Fic | Sherlock Holmes | A Single Step
Apr. 13th, 2009 01:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: A Single Step
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2305
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Set directly after the end of Granada's The Devil's Foot. Watson has some suspicions, and Holmes makes a confession...
Author's Note: Follows my own story The Hand of Seth.
A SINGLE STEP
I watched Holmes as he bounded off across the cottage’s small garden, happy to see him with more energy than he had had in weeks but to my shame wondering at its true cause. Was it the elation at having solved the sad case of the Tregennis family? Or something more sinister? He had been keeping much to himself since we arrived in Cornwall, preferring solitary walks to my company. I had been somewhat distressed by this, and also concerned given the state of his health, but he insisted he was getting better, even though he refused to submit to any doctoring from me.
“You convinced me to try this holiday,” he said when I remonstrated with him on the subject, “At least allow me some will of my own in choosing the manner in which I spend my time.”
I could not deny him that, and, in truth, had he wished Holmes could easily have remained in London, intractable until those indiscretions in which he had been indulging caused his beleaguered constitution to collapse entirely. I should be grateful that he had agreed to travel to the West Country at all. However, the sight that greeted me when we reached the cottage and I had foolishly left him alone while I paid off the driver continued to return to my mind even after the space of three weeks. It was not the fact of his using the drug which had stirred the anger within me – I had seen it far too many times over the years for that – rather the blatancy of his manner and the almost defiant attitude in his eyes when I dared to question him. In that moment all my hopes that he might actually accept the pronouncements of myself and Agar and want to help himself shattered into pieces on the floor. I could barely bring myself to speak to him afterwards, and it was this silence which in part must have driven him to his lonely perambulations about the coast.
What he did on those walks; whom he saw and spoke to, if anyone, I did not ask and he did not venture any information. The sea air and the enforced break from work and the bustle of London did appear to be having an effect upon him, for which I was glad. By the end of the second week we were almost back upon amicable terms, and to my delight he even allowed me to fuss a little over him, something which was usually anathema to his proud and mercurial nature. And then came the strange events at Tredannick Wallas…
Though Holmes may have relished such a challenge to his incredible faculties, he was still far from well, and I was not happy about his involvement in the case. It was too soon after the disastrous ending of the affair of the Hand of Seth, when my friend’s judgement had been seriously impaired, leading him to place not only myself, but also another friend and the life of an innocent in serious danger. I voiced my doubts, but as always he brushed them aside, ever the master, and I had no choice but to follow him.
This I did now as he made his way towards the cliff path in the opposite direction to that taken by Doctor Leon Sterndale only moments before. My head was still light from that near-fatal encounter with Radix Pedis Diaboli, and I trod carefully, not wishing to step too near the edge. Around us the wind was rising, and Holmes quite suddenly found his hat snatched from his head and sent bowling merrily along the path. With a snarl of annoyance, he gave chase, his gait unsteady from both his weakness and no doubt the lingering effects of the poison to which he had been more greatly subjected than I. The ground was uneven, and I quickened my pace towards him, unconsciously anticipating what was to happen. His foot caught on a root and he stumbled – as he tried to regain his footing the sole of his shoe slipped and skidded on the wet ground and he started to overbalance. He was too close to the edge – I started forwards in alarm, grabbing for his sleeve.
“Holmes!”
I could see the fear and panic in his eyes, usually so guarded, as he tried desperately to right himself. My flailing hand caught hold of the fabric of his jacket and I tugged him towards me, the fingers of the other gripping his shoulder, pulling him away from the drop and back to solid ground. He was breathing quickly, almost wheezing, his face deathly pale as I drew him backwards, sitting him down at the edge of the path. For a moment I was transported back to that terrifying moment not even an hour ago when I dragged him out of the cottage and away from the deadly vapours, the moment when I had almost been convinced that he had lost his mind. I could still hear his cry of “John!” – the first and only time he ever used my Christian name. What appalling hallucinations the drug had conjured from his active imagination I could not even begin to comprehend.
