Chapter Text
Watson made it as far as the waiting carriage before he lost control over his tears. He had hoped to at least make it further away from Hampstead before falling apart, to be out of danger first. To make it all the way back to Baker Street before reacting would have been quite impossible.
He gritted his teeth hard and slumped back into the seat, fighting back against sobs. Holmes thumped the roof of the carriage, and it lurched into motion.
The jarring movement worsened Watson’s pain, and he gasped. Holmes turned to him at once, keen eyes skimming across him in the dim light. “Dear me,” he murmured, putting down his bag of tools. “Watson, you truly have injured yourself, haven’t you?”
“It’s… it’s not that bad, old man,” Watson choked, more tears escaping.
“Nonsense. You landed badly, and on your leg which was already in poor condition.” Holmes rested a hand on Watson’s arm, the touch light and soothing, then turned to peer out the window of the carriage. For a moment he was still, then gave a nod of approval. “We are not being followed, at least, which is some relief. Hardly as planned, and yet.”
Holmes gestured vaguely, as if to say it had all worked out, but his expression lacked its usual triumph. He glanced out the window once more, then winced sharply and pressed the heel of his palm to his brow.
The carriage hit a bump, and Watson choked back a sob of pain. “You all right, old man?”
“Merely a continuation of my prior headache.” Holmes remained as he was for a moment, breathing hard, then lowered his hand and twitched a weak smile. “Now, Watson. Is there anything I can do for your leg at present, or is it necessary for us to reach home before I can aid you?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much for now.” More tears of pain rose, but Watson couldn’t bring himself to raise his hand and wipe them away. Moving at all sounded quite dangerous, as if it would compromise his control still further. “I do appreciate it.”
“Well, as I am responsible for your injury, it seems only fitting that I should aid you in any way that I can.”
“It’s not your fault, old man.”
“Now, I cannot agree with you there. However, I fear you are correct that there is little I can do at present.” Touching a finger to his lips, Holmes studied Watson intensely. “Perhaps we might plan for when we arrive home. Do you wish to be immediately escorted to your bedroom?”
Watson very nearly said yes, quite ready to go to sleep and forget all about this. But there was an odd look on Holmes’ face, the same look which had so frequently settled there throughout this entire case. “No, no. I should like to have a drink and a heating pad first.”
“A drink and a heating pad it is, then,” Holmes said softly, twitching another smile which did not reach his eyes.
It seemed a long ride back to Baker Street, and by the time they arrived, Watson found himself quite dizzy with pain. Laudanum or morphine sounded rather better than a simple drink, in truth, yet Watson had little wish to treat himself with such medications unless absolutely necessary. To do so would worsen the memories, memories which already circled him as his injured leg throbbed. The battlefield seemed as if it would be there the instant he closed his eyes.
“Now, Watson,” Holmes said, and Watson blinked in an attempt to chase away distant clouds of battle-smoke. “Where, precisely, is your leg injured?”
“Just about everywhere, I think.” Watson tried to smile, to turn it into a joke, and didn’t quite manage it. “My ankle is quite sore, but I think I’ve strained virtually every muscle in my leg.”
“Yes, I believe you landed rather badly.” Sighing, Holmes climbed out of the carriage. His eyes snapped shut, pain wrenching at his features, but it only lasted a moment before he collected himself. With a shaky exhale, he snatched up the bag of tools, then offered his hand. “Come, Watson.”
Quite unsteady, Watson accepted his hand and struggled out of the carriage. Tears burned his eyes, and he lost control over a whimper as Holmes helped him down. To cry was certainly not helping very much, but he couldn’t stop the reaction to pain.
Holmes murmured a few soft reassurances and helped him inside, taking on most of Watson’s weight as they climbed the stairs. When they reached the sitting room, though, Watson found himself steered to Holmes’ armchair again, while Holmes took the one on the opposite side of the fireplace and dropped his head into his hands.
For the moment, Watson could only lean back and try to catch his breath, yet he still wondered at it. Holmes was ordinarily quite particular about where he sat, and yet he’d consistently been taking Watson’s armchair for much of this case. In the past, that had been a rarity, usually caused by wanting a criminal or client in a particular position.
