Work Text:
Holmes bats his eyes open, as if some slow and old machine. Rusted over key slots into place, to wind up the toy. As he comes back to life, the first thing he notices is the pain, the sheer amount of which he has not felt since… Holmes wishes he could allow himself to forget. In an odd, and maybe masochistic manner of thinking, Holmes finds that being in so poor a state might benefit some line of research. He could very easily, provided that his current unfortunate predicament be no longer an issue, throw himself into writing a new monograph detailing all the various stabbing pains and dull aches he’s now had to endure. Pain, pain so outside of his own grasp or control, is the first thing on his mind. The second is embarrassment.
Countless times he’s assured himself in his talents, vast and plentiful as they are. And countless times he’s thought himself simply being factual and accurate in his greatness. To be humble, to carry himself like the London everyman, the commonfolk; it would be too closely akin to lying for Holmes’ liking. What good could possibly come out of Holmes being borderline self-depricating? Only now, as he lies just short of incapacitated on his bed does he think that maybe he’s fallen down too far on the other end, too prideful. The pain, as immeasurable as it may be, is only an unfortunate byproduct of his pride catching up to him. He feels ripped apart, red and raw like the fleshy remains of a dog’s hunt. He feels like prey, dead and dumb.
Between the pain killers he's self administered, and the restless night he's endured, Holmes finds himself slow in his reasoning. Of course, it feels obvious that just about every single human who's graced the Earth has had days where they found themselves less able in their ways as usual. Even more so if they'd suffered a beating the night prior. Holmes should not expect himself to work in his typical fashion, to run unstoppable, to whirr back to life full steam ahead as if some unfeeling automaton. Yet he finds himself missing his full potential… Has there ever been something more validating than being useful, than being truly good at something? Even now, in his half shame and half pain induced delirium stupor, he knows quite matter of factly that there exists no man, Scotland Yard or otherwise, who can do what Holmes does, and do it well. Not that Holmes had ever been good at anything else.
As pain and embarrassment mark their territory in Holmes’ mind, he now feels something else make its way, washing over him entirely as if such previous feelings could invite a friend over. The third thing Holmes starts to feel is nostalgia. He thinks himself to be young and naive, and alone. The smartest boy in class, bullied and beat to a pulp for being a know-it-all. Something about the state he's in has the air feeling staler, the room feeling emptier. He misses the warmth, the crackle of the fire and the boisterous laugh of his friend. The numbing cold, long forgotten complete isolation. Holmes had himself fooled thinking he could cope, that he'd always coped. He feels himself going mad, like a caged animal, like he's come down with cabin fever. Like the covers he's under weigh their weight ten times over, like he's been cuffed. Alone. He’d been convinced he never really cared for companionship, and he would have stayed convinced had he not met his Watson… Should Holmes be so bold in calling Watson ‘his’.
John Watson had been a singular and unique rarity within Holmes’ lifespan. He would've spent the rest of his life half awake, had Watson the decency to leave him to his own devices. Though seldom speaking such feelings aloud, Holmes treasures Watson's companionship. True and earnest, like an allyship between children on the playing fields, like the wag of a dog's tail at the sight of his master, reverend priest consumed in personal prayer to his God. The intimacy of knowing and being known.
Holmes makes a motion to soothe himself, to rest his hand on his head with what little strength he has left. Only now he finds that he'd been bandaged. Wrapped up like a neat and darling present with some great amount of care. There's an art in the way his doctor wound him up in gauze, as if caring for Holmes could ever be such an art. He thinks himself a liability to Watson. He thinks he needs more pain killers, more sleep. He makes a show of tossing and turning, desperate and indirect plea known only to himself. The ruckus, the orchestral humdrum of everyday life slinks its way into his room through the crack in the window. He is far too ailed, and has no fight left in him to summon the strength to pull his window shut. Holmes makes an effort to shut his eyes, and to comfort himself with thoughts of him and Watson.
The door to Holmes' room creaks open, the heavy lid of his casket being pried open as Watson bears the weight. Holmes pushes himself up in bed in response, craning his neck to reach the sliver of light. Flower that blooms in the warmth, in Watson's warmth.
“Oh, dear boy, sorry to disturb you. I- I hope I did not wake you…”
Holmes scoffs. Does the Sun apologise for rising?
“Nonsense, come in friend Watson. I have been up for some time now.”
Watson makes his way to Holmes’ bed. Slow and practiced, deliberate as he moves towards doting on his patient. Watson takes Holmes’ face into his hands, cupping his cheeks as he inspects the damage. Eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought and drenched in worry. Delicate little strokes, circles that Watson's thumb draws in wait. Withdrawn, he leans into Holmes all sweet and bashful. As if the kiss Watson plants on his forehead could so easily break him.
“I… I haven't stopped thinking about you since last night. What a dreadful man this Baron Gruner is. I ought to go down there myself and bite his head off… I'll go down there myself and I won't hold myself back-”
“Mmm.. Watson, I appreciate you wanting to do right by me, but we should not act so hastily. After all, what was it if not haste that brought us here, that has me sore and bedbound?”
Holmes closes his eyes, some quiet admission of defeat. Accepting the outcome, the penance for his crime. Being so consumed in oneself, blatant refusal to step down or to be critical… even if his intent were so admirable, even if it was all to help his client. His loss means that it was all for naught, that he couldn’t see past himself winning. The game is no longer.
Watson swipes the palm of his hand along Holmes’ face, doting on him. Picking apart the bandage to replace with fresher ones. Attentive as he peels away, the face of the man he reveres above all else now rests bare. Worn down and tired, and bruised several shades of purple. Vulnerable, Holmes entrusts his weak and worn down body to his doctor.
“Can you stomach sitting upright? So that I can change the rest of your bandages?”
Wordlessly, Holmes complies. Lets the blankets roll off of him as he brings his body up to rest against the bed's railing. Watson takes his time in unravelling, as if some bright light might shoot out of Holmes, as if he were unworthy of seeing Holmes so detached from The Detective, the persona he sells. So defenseless, so pliable in his arms. And so entirely human in every way Watson could hope to expect. ‘Holmes the Mastermind’, ‘Holmes the Sleuthhound’; this man ceases to exist. Now, being cared for in his arms, he only exists as Sherlock.
Fingers trace over the hard and bony edges, the soft give of Holmes’ flesh. Bandage wound and wound along the length of Holmes’ body, eye catching in its own right. Winding and trailing, as if directing Watson’s eyes towards where to look. He leans into Holmes for another kiss. He barely touches him, hands ghosting the small of his waist and the tip of his chin, as if Holmes would break so easily. He can still taste the blood in Holmes’ mouth.
Holmes shies away, pulling himself inward. Cowardice getting the better of him, he feels so impotent and so undeserving of Watson's affections.
“I should have handled that whole ordeal better… Both for our sake and for our client's. To think I just let myself be bested by such a conniving man I.. I should be better than this, than him..”
“Holmes. You must permit yourself the leeway of failing, and of growing from it.”
“What good is there in failing? I jeopardized our case…I put you in harm’s way…”
“I'm alright Holmes, here…”
Watson lifts Holmes’ hand to his face, tactile proof to Watson's good health.
“My dear Holmes… Great and powerful as you are, it is not simply for your greatness that I love you... I love you in all your fallible and human ways, your quirks and your faults. You do not need to be greater than, or to be heroic in some otherworldly fashion for me to stick by your side and care for you. All that matters is that you just are.”