will do you good.”
I told him in measured tones the actions I was taking and why, knowing he would appreciate the science behind my processes. I received no response or recognition. I made my way to the door to call down to Mrs. Hudson, and soon enough, we had a pot of tea. Holmes sat staring vaguely down towards the floor instead of straight ahead, I noted with some encouragement. I poured a cup of tea and added two sugars before returning to the couch.
“Now, Holmes. I won’t make you hold the cup unless you want to. We’re going to need a signal if there’s a problem, though. I will count on you to blink if it’s too hot, alright? It will do no good to my reputation if London finds out I go about scalding patients with tea.”
I resumed my place, pressed to his side, and held the teacup and saucer between us. I blew gently across the surface, in a show of cooling it off but intentionally blowing the scent of ginger and bergamot steam towards him. While his gaze remained fixed on his lap, I saw a minute twitch of his upper lip. After a few more breaths I deemed it was a safe temperature to proceed. I brought the cup towards his face, watching the steam rise to that aquiline nose.
“Alright, Holmes. Ready?”
I slowly brought the cup to his lips and held it there. I stared at his thin pink lips, reflexively licking my own. Finally, just when I was about to speak again to encourage him, he gently lowered the bottom lip a fraction. We navigated a sip with the utmost care, resulting in only a little on his chin.
“There we are, old chap,” I said while pressing my handkerchief to his chin. “What do you think of the ginger? Wakes up the tastebuds, eh? Ready to try another sip?”
I was surprised when he accepted another drink, and although it took quite some time, he managed to drink half the cup.
“All done then, I deduce,” I said when his lips refused to part at the subsequent raising of the cup. How I wished for him to snap out of it and startle me with one of his quick laughs at my little joke. Even one of his sarcastic black mood barbs would be a welcome change.
“The evening paper is here. I’ve not read it yet, but I can read it aloud to you. There was quite an interesting piece in this morning’s paper about a burglary that I hope has a follow-up. One moment, Holmes and I will fetch it,” I said, moving to retrieve the paper.
“Now, a further observation: I noticed from the smell of our rooms that you’ve not had tobacco today. I know that usually gets the mental gears turning for you when you’re on a case. If I get your pipe going, will you have some? Or will you prefer a cigarette? Maybe a cigarette will be easier. Your case is just here.”
I waited, staring at his unmoving face. Holmes remained slumped against the settee while I lit a cigarette and returned to my seat next to him. If he didn’t have it, I wouldn’t let it go to waste.
“Here you go, old man,” I said, gently putting the cigarette to his lips, trying not to notice my hand shaking or think about the cigarette being between my lips a moment before.
For a moment, nothing happened, and then his lips minutely parted, and I felt him draw in a slight breath. A moment later, he exhaled a faint trail of smoke. For a man who relished tobacco as much as Holmes, this was far from the usual toxic cloud that surrounded him, but this was a triumph for me. I patiently moved the cigarette to and from his lips, as best I could judge when he would wish to inhale. Like the tea, it was painfully slow going, and I took the final draw from it when I reasoned he had his fill.
Typically, we were not in the habit of sharing such a sustained close physical space. But drawing on my own remembrances of feeling isolated during my recovery and bolstered by his taking tea and tobacco from me, I hazarded a hypothesis that the comfort of having someone close may produce a soothing effect on his mind. There was little data to base this on, so I kept close attention on him to gauge signs of his acceptance or irritation, knowing he would likely rankle at the idea of someone taking care of him and bestowing comfort. I had been sitting delicately on the edge of the settee next to him, and now I slid back into the seat, settling against the cushion, my shoulder pressed to his. It would be a damned awkward way to read the paper. I felt unsure of overstepping and grappled with my instincts for only a moment before moving my arm to the back of the settee and letting my hand fall to his far shoulder.
We sat like that, my arm around him, as if it were the most common of after-dinner routines. It seemed only a moment before I felt him shift, and he leaned his weight against me, his head falling to my shoulder, his body fitting against my side as if he had been made for the purpose. I sighed with relief and leaned my cheek against his head. Now it was I who stared unseeingly straight ahead as fear rose in my chest. It wasn’t that I didn’t dream about this very thing, sitting in an embrace before the fire, holding this man who could be so vexing and so compelling. But I was concerned for his health, and I reminded myself he was, for now, first and foremost, a patient. And while I was glad this closeness seemed to bring him comfort, as it did me, I didn’t want to overstep any boundary while he was in this altered condition.