As the memories rose into my mind he began to cough, a resurgence of the fits that had plagued him before we left London. He nearly doubled over from its force, and I rubbed his back with my palm as I sat there beside him.
“Easy…easy, old man, breathe deeply,” I murmured. He struggled to do as I instructed, and eventually managed to get his lungs under control once more, though it was some minutes before his powers of speech were returned to him.
“…Thank…thank you, Watson,” he gasped out.
“You shouldn’t overdo it,” I said, ignoring for the moment the slip and the stumble. “It has only been three weeks, after all.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “You mean that…that the breathing difficulties and the feeling of being crawled over by red hot ants will cease in time?”
“Of course they will. Playing with African ordeal poisons will probably delay your recovery a little, however.” I glanced at him, and paused for a moment before I added, “That was a monumentally stupid thing to do, Holmes.”
He did not reply immediately, and I looked at him again to see that he was staring out to sea, his profile fixed in the encroaching twilight. “I had to know, one way or the other,” he said at last.
“At the expense of your own sanity?” I asked incredulously.
Again there was hesitation. Holmes sighed, and turned his gaze to the darkening sky for a moment before fixing it upon me. “It seemed that as I stood in danger of losing that particular commodity anyway it was not such a huge risk to take.”
I frowned sternly at him. “Holmes, you are not mad.”
“Perhaps not, but I have not been entirely sane these last few months. You know that what I say is true, Watson, do not deny it,” he said when I opened my mouth to protest. “I have placed you in danger, not once but twice in recent weeks…is it the behaviour of a sane man to risk the life of a friend – of his only friend – in such a manner?”
This confession took me utterly by surprise, and I could not find an answer for some moments. Eventually I said, “You did what you did for the best of reasons.”
Holmes shook his head sadly. “Ah, a loyal answer, but one that I will not use to justify myself for I fear I am not worthy of it. I have treated you abominably, my dear fellow, and for that I can only apologise most sincerely. I have taken you for granted in the worst manner imaginable.”
Apologies from Sherlock Holmes were rare things indeed, to be kept and treasured for one never knew when another might be forthcoming. Though he did not say as much, I sensed that my friend was not just apologising for endangering my life, but also for all the other difficulties of past months. The knot of tension that had been present in my gut ever since it had become clear to me what was behind the illness that had been troubling him finally loosened at little. He had at last made the vow to change. “You have not been yourself,” I said.
His gaze was turned back to the sea once more, upon the waves as they crashed over the rocks far below us. “I sometime wonder whether I shall ever be so again.”
A shiver ran through him – the temperature had begun to drop. I rose stiffly to my feet and went to fetch his hat from where the wind had blown it under a gorse bush. Presenting it to him, I said, “I think there is little doubt of that. Even the longest journey begins with a single step, and you have made that step now.”
Holmes accepted his hat, but did not put it on, twisting it in hands that were trembling from more than just the sudden cold. His ragged hair, starting to grow back after being singed by a flaming torch in the British Museum, brushed across his forehead in the wind, making him look oddly vulnerable. He glanced up at me, and a shaky smile touched his lips. “And so I have. In fact, I believe I may be further down the road than you imagine.”
I felt the frown return to my face as he dug into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small rectangular object which he held out to me. As I took it I realised that it was the morocco case which held the paraphernalia of his addiction, the innocuous harbinger of dependency and depression. How appalled I had always been by the sight of it! My heart sank now at the thought that he had been carrying the cursed thing around with him. Was that what he had been doing on his walks, indulging in the cocaine when I was nowhere near to censure?
As always, Holmes could read my thoughts.
“Open it,” he said as I just stood there holding the case, my thumb brushing the clasp. “You may be surprised.”
I did as he asked, not wishing to believe the worst of him and disgusted with myself for immediately doing so. Preparing myself for the sight of the syringes and the dreaded seven percent solution, I was astonished to find the velvet interior of the case completely empty. My amazement must have shown plainly upon my face, for when I raised my eyes I saw that Holmes’s smile had broadened.
“Now, Doctor, confess that you are utterly taken aback,” said he.
“Where is it all?” I asked.