This seemed like something else, some need for Holmes to sit in Watson’s chair. What could possibly be causing such a desire, though, Watson had no idea. Right now, he couldn’t remember precisely when it had started, only that it was during this last case.
Right now, despite his concern over Holmes’ odd behavior, he was quite distracted by his own pain. Thankfully, Holmes soon rose again and began to fuss over him. Brandy was provided, and Watson’s leg raised to rest on a cushioned chair.
“I shall see to your hot water bottle next,” Holmes said, giving him a gentle pat on the knee before sweeping off. “Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!”
Watson smiled a little, finished his brandy, and then leaned back in the chair. He ordinarily preferred his own chair, but he was comfortable enough in Holmes’. And right now, all he wished to do was cease moving so that his leg might begin to heal.
He could already tell that this would not be a swift recovery. It was not a simple ache in his old wound, but an actual injury. No damage to bone, or the pain would be much more catastrophic, but certainly something which would take time to mend rather than a few days of rest.
Holmes soon returned with a tray and set about preparing two hot water bottles. “All right, Watson. I believe you could use a second glass of brandy once I have settled these on your leg. One on your old wound, and the other on your new one?”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, old man.” Watson blinked away a few freshly rising tears of pain and finished off his first drink. “And what of your wounds?”
“I have none, still only a little headache. No doubt the result of stress, and easily enough banished with rest.” Holmes swept back to his side and began to arrange the hot water bottles. Watson sighed with relief as the warmth seeped through damaged muscles, although in truth he might need ice on his new injury after this. “There, Watson. Would you like a pillow upon which to rest your arm?”
“I would, yes.” Watson’s bad shoulder had begun to register its protests now, strained from not only the fall, but from climbing the wall at Appledore Towers in the first place. “You really ought to get some rest, old man. That headache will likely turn into quite a migraine if you don’t. Just put my cane near my chair, and I’ll be all right.”
“Nonsense. I have no intention of retiring to bed when my Watson is injured.” With a flourish, Holmes snatched up the brandy decanter and poured Watson another drink. He poured himself a brandy as well, gulped it down, and then gave himself a second, which he drank just as quickly. “I shall remain close at hand in case you have need of me.”
With that, Holmes snatched up one of his favorite blankets, wrapped it around his shoulders, and curled up in Watson’s armchair. He covered his eyes with one hand, breathing hard, and lapsed into silence.
Watson watched him for a bit, chest tight. It wasn’t unusual for Holmes to worry about him when he was the least bit sore, but this reluctance to retire to bed when clearly exhausted and in pain was more unusual, especially now that the excitement of the case had worn off. He really ought to have at least laid down on the settee, where he could give his head a chance to recover.
Then again, this had been a difficult and frustrating case, and Holmes had been acting very oddly since their first visit to Appledore Towers. He’d also been quite clearly suffering a headache—even a migraine—for days, although they normally did not trouble him when he was busy with cases. Perhaps he was just somewhat overworked. It might be best for a holiday, to get away from London for a while, to recover in solitude and isolation.
For now, Watson simply closed his eyes and leaned back to let the heating pads do their work. He was too tired to worry any more. Besides, if anything truly was wrong, wouldn’t Holmes tell him?
---
After a brief period of recuperation, Watson was increasingly certain that a rest in the countryside would be ideal. Just going to the auction for Milverton’s belongings had taxed him a great deal, and as he sat resting, his leg still burned and throbbed horribly. Going up and down the stairs wasn’t helping his injury much, and he knew of several lovely residences with no necessary stairs at all that would be better.
And better not only for him, but for Holmes. Watson was becoming more concerned about Holmes by the day, for he didn’t seem to be improving in the least. Perhaps he was on the brink of another case of nervous exhaustion, and the strain of his work had become too much for him.
At presently, Holmes was certainly still suffering a migraine. After annihilating the bust of Athene, he’d curled up in Watson’s armchair with repeated flinches of pain. Even now, despite the fact that he seemed to be dozing or close to it, he still had both hands pressed across his eyes, as if without the pressure his head might explode.
Watson put down his pen with a sigh and rubbed his aching leg with a wince. No, he wasn’t going to get much done on his writing for the moment. Ordinarily, it was a pleasant distraction from his own aches, and indeed a large part of why he’d started writing so enthusiastically in his younger days. When his wounds had troubled him, and he’d worried that he might never recover from the damage done in war, it was the greatest relief to turn to recording tales of his brilliant friend’s exploits.