I sat worrying over whether he was finding comfort in my presence and touch and what it may mean for his addled brain. I thought about what else I could do, how else I could help pull him back into this world, while breathing in the scent of his lavender pomade and trying not to think about those pale pink lips sipping tea. Deep in these thoughts, I realized that I had moved my hand from his shoulder to comb my fingers through his hair without conscious awareness. Like a sigh, I felt his exhale of breath against my neck and froze. Here I was, worried about overstepping and now transgressing further!
“Holmes? Holmes, is this alright,” I asked in a voice that barely managed to whisper.
I felt his head move minutely (a nod?) as he sank into my embrace further, his breath warm upon my neck.
“I don’t want to, to overstep, Holmes. I know this black mood seizes you. I don’t want to make it worse in any way. I have to tell you, this is the worst one I’ve seen yet, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it worried me. I don’t want to do anything to impede your recovery or, god forbid, make it worse. You must find a way to tell or to show me when you wish me to move away or to leave you. I don’t want to assume this closeness is healing if it’s hurting you,” my voice was hushed due to our proximity, but I could hear the fear and pleading note, and I sounded half-crazed to my own ear. My heart was pounding and I knew he must be able to feel it, leaned against my side as he was.
I squeezed my eyes closed. I felt hopelessly out of my depth in every regard – as a doctor and as a friend. I didn’t know how to proceed confidently in any course of action. I wanted what was best for him, to heal him, to provide comfort, to let him know I was there and would take care of him. And yet, I wanted for myself, as well. I wanted to touch those cheekbones, to run my thumb over that bottom lip, to trace that firm jaw – to touch him in ways that had nothing to do with being a doctor or a friend. I drew in a shaky breath against the top of his head, filling my senses with the smell of his hair. I felt a tear slide down my cheek and brushed my face against his head to wipe it away. I had to do what was right for him. I pushed down these feelings, reminding myself I was a doctor, first and foremost. When Holmes returned to himself, when he was well again, I could indulge in these feelings. Right now, he needed me, and I would not let him down.
I sighed and picked up the paper with my free hand, “Right then, old boy. Let’s find out what London got up to today, shall we?” I read out loud for the better part of an hour. He made no movements or sound, but his steady breath on my neck and warm presence in my arms comforted me. We stayed like that for long after I had finished reading. Finally, I turned towards him. His eyes were closed, and I thought he’d fallen asleep. I gently extracted my arm, and his eyes flew open, looking panicked, and his hand flew up with surprising speed to weakly clutch at my wrist.
“It's alright, Holmes!"
He was shaking now. Had he been dreaming? Did the movement of my arm startle him? Did he think that I meant him harm?
"Holmes, you're trembling. You are safe. I am here. I won't let anything happen to you. You are safe."
I reached out and put my hand gently on his knee to reassure him, and he seemed to calm. I kept talking to relax him.
"I've been giving this some thought. I want to try a series of experiments tomorrow with different stimuli to invigorate your mental faculties. I've seen men during the war who appeared to go through similar difficulties. When I was recovering in hospital, there were even times I feared I was to be ensnared within my own mind. I felt cut off from the world and from my body. Probably, I was trying to escape the constant pain, but, you know, it was like the mind was a trap. I remember that unexpected occurrences would jolt my mind back into the present, like a splash of cold water. I want to try some stimuli to bring your attention back to your physical body and into the present place. No cold water; I don't mean to torture you further. Your mind may not be up to the task of verbally communicating, but I know you understand everything I'm saying,” I saw no recognition in his face, but continued, “I'm convinced you are able to respond with what is in your best interest – I was surprised by the speed at which you grabbed my wrist, so your reflexes are still quite intact. Now, I don't know if you slept at all last night or today, but I very much need to sleep, and I'd like it if you could rest both your body and mind. I can help you to your bed and see that you are comfortable."
I slid my arm around him once more while lifting his arm around my neck. I gently stood him up, and he swayed on his feet. I gave him a moment to steady himself, and with slow, shuffling feet, we made progress to his room. His bed was a sea of tangled bedclothes and books. I let him slide onto the clear side of the bed, where he slumped while I lifted his feet, attempting to get him situated into a prone position. I confess I felt out of my depths. I fretted he wasn't comfortable. I adjusted his pillows before moving to the other side of the bed to lift books and papers to the floor. I wrestled the blankets from their knots and layered each one smoothly over him, tucking them under his feet, as I knew he was always chilled. I hesitated, feeling I'd done what I could, and sat on his bed. His eyes were on me, more focused than before. Still, he looked like a shell of the animated, statuesque man I knew. His keen, expressive face looked vacant, and his eyes dull. I reached out to brush his hair from his forehead, combing my fingers through it a few times as I had earlier. His eyes drifted closed.