He raised an arm and pointed. “Out there, probably washed out to sea by now. I buried it, two weeks ago, down on the beach. It seemed a fitting end.”
“And you did not tell me? Holmes, I - ”
“It was something I had to do alone. You understand that?”
I closed the case and held it out to him, but he did not take it from me. “I understand. But I am your friend, Holmes. You had only to ask and I would have helped you through these past few days. It cannot have been easy for you.”
He shook his head. “That is the cross I must bear for my own folly.” He paused, and I barely caught his next words, carried away as they were by the wind, “I suppose I did not feel that I deserved your help, or your trust.”
I did not know what to say. We appeared to have reached a watershed in our friendship. The knowledge that Holmes had finally listened and done as I had been urging for so long was worth more than anything in the world to me at that moment. He actually cared enough for his own life to make the necessary effort to change it. I crouched down at his side and offered him the morocco case once more.
He reached out and closed my fingers around it. “Keep it. Use it as a memento, to remind you that you saved me from myself.”
“I had very little to do with it. You made the decision, and that was the hardest part of all.”
“Ah, Watson, ever modest.” Holmes gave one of his sharp barks of laughter and then winced, rubbing at his chest.
“Come on.” I took hold of his arm, helping him to his feet as the first pattering of rain touched the ground. The darkness was enfolding us with increasing speed. “I think we’ve both had enough excitement for one day.”
“I confess, the prospect of a good fire and a warming drink does seem particularly inviting just now,” he said as together we turned in the direction of the cottage. We made our way back down the path and through the garden in companionable silence, each lost in out own thoughts. It was pleasant, both comfortable and comforting, and so welcome after the past few months when I had wondered if we could ever be so again.
As we reached the front door, I stopped. Holmes looked at me quizzically as I glanced up and met his gaze.
“Watson?”
“I am proud of you, Holmes,” I told him simply. “Don’t ever forget that.”
The grey eyes softened for a moment, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. When he did speak his voice was hoarse. “Thank you,” he whispered.
I nodded, and stepped aside to allow him to enter the cottage.
The step had been taken, the journey begun.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2305
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Friendship, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Set directly after the end of Granada's The Devil's Foot. Watson has some suspicions, and Holmes makes a confession...
Author's Note: Follows my own story The Hand of Seth.
A SINGLE STEP
I watched Holmes as he bounded off across the cottage’s small garden, happy to see him with more energy than he had had in weeks but to my shame wondering at its true cause. Was it the elation at having solved the sad case of the Tregennis family? Or something more sinister? He had been keeping much to himself since we arrived in Cornwall, preferring solitary walks to my company. I had been somewhat distressed by this, and also concerned given the state of his health, but he insisted he was getting better, even though he refused to submit to any doctoring from me.
“You convinced me to try this holiday,” he said when I remonstrated with him on the subject, “At least allow me some will of my own in choosing the manner in which I spend my time.”
I could not deny him that, and, in truth, had he wished Holmes could easily have remained in London, intractable until those indiscretions in which he had been indulging caused his beleaguered constitution to collapse entirely. I should be grateful that he had agreed to travel to the West Country at all. However, the sight that greeted me when we reached the cottage and I had foolishly left him alone while I paid off the driver continued to return to my mind even after the space of three weeks. It was not the fact of his using the drug which had stirred the anger within me – I had seen it far too many times over the years for that – rather the blatancy of his manner and the almost defiant attitude in his eyes when I dared to question him. In that moment all my hopes that he might actually accept the pronouncements of myself and Agar and want to help himself shattered into pieces on the floor. I could barely bring myself to speak to him afterwards, and it was this silence which in part must have driven him to his lonely perambulations about the coast.
What he did on those walks; whom he saw and spoke to, if anyone, I did not ask and he did not venture any information. The sea air and the enforced break from work and the bustle of London did appear to be having an effect upon him, for which I was glad. By the end of the second week we were almost back upon amicable terms, and to my delight he even allowed me to fuss a little over him, something which was usually anathema to his proud and mercurial nature. And then came the strange events at Tredannick Wallas…
Though Holmes may have relished such a challenge to his incredible faculties, he was still far from well, and I was not happy about his involvement in the case. It was too soon after the disastrous ending of the affair of the Hand of Seth, when my friend’s judgement had been seriously impaired, leading him to place not only myself, but also another friend and the life of an innocent in serious danger. I voiced my doubts, but as always he brushed them aside, ever the master, and I had no choice but to follow him.