Today, thinking about Holmes’ past cases only reminded Watson of this one, and of how strangely Holmes had been acting. It must be a sign of overwork, that his nerves had been too badly strained by a high workload. He had been growing more and more irritable over the course of this case, more easily frustrated, and hardly sleeping.
In his sleep, he gave a soft whimper and clutched at his head, curling tighter. A wave of shivering rushed over him, and another whimper slipped loose.
Watson’s heart wrenched. To be in such severe pain would not make it easy for Holmes to travel, but that was often the case. He refused to take a holiday unless he was too ill or injured to work, and so was never in good condition when they embarked on such trips.
It was necessary, though. Watson took up a pen and sheet of paper, and quickly wrote a letter to a friend who owned a beautiful home in an isolated area, a home which offered bedrooms on the ground floor. Hopefully, isolation would prove helpful, a chance for Holmes to get away from people and rest that brilliant mind of his in the solitude of the countryside.
Gritting his teeth, Watson struggled to his feet and tugged his cane loose from the spot in the chair where he’d stashed it. He rang for Mrs. Hudson and went to meet her on the landing.
She was just coming up the stairs when he finally hobbled out of the sitting room, his left leg threatening to give out at any second. “Oh dear, oh dear! Dr. Watson, you shouldn’t be up and about. I would have been there in just a moment.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson. I’d rather talk out here.” Watson gestured for her to stop at the top of the stairs, and she did with a somewhat disapproving look. “I didn’t want to disturb Mr. Holmes now that he’s finally resting. He’s fallen asleep in my armchair, and with how he’s been lately, I had no wish to risk waking him.”
The disapproval vanished off Mrs. Hudson’s face at once, so quickly that Watson had to suppress a smile of amusement. She loved them both dearly, but there was no question of who her favorite tenant was. “Oh, of course, sir. Poor Mr. Holmes, he’s been all on edge and seems to be under such a strain. I hope you’ll be able to convince him to take a good rest now, Doctor.”
“Well, that is what I hope. I plan to take him out of London to a lovely, isolated country estate.” Watson held up the letter, and Mrs. Hudson took it with a frown. “The estate is owned by a friend of mine, and I’m quite certain he’ll be all right with our staying, especially as he’s generally traveling for his medical practice, and if he’s consulting elsewhere, we won’t be underfoot. And it’ll be good for Mr. Holmes. There are horses.”
“I see, sir.”
“You don’t agree?”
Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Well, I’d much rather have both of you here, where I can keep an eye on you. But I suppose Mr. Holmes will enjoy the horses, and if he’s not away from London, he will just keep picking up one case after another until he’s driven himself into a nervous collapse again.”
“Yes, that’s my concern. He’s been suffering the most awful headaches and migraines all through this case, and that generally only happens when his health is in seriously jeopardy.” Gently, Watson patted Mrs. Hudson on the arm. “I know you worry about him, but I really do believe it’s for the best. If he’s able to be away from people for a while, perhaps—”
“Watson!” The cry was high, frightened, hardly sounding like Holmes at all. “Watson!”
Watson twisted around and stumbled, his injured leg buckling underneath him. He crashed into the wall, and likely would have fallen had Mrs. Hudson not caught him and steadied him.
“Holmes!” he called back, limping forward. Even with his cane, he could hardly manage to walk, which would certainly be unpleasant for traveling. “Holmes, I’m here, it’s all right.”
Watson staggered into the room with Mrs. Hudson right alongside him. Holmes was still in the armchair, but not looking around frantically as Watson had imagined. Instead, Holmes was staring up at the print of the Reichenbach Falls, his hands trembling violently as he clutched the arms of the chair.
“Holmes. Holmes, can you hear me?” Choking back a gasp of pain, Watson struggled to his side. He gestured for Mrs. Hudson to pour brandy, then bent and grasped Holmes by the shoulder. “Holmes, look at me. It’s Watson, can you hear me?”
Holmes startled violently, sucking in a sharp breath. His dazed eyes struggled to land on Watson, and a tear slipped from the corner of one eye. “John,” he gasped, clutching at Watson’s arms. “John?”