“We’ll get through this, Holmes. I promise. I’m going to do anything I can to help you. We’ll pull you out of this and be back to running the streets in no time.”
He opened his eyes, and the sadness in them nearly broke my heart. I pressed my palm to his cheek, tracing his cheekbone with my thumb.
“For now, rest. You are safe. I am here and will care for you if you will allow me.”
His eyes came up to meet mine. While there was no other physical response, I can only say that through my years of knowing Holmes, I detected a pleading note in his gaze. I do not know if another medical professional or man would have understood this look.
“Do you… do you want me to remain with you here?”
Relief filled his eyes, and again, my heart ached for him. I nodded mutely and went to the other side of the bed, where I toed off my shoes, climbed in, and turned down the lamp. I lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of my breath before finally falling asleep.
***
I rose early. He lay in the same position, eyes staring at the ceiling. I know not if he slept. As painful as it was to see, it strengthened my resolve to help him find his way back, and I was determined to elicit what success I could manage with my little experiments. It proved to be an exceptional morning, and the sun was bright, so after dressing, I drew the curtains to illuminate the room. He squeezed his eyes shut in protest, which I took for an excellent sign.
“Good morning, Holmes. I hope you slept well. Are you still willing to let me try some small experiments with you? Nothing strenuous, I promise. If at any point you feel I’m not helping or making matters worse, I trust you to blink or give me some other signal. I will go out for a short while this morning to pick up some items. First, I’m ringing for Mrs. Hudson for tea.”
I helped him to the sitting room, where I brought his chair to the window so that he could be in the sun and see out to the street. We performed our slow tea ritual, this time getting almost an entire cup into him before he refused. He dragged his gaze up to meet mine, and again, the sadness in his eyes caused my heart to break. I gave him a triumphant smile in parting and told him I would not be long in returning.
I went around to five different shops to collect my supplies. I’d splurged rather more than I’d intended, but it would be worth it if any of it helped Holmes. As I entered the front door, I met Mrs. Hudson and left all but one of my packages with her with instructions for luncheon. She was quite surprised with the amount of spicy, pickled, and exotic foodstuffs I handed her, but I trusted she would be able to carry out my requests*. I found Holmes much as I’d left him. His eyes were half closed but snapped to attention when I stepped before him.
“I hope you are hungry for lunch, Holmes. I’ve just brought some supplies in for Mrs. Hudson, who will be putting together something quite extraordinary. One item I’ve not had since my time in Afghanistan. I’m very interested to know what you will make of it,” I said as I helped him to sit up, “But first, Holmes, I think you need a bath.”
His eyes slowly rose to meet mine.
“I picked up some new items this morning, which should make this experiment interesting. I’m going up to draw your bath and will be back in a moment to help you,” I said on my way to the door.
I’d assisted Holmes in his washing up before when he was injured, but we had managed that by an abbreviated sponge bath, forgoing the tub. Upstairs, I laid out the new soap I’d purchased that morning and two large towels, adding a few drops of rosemary oil to the hot water. I put a few drops of eucalyptus oil, which the hospital kept for cleaning and which I found invigorating, on my handkerchief and placed it with the towels. I reminded myself that this was no different than preparing a table for surgery, that this was a medical process, and that he was a patient. I could think about my arm around him, as it had been the previous night when he was well on the other side of this episode.
Holmes looked more alert than he had all morning when I came down to fetch him, though whether it was the effect of curiosity about what he was to be subjected to, I could not say.
“Ready then?” I asked.
He slowly nodded, holding my gaze. Well, that was certainly an improvement. His gate was steadier than it had been, and we navigated the stairs with less difficulty than I’d imagined. We entered the bath, warm and fragrant from the strong herbal scents. Holmes was fastidious in his toilet, preferred lavender pomade, and sometimes used something (cologne?) that smelled of citrus. He has incredibly keen senses, especially his sense of smell, which I hoped to engage. I shut the bathroom door behind us and noticed he shivered, though, from cold or apprehension, I could not tell.
“What do you think about the scents? It’s supposed to be quite stimulating. Rosemary is for remembrance, they say. And the eucalyptus is quite distinct. I think it’s rather pleasant, myself,” I chatted, trying to sound unaffected as I stepped behind him and removed his dressing gown from his thin shoulders.