This I did now as he made his way towards the cliff path in the opposite direction to that taken by Doctor Leon Sterndale only moments before. My head was still light from that near-fatal encounter with Radix Pedis Diaboli, and I trod carefully, not wishing to step too near the edge. Around us the wind was rising, and Holmes quite suddenly found his hat snatched from his head and sent bowling merrily along the path. With a snarl of annoyance, he gave chase, his gait unsteady from both his weakness and no doubt the lingering effects of the poison to which he had been more greatly subjected than I. The ground was uneven, and I quickened my pace towards him, unconsciously anticipating what was to happen. His foot caught on a root and he stumbled – as he tried to regain his footing the sole of his shoe slipped and skidded on the wet ground and he started to overbalance. He was too close to the edge – I started forwards in alarm, grabbing for his sleeve.
“Holmes!”
I could see the fear and panic in his eyes, usually so guarded, as he tried desperately to right himself. My flailing hand caught hold of the fabric of his jacket and I tugged him towards me, the fingers of the other gripping his shoulder, pulling him away from the drop and back to solid ground. He was breathing quickly, almost wheezing, his face deathly pale as I drew him backwards, sitting him down at the edge of the path. For a moment I was transported back to that terrifying moment not even an hour ago when I dragged him out of the cottage and away from the deadly vapours, the moment when I had almost been convinced that he had lost his mind. I could still hear his cry of “John!” – the first and only time he ever used my Christian name. What appalling hallucinations the drug had conjured from his active imagination I could not even begin to comprehend.
As the memories rose into my mind he began to cough, a resurgence of the fits that had plagued him before we left London. He nearly doubled over from its force, and I rubbed his back with my palm as I sat there beside him.
“Easy…easy, old man, breathe deeply,” I murmured. He struggled to do as I instructed, and eventually managed to get his lungs under control once more, though it was some minutes before his powers of speech were returned to him.
“…Thank…thank you, Watson,” he gasped out.
“You shouldn’t overdo it,” I said, ignoring for the moment the slip and the stumble. “It has only been three weeks, after all.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “You mean that…that the breathing difficulties and the feeling of being crawled over by red hot ants will cease in time?”
“Of course they will. Playing with African ordeal poisons will probably delay your recovery a little, however.” I glanced at him, and paused for a moment before I added, “That was a monumentally stupid thing to do, Holmes.”
He did not reply immediately, and I looked at him again to see that he was staring out to sea, his profile fixed in the encroaching twilight. “I had to know, one way or the other,” he said at last.
“At the expense of your own sanity?” I asked incredulously.
Again there was hesitation. Holmes sighed, and turned his gaze to the darkening sky for a moment before fixing it upon me. “It seemed that as I stood in danger of losing that particular commodity anyway it was not such a huge risk to take.”
I frowned sternly at him. “Holmes, you are not mad.”
“Perhaps not, but I have not been entirely sane these last few months. You know that what I say is true, Watson, do not deny it,” he said when I opened my mouth to protest. “I have placed you in danger, not once but twice in recent weeks…is it the behaviour of a sane man to risk the life of a friend – of his only friend – in such a manner?”
This confession took me utterly by surprise, and I could not find an answer for some moments. Eventually I said, “You did what you did for the best of reasons.”
Holmes shook his head sadly. “Ah, a loyal answer, but one that I will not use to justify myself for I fear I am not worthy of it. I have treated you abominably, my dear fellow, and for that I can only apologise most sincerely. I have taken you for granted in the worst manner imaginable.”