“Yes, I’m here. It’s all right, shh. Gently now, gently.” Watson’s leg trembled underneath him again, injured muscles threatening to crumple. “It’s all right, old man. Did you have a nightmare?”
Holmes looked up at the Falls again, then clenched his jaw. “Yes. Yes, that is all. A nightmare. A thousand apologies, my dear Watson, I did not intend—”
His expression wrenched with agony, and he pressed a hand to his temple with a whimpering cry of pain. Letting go of the stick, Watson caught him by the shoulders and eased him back. “Gently, Holmes, gently. Just sit back in the chair and try to relax, that’s it. Mrs. Hudson is going to give me some brandy for you.”
Holmes was still whimpering, skin going increasingly clammy. Watson took the glass from Mrs. Hudson, slipped a hand behind Holmes’ head, and guided the glass to his lips.
At first, Holmes did not respond, frozen as if to move at all would be unbearably agonizing. Then he drank, his eyes still squeezed shut. Another tear escaped, trickling down the side of his face.
“Mrs. Hudson, would you fetch Mr. Holmes’ blanket?” Watson asked, encouraging Holmes to take another sip. “And then some tea would be very much appreciated.”
“Very good, Doctor.” Mrs. Hudson brought over the blanket and gently spread it across Holmes, then picked up Watson’s stick and leaned it nearby. “After I close the drapes, I’ll post that letter of yours, too.”
Holmes finished the brandy, then cracked his eyes open with seeming difficulty once Mrs. Hudson tugged the drapes closed and blocked out the sun. He blinked a few times, rubbing his temple. “Forgive me. I woke from a nightmare, and was uncertain where you had gone.”
“It’s all right, old man. There’s nothing to forgive.” Watson took up his cane and painfully transferred himself to the settee. He would be closer to Holmes that way, and given their current pain levels, that would clearly be best. “I had just stepped out to ask Mrs. Hudson to send a letter.”
“Ah, yes. She did mention the letter.” Wincing, Holmes pulled his blanket higher. In fact, it looked as if he wished to pull it over his head, but had only just stopped himself. “What letter?”
Watson explained, emphasizing the impact these health troubles had on Holmes’ cases, and the fact that he might eventually risk disqualifying himself from work completely. This was a conversation they’d had many times before, and he was unsurprised when Holmes simply snarled at him.
“I know you don’t like holidays, old man, but you cannot go on like this. It’s quite clear that your health is continuing to worsen, and you’re certainly not going to be able to work cases if you’re in too much pain to open your eyes. How will you be able to examine clues like that?” Watson put on a kind smile, although Holmes was not looking at him. “Really, old man. You need to rest.”
“I do not wish to rest.” Scowling, Holmes tugged his blanket higher still, this time partially across his face. “Rest is dull.”
“Suffering an absolute breakdown and needing a lengthy convalescence would be ever more dull.” In a way, as much as Watson worried about his friend, he did enjoy the challenge of trying to convince Holmes to attend to his own health. “Besides, the property does have horses. If nothing else, I’m sure you’ll enjoy that, and getting away from all these people will be good for you. It’s a lovely, quiet estate.”
“And isolated, no doubt.”
“Which I fervently hope will prevent anyone from bringing you murders to solve this time.” Watson reached over and patted Holmes on the arm. Holmes stiffened slightly, and Watson quickly removed his hand. “I’m sorry, old man. I didn’t realize you were that overwhelmed.”
“It has been difficult,” Holmes said, very quietly. He gave a soft grunt and pressed a hand up his temple again, squeezing his eyes shut. “You will come with me?”
That was quite an odd question, but Holmes was quite ill, and perhaps still dazed from his nightmare. Watson nodded at once, stretching out his sore leg. “Yes, indeed. My leg is troubling me enough that I will be glad of a rest as well, and there are bedrooms on the ground floor.”
“Ah, dear me. The stairs here are indeed difficult for you.” Holmes hesitated for a moment, rubbing his temple, then sighed. “Very well. If it will be beneficial to your wounds.”
“It certainly will, although I’m still primarily concerned about yours.” Watson couldn’t help it. Just looking at Holmes huddled under his blanket made his heart wrench, and he must do anything he could to help. “Don’t worry, old man. I’m sure that a trip to the countryside is the best thing for both of us.”