I leaned down to lift the edge of his nightgown’s hem and shut my eyes as I pulled it up over his body, revealing his pale, lean back. From behind him, I offered my outstretched hand, which he accepted, and he surprised me by stepping immediately into the warm water and sinking in with an exhale, which I believed to be an audible sigh. I stood staring down at him with a mixture of relief and apprehension. He sat with his knees drawn up somewhat stiffly, but I noted his face looked relaxed now instead of vacant. He looked much more like himself again, and I half expected him to open his mouth and deliver some monologue about Medieval pottery or extol the merits of fingerprint analysis. Instead, he slowly raised his gaze and met mine. I swallowed, unsure if this was treatment or torture to him.
“Holmes, I wanted to get some warmth to your body and to see what effects the hot water and these new scents may have,” I said as I knelt, unwrapping the rosemary soap and holding up the bar for him to smell. He drew in a small breath, and his lips twitched in what I hoped was an approving manner. I handed him the sponge.
“I assume you would prefer to do this yourself,” I asked, not looking at him.
I remembered then that he wasn’t likely to respond verbally, forcing my gaze to meet his. He looked very far away. He closed his eyes, and they remained closed. I dipped the sponge and soap into the water to wet each and lather the sponge.
“Here,” I said, pressing the fragrantly soaped sponge to his chest, “I think we can manage this part right enough. And then I’ll help you wash your hair.”
He slowly opened his eyes and wordlessly watched my face as I ran the sponge over his chest and shoulders. I looked away to search for the tin cup Mrs. Hudson kept beside the tub. I dipped the cup into the tub and said, “Ready? Lean your head back,” as I put one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the water. After wetting his hair, I lathered the soap in my hands and tried to remember how my fingers moved when I washed my own hair. I am a doctor and I touch any number of bodies on a given day, but I confess my hands trembled as they massaged his scalp. I slowly worked from the front to the back of his head. His hair was longer than mine, and the scent of rosemary and eucalyptus in the small room made me feel almost giddy. The sound of our breathing and the water dripping were the only noises in the small bathroom as I worked my fingers through his hair.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I whispered as I poured the warm water over his head a few times. I kept one hand shielding his face and then ran both through his hair to ensure no soap remained. Unbidden, I leaned forward to smell his freshly washed hair. Gently, so he wouldn’t feel it, I let my lips ghost the barest touch against his wet strands. I took up the comb and ran it carefully through his dripping hair.
“There now. You’re all done unless you want to stay here and catch cold,” I said, pulling out the stopper.
I stood and unwrapped a towel, holding it up so I could not see his body. Slowly, I heard the water splash as he stood, his eyes finding mine over the top of the towel. He took the ends of the towel and wrapped them around his waist. I picked up the other towel and reached up to dry his face, then down to dry his shoulders, arms, and chest before returning to his hair. His eyes remained on me the whole time, and I tried to control my breathing, reminding myself he was a patient. Finally, I held my hand out, and he again took it to step out of the tub. I put my hand on the dressing gown, and he slowly turned so he could slide his arms into it. He further surprised me by fastening it around his waist and dropping his towel. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Right then,” I said as I opened the bathroom door and helped him to descend the stairs to his room.
Once I’d gotten him situated on the bed, I told him how gratified I was to see his improvements. I told him I felt the conditioning of the physical form was quite vital in helping him come back to himself. I know first-hand how quickly the body can stiffen from a brief bout of illness, and I wanted to take advantage of his pliant muscles after the warm bath. I began a series of leg extensions, gently bending the knee back and straightening the leg. I talked about a paper I’d recently read on a study of muscle conditioning exercises while I moved to his feet. I recalled how cold his feet had been the day before and how rubbing those half-frozen appendages had brought a tiny spark of life into him.
I was advising him of all this, keeping up a gentle stream of conversation, as I took his foot in hand and began firm, slow strokes over his sole. I had only ever touched Holmes’ feet in a purely medical sense when attending to a minor wound, checking for a broken bone, or warming them as I had the night before. As his feet were still warm from the bath, I slowly massaged his instep and pressed my thumbs under the ball of his foot in firm strokes. His eyes held mine. He looked relaxed, even pleased. I ran my hands along the top of his foot, the skin smooth and pale, and let my fingers glide over his ankle. My touch had strayed from the clinical, but I reasoned that since I was attempting (and he seemed to be deriving) comfort and pleasure, my motions had some therapeutic value.
I could not tear my gaze from him while I touched him. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but as we held our stare, I daresay I saw the familiar light come back in those eyes. It was the first real glimpse of the man I had seen in days. I felt a pang in my heart at how much I had missed him and how very much I cared for him. I continued to press and stroke his skin while we held each other’s eyes. His expression contained more animation than I had seen from him yet. My heart swelled at this, and I smiled at him, feeling more pride and tenderness for the man and knowing how hard he must be fighting against whatever he was going through. I watched as the corners of his mouth twitched as if he wished to smile in return. I was so full of happiness and love for him that I was seized with the overwhelming urge to kiss him at the mere thought of seeing that smile return.