Apologies from Sherlock Holmes were rare things indeed, to be kept and treasured for one never knew when another might be forthcoming. Though he did not say as much, I sensed that my friend was not just apologising for endangering my life, but also for all the other difficulties of past months. The knot of tension that had been present in my gut ever since it had become clear to me what was behind the illness that had been troubling him finally loosened at little. He had at last made the vow to change. “You have not been yourself,” I said.
His gaze was turned back to the sea once more, upon the waves as they crashed over the rocks far below us. “I sometime wonder whether I shall ever be so again.”
A shiver ran through him – the temperature had begun to drop. I rose stiffly to my feet and went to fetch his hat from where the wind had blown it under a gorse bush. Presenting it to him, I said, “I think there is little doubt of that. Even the longest journey begins with a single step, and you have made that step now.”
Holmes accepted his hat, but did not put it on, twisting it in hands that were trembling from more than just the sudden cold. His ragged hair, starting to grow back after being singed by a flaming torch in the British Museum, brushed across his forehead in the wind, making him look oddly vulnerable. He glanced up at me, and a shaky smile touched his lips. “And so I have. In fact, I believe I may be further down the road than you imagine.”
I felt the frown return to my face as he dug into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small rectangular object which he held out to me. As I took it I realised that it was the morocco case which held the paraphernalia of his addiction, the innocuous harbinger of dependency and depression. How appalled I had always been by the sight of it! My heart sank now at the thought that he had been carrying the cursed thing around with him. Was that what he had been doing on his walks, indulging in the cocaine when I was nowhere near to censure?
As always, Holmes could read my thoughts.
“Open it,” he said as I just stood there holding the case, my thumb brushing the clasp. “You may be surprised.”
I did as he asked, not wishing to believe the worst of him and disgusted with myself for immediately doing so. Preparing myself for the sight of the syringes and the dreaded seven percent solution, I was astonished to find the velvet interior of the case completely empty. My amazement must have shown plainly upon my face, for when I raised my eyes I saw that Holmes’s smile had broadened.
“Now, Doctor, confess that you are utterly taken aback,” said he.
“Where is it all?” I asked.
He raised an arm and pointed. “Out there, probably washed out to sea by now. I buried it, two weeks ago, down on the beach. It seemed a fitting end.”
“And you did not tell me? Holmes, I - ”
“It was something I had to do alone. You understand that?”
I closed the case and held it out to him, but he did not take it from me. “I understand. But I am your friend, Holmes. You had only to ask and I would have helped you through these past few days. It cannot have been easy for you.”
He shook his head. “That is the cross I must bear for my own folly.” He paused, and I barely caught his next words, carried away as they were by the wind, “I suppose I did not feel that I deserved your help, or your trust.”
I did not know what to say. We appeared to have reached a watershed in our friendship. The knowledge that Holmes had finally listened and done as I had been urging for so long was worth more than anything in the world to me at that moment. He actually cared enough for his own life to make the necessary effort to change it. I crouched down at his side and offered him the morocco case once more.
He reached out and closed my fingers around it. “Keep it. Use it as a memento, to remind you that you saved me from myself.”
“I had very little to do with it. You made the decision, and that was the hardest part of all.”
“Ah, Watson, ever modest.” Holmes gave one of his sharp barks of laughter and then winced, rubbing at his chest.
“Come on.” I took hold of his arm, helping him to his feet as the first pattering of rain touched the ground. The darkness was enfolding us with increasing speed. “I think we’ve both had enough excitement for one day.”
“I confess, the prospect of a good fire and a warming drink does seem particularly inviting just now,” he said as together we turned in the direction of the cottage. We made our way back down the path and through the garden in companionable silence, each lost in out own thoughts. It was pleasant, both comfortable and comforting, and so welcome after the past few months when I had wondered if we could ever be so again.
As we reached the front door, I stopped. Holmes looked at me quizzically as I glanced up and met his gaze.
“Watson?”
“I am proud of you, Holmes,” I told him simply. “Don’t ever forget that.”
The grey eyes softened for a moment, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. When he did speak his voice was hoarse. “Thank you,” he whispered.
I nodded, and stepped aside to allow him to enter the cottage.
The step had been taken, the journey begun.
FIN
