![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 9/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 831
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, fluff, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOURSELF
“Holmes,” I pleaded, watching helplessly as he paced the sitting room, “You must go to bed. Your nerves will not stand for this.”
“I can’t! I can’t, not until I have that telegram. I must have confirmation of McAndrew’s guilt.” He rounded the sofa, gnawing upon fingernails already bitten down to the quick. Still in his nightclothes, a blanket wrapped tightly round his shoulders, he crossed the rug with cold, bare feet, his slippers apparently forgotten. Above the cheerful plaid of the blanket his normally pale face was ashen grey, perspiration beading his forehead. The grey eyes were red-rimmed, sparkling with fever. Though he was running on the very last of his strength, teetering on the precipice between lucidity and delirium, he would not rest. I threatened and cajoled in vain – the case upon which he had been working when illness struck still consumed his mind to the exclusion of all else.
“Let Hopkins deal with it,” I said, almost able to feel the heat radiating from him as he passed me. “Holmes, please – you are going to make yourself seriously ill!”
He waved a hand sharply. “I cannot leave the Yard to deal with something so important. The matter is too delicate. How can you even suggest it?”
“Because I do not want to have to carry you to Charing Cross hospital,” I muttered as, barely pausing even to turn, he began another circuit of the room. Feverish energy was keeping him going for now, but I foresaw a moment in the not too distant future when his overstretched nerves would finally give out. For a week he had barely eaten or slept, devoting every possible second to the unmasking of an aristocratic kidnapper. Already exhausted almost beyond endurance, this was more than even his iron constitution would be able to stand. I wished that I could do something to prevent his imminent collapse, but he was as stubborn as a mule, and masterful to a fault. There was no way that I could hope to avoid the inevitable.
The minutes ticked past, and after another hour of watching his restless and increasingly erratic perambulations I could take no more. Deliberately I planted myself in his path, catching hold of his arms as he attempted to brush past me and continue on his way. He struggled, but the attempt was feeble – I realised quite suddenly that he was now only remaining upright with my support. He swayed, and I slipped my arm around him, leaning his shivering, sweat-drenched form against my shoulder. His fever was up, two hectic spots of colour flaring on his white cheeks. I pressed two fingers against his carotid artery to find that his pulse was racing away.
His strength finally spent, I all but carried him to his room and laid him gently down upon the bed. He gave an incoherent moan, and as I bent over him I could just make out a few words between laboured gasps for breath,
“…why…now, Watson? ...why…?”
There was no answer to that question beyond those I had given a hundred times before. I sighed, and drew the blankets over him. “My dear fellow,” I said softly, “Why do you always do this to yourself?”
He did not respond, barely aware now of anything around him. I informed Mrs Hudson that any telegram from France was to be forwarded to Inspector Hopkins at Scotland Yard, and dutifully went to fetch my medical bag in preparation for a very familiar vigil.
Try as I might, I could never convince Holmes that his body needed care, that it could not be regarded as some indestructible container for his genius. Time and again he would wilfully ignore illness and injury as though they were mere inconveniences to be brushed aside and forgotten. In the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the investigation, when his mind was operating at its highest level, he would run his body into the ground. As a doctor it was frustrating, maddening; as a friend, it was heartbreaking to watch.
All through that evening I sat beside his bed, laying cool cloths on his brow and listening to his delirious ramblings. By morning he was sleeping, the fever thankfully broken and his shattered nerves finally getting the rest they needed. While Holmes lay wrapped in peaceful slumber, I sat slumped in a chair, rubbing a weary hand over my unshaven chin.
So many times it had come to this. I lost count of the nights I spent at his side, nursing him through illness and nightmares, many of them occasions he would not even remember. One day…one day I may finally make him realise that though his health might matter little to him, to others it means a great deal, and that he should take more care of himself for their sake if not for his own.
I only hope that when the moment comes it will not be too late.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 831
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, fluff, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOURSELF
“Holmes,” I pleaded, watching helplessly as he paced the sitting room, “You must go to bed. Your nerves will not stand for this.”
“I can’t! I can’t, not until I have that telegram. I must have confirmation of McAndrew’s guilt.” He rounded the sofa, gnawing upon fingernails already bitten down to the quick. Still in his nightclothes, a blanket wrapped tightly round his shoulders, he crossed the rug with cold, bare feet, his slippers apparently forgotten. Above the cheerful plaid of the blanket his normally pale face was ashen grey, perspiration beading his forehead. The grey eyes were red-rimmed, sparkling with fever. Though he was running on the very last of his strength, teetering on the precipice between lucidity and delirium, he would not rest. I threatened and cajoled in vain – the case upon which he had been working when illness struck still consumed his mind to the exclusion of all else.
“Let Hopkins deal with it,” I said, almost able to feel the heat radiating from him as he passed me. “Holmes, please – you are going to make yourself seriously ill!”
He waved a hand sharply. “I cannot leave the Yard to deal with something so important. The matter is too delicate. How can you even suggest it?”
“Because I do not want to have to carry you to Charing Cross hospital,” I muttered as, barely pausing even to turn, he began another circuit of the room. Feverish energy was keeping him going for now, but I foresaw a moment in the not too distant future when his overstretched nerves would finally give out. For a week he had barely eaten or slept, devoting every possible second to the unmasking of an aristocratic kidnapper. Already exhausted almost beyond endurance, this was more than even his iron constitution would be able to stand. I wished that I could do something to prevent his imminent collapse, but he was as stubborn as a mule, and masterful to a fault. There was no way that I could hope to avoid the inevitable.
The minutes ticked past, and after another hour of watching his restless and increasingly erratic perambulations I could take no more. Deliberately I planted myself in his path, catching hold of his arms as he attempted to brush past me and continue on his way. He struggled, but the attempt was feeble – I realised quite suddenly that he was now only remaining upright with my support. He swayed, and I slipped my arm around him, leaning his shivering, sweat-drenched form against my shoulder. His fever was up, two hectic spots of colour flaring on his white cheeks. I pressed two fingers against his carotid artery to find that his pulse was racing away.
His strength finally spent, I all but carried him to his room and laid him gently down upon the bed. He gave an incoherent moan, and as I bent over him I could just make out a few words between laboured gasps for breath,
“…why…now, Watson? ...why…?”
There was no answer to that question beyond those I had given a hundred times before. I sighed, and drew the blankets over him. “My dear fellow,” I said softly, “Why do you always do this to yourself?”
He did not respond, barely aware now of anything around him. I informed Mrs Hudson that any telegram from France was to be forwarded to Inspector Hopkins at Scotland Yard, and dutifully went to fetch my medical bag in preparation for a very familiar vigil.
Try as I might, I could never convince Holmes that his body needed care, that it could not be regarded as some indestructible container for his genius. Time and again he would wilfully ignore illness and injury as though they were mere inconveniences to be brushed aside and forgotten. In the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the investigation, when his mind was operating at its highest level, he would run his body into the ground. As a doctor it was frustrating, maddening; as a friend, it was heartbreaking to watch.
All through that evening I sat beside his bed, laying cool cloths on his brow and listening to his delirious ramblings. By morning he was sleeping, the fever thankfully broken and his shattered nerves finally getting the rest they needed. While Holmes lay wrapped in peaceful slumber, I sat slumped in a chair, rubbing a weary hand over my unshaven chin.
So many times it had come to this. I lost count of the nights I spent at his side, nursing him through illness and nightmares, many of them occasions he would not even remember. One day…one day I may finally make him realise that though his health might matter little to him, to others it means a great deal, and that he should take more care of himself for their sake if not for his own.
I only hope that when the moment comes it will not be too late.