And so I did. Or at least, that was my intent. I pulled his foot towards me and gently kissed his instep. I knew I was crossing a boundary I had been circling for years and pushing against since the night before. And I knew he was in no state of mind to consent or argue against this change in my expression of affection to him. I am sure these thoughts were somewhere in the back of my mind. But at the same time, I thought it was a kiss to the foot – clearly not the most romantic or sexual of gestures. All of this may have been in my mind, or I may have thought it later. What is clear to me now is that I was not thinking through the results of my actions; so consumed was I with feeling for this man. And so, as I have said, I put my lips to the tender skin of his instep, bestowing a sign of my devotion to him.
What Holmes bestowed upon me, after emitting what can only be described as a shriek, was a swift kick to the face. It had not crossed my besotted mind that his fragile nervous state could elicit such a profound defensive response. I thought of this as I lay, stunned, on the floor at the foot of his bed. I was pinching the bridge of my nose and pressing my handkerchief to staunch the trickle of blood when I saw his head slowly peek over the edge of the bed. I stared up at him, his pale face showing concerned and his eyes surprise.
I could have wept for joy. I scrambled up to the mattress to assess him.
“Holmes! Holmes, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you! I should not have made such a sudden move when you were overstimulated. I was just –”
“Tickled,” he said in a cracked whisper.
He looked up at me, and I’m afraid I startled him again when I burst out laughing.
“It tickled? Oh, my dear Holmes, oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think – I was just so happy to see some expression back on your face that I – well, I tried to kiss you,” I explained with mirth.
He tilted his head, his brow wrinkled in confusion. When he spoke, he sounded far away, and it was in that quiet way he speaks to himself when he is working out a problem, when he often does not realize he speaks out loud, “Oh, John, you have finally kissed me and I... You should never have given me back my feet…”
Seeming to return to himself a little, he peered at my face closely.
“Holmes, it is nothing,” I assured him. “I’ve faired much worse, as you know. Look, the bleeding has stopped,” I said, holding up the handkerchief and trying to sound calm, but his quiet, strange words and the use of my Christian name had surprised me, and my heart was pounding violently.
I stared at him, confused, my medical mind finally waking.
“Holmes,” I said, grasping his wrist to check his pulse as I pressed his shoulder to lay back down, “I’m quite glad to see that you seem to have pulled free of this episode, but this has been rather a lot of excitement for you. Please tell me how you are feeling. Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”
He looked at me with an expression I’d never seen as if he were waging some internal struggle. I returned my hand to his face, searching his eyes, which were filled with an emotion so foreign to his usual countenance. In disbelief, I watched as those silver eyes filled with tears, which spilled over onto my fingers. Never had I seen him display emotion of this kind, and I admit my heart was filled with fear that something in him had been irrevocably broken from this episode. He gazed up at me then, eyes focusing. In a broken whisper that conveyed more vulnerability and bravery than I thought my heart could stand, he whispered words I will not soon forget: “John…hold me back together...”
“Holmes,” I breathed, too stunned to think of using his Christian name. I pull him to me, pressing his head to my shoulder, fearing I had caused a regression in his condition. I wrapped my arms around him tightly, and for a long time, the only movement was the rising and falling of our bodies as we breathed together, my heart pounding in a flood of emotions. Finally, I felt him stir, lifting his head to look me in the face. His eyes looked exhausted but relieved of the sadness they had contained. He gave me a small, tired smile, and I felt my heart swell to see him returned.
I didn’t know where he had been these past days or what he’d experienced. I expected he’d never fully tell me, but the expression in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He’d been into hell. And he’d returned. I pulled him against me, hoping the strength of my embrace told him that I would do everything in my power to keep him from returning to that hell. And I hoped the kisses I pressed to his face let him know that if he found himself there again, I would not hesitate to march in and help guide him out every time. I felt tears come to my own eyes, falling over the precipice without fear, for how could I have fear when he was in my arms? When he had returned to me, once again.
*Postscript: For weeks following this episode, we were reminded of my little experiments as Mrs. Hudson valiantly worked through the quantity of hot chilis, pickled fruits and vegetables, chutneys, and an assortment of spices unfamiliar to Baker Street, which I had provided to her. Holmes made a show of sampling each and praising my efforts to restore his condition through, as he termed it, “culinary assault”. Mrs. Hudson was not as complementary.