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For the fourteenth time that morning, Holmes threw open the door to his room and crossed the sitting room. His hair was tousled from sleep and a lack of attention, his chiselled features were inlaid with some, deep annoyance. Twitching at the curtains, he stared down at the street as if waiting for something to have changed since the last time he made the same pilgrimage.
Watson watched him from the chair by the fire as the detective pulled his dressing gown around his body and stalked back towards the door. It was as intolerable to watch him as it was amusing. Since the influenza had descended over London, a malaise had descended upon his dear friend. One that would not be shifted by activity, nor correspondence.
The final straw cracked under the weight of the quarantine. Twelve streets in total declared ‘infestations of sickness’ meant that almost all the residents from between Regents Park and St James’ had been required to stay indoors. No cabs could operate in the area and an army of errand boys ruled the roost. Deliveries and letters past rapidly between houses and the outside, but no one was permitted to leave, save on urgent business.
Watson had noted a number of doctors who journeyed through the streets to monitor the passage of the deadly virus and decide on the best course of action. From time to time, Dr Watson would open the door to the house and lean against the frame to talk with his colleagues out on the kerb. It was an unusual way to carry on a conversation, and occasionally bizarre conferences of medical scholarship would spontaneously spring up when he did so.
Holmes had not adjusted so well.
“Dear fellow, won’t you sit and have some tea?”
“For the last time , Watson. I do not want any tea,” he snapped back with harsh edges worn into his voice.
Watson didn’t take it to heart. It was just one of the little expectations when living with Sherlock Holmes, like living with a particularly irritable cat, that you would reach out in just the wrong way and receive a claw in response.
With a coy smile, he returned to his newspaper, one of the few deliveries they still got to the house. Despite his obvious intent to stalk away, Holmes’ trembling frame remained in the middle of the sitting room, seemingly caught between window and bedroom on an invisible wire. The doctor peeked at him from over the edge of the Times, to his companion’s unmistakable scowl.
“How can you just sit there, Watson?”
“Excuse me?”
“How can you just sit there, and read the paper as if not trapped in this intolerable prison?”
Watson folded the newspaper crisply the way he liked it, and the way Holmes obtusely didn’t and sat forward in the old wingback chair.
“No offence taken my dear boy, but I am rather enjoying the enforced and cosy quiet of being able to take my leisure, catch up on my writings and read a few good books.” He left unsaid the initial delight he’d taken in the company of his beloved. Their gentle touches, the occasional nights spent thrilled by the lack of interruption. Of course, that hadn’t lasted, and they’d fallen back into the easy comfort of sharing a roof without the initial excitement that isolation brought.
Eventually, Holmes always got bored of the same old, same old.
Holmes’ scoffed in response, waving an outraged hand and collapsing like an actress onto the couch. He clasped at his face and groaned as if Watson’s calm acquiescence were causing him physical pain. Delicately he coughed into his sleeve, before drawing breath and coughing again this time with a rougher drag on his throat.
“Really, Watson,” he started, after dabbing the side of his mouth. “How you can delight in such trifles while the world continues mere streets away from us is almost more than I can bear.”
The doctor had to admit that despite the low light of the afternoon and the glow of firelight, Holmes’ did have a less than healthy pallor to his already pale skin.
He continued on a lengthy tirade about what a waste it was for his skills to be locked away as the good doctor rose to approach him. Taking one delicate wrist in his strong hand he began to check Holmes’ pulse - slightly elevated. Then moved to feel his cheek - cold, his forehead - warm, and his hairline - somewhat clammy.
“Holmes,” he interrupted the other man gently. When he was unsuccessful, he was a little more insistent. “ Holmes , I think you’re running a slight temperature.”
“Nonsense, I’m healthy as-” with an ironic sense of timing, Holmes pulled away to cough dryly into the back of his hand. “-as a-” He stopped again, the rising wheeze in his chest dryly expelling itself. “Watson, a glass of water if you’d be so… so kind.”
Withdrawing his hand from Holmes, Watson strode to the jug on the table where it had been left after breakfast. The glass was pressed into his pale fingers.
“You will forgive me Holmes, but I believe you are coming down with something. You feel dreadfully warm,” Watson murmured, checking his watch again. This time he did not release the slim wrist in his grasp and Holmes did not struggle. He archly twisted back onto the sofa, leaving his arm in his lover’s grasp.
“I assure you, I am simply more than a little thirsty, and my throat is dry breathing the same air for the past two months .”
“I have been breathing the same air as you, and I’m suffering from no such cough.”
Sulkily, Holmes withdrew permission for Watson to hold his arm and rolled down onto his back. Sweat was prickling his forehead again, as he stared at the glowing coals of the fire. He looked a sorry sight, draped back over the worn cushions like an exhausted cat. His breathing was more shallow as he staved off another cough.
There was something deeply indolent in him. Even the rapid onset of this sickness did not remove how endearing these moods could make him. As if despite all the logic of the moment, he could will himself better just by holding himself in this curious angle.
Gently Watson settled down beside him on the couch.
“Dear boy, you’ve been running yourself ragged since the quarantine began. You’re run down, you need rest.”
Bringing up both hands to draw slowly down his face, he groaned again, voice muffled by his fingers.
“No, I need work! ”
Watson couldn’t help but smile at him, reaching a hand out to rest on Holmes’ clothed knee. Being almost upside-down did very little for the detective’s lung capacity and he coughed again. There was no arguing with him like this, better to let him touch the edges of his limitations before being reeled in.
Fixing the doctor with a piercing glare from beneath his tousled hair, Holmes made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat.
“Really Watson, you are becoming sentimental during our sequestration.”
Although his tone was judgemental, there was that warmth in his eyes one that showed that this ‘sentiment’ was echoed in him. There was a richness to his voice when he spoke in their quieter moments that made it feel as if he were talking only to John Watson, with nothing else occupying his frightening mind.
With a grace that belied his underlying complaints, Holmes twisted his body and removed himself from the couch and from Watson’s tender hand.
When he stood he was somewhat unsteady but no less ebullient. Skirting around the edge of the couch he returned to his curtain-twitching.
“Holmes, what ever are you doing? The post’s already been. I have the evening paper right here and a letter from-”
“Quiet Watson, I spy Wiggins!”
Shoving up the window sash, Holmes leaned out into the rapidly cooling evening air. The chill stole into the sitting room and Watson could only imagine how cold it was where his dear Holmes stood.
“I’ve got your package, Mr ‘Olmes.” Watson heard the boy’s voice from out in Bakers Street and frowned. What could Holmes be expecting now? The house had enough tea and tobacco to last a quarantine twice this length, and Mrs Hudson had assured them that they were at no risk of running out of precious supplies.
“I’ll be right down, Wiggins,” Holmes called back, shutting the window with a dull scrape.
“Oh no you won’t,” Watson moved faster than he had in weeks, a burst of speed brought on by absolute necessity as he put himself between his forlorn beloved and the door.
“Out of my way, Watson.”
“No. You aren’t well, it was bad before, but if you are sick Holmes, then you are not to break quarantine. That’s an order.”
“I’m not one of your Fusiliers, Watson to be bossed about.” Holmes reached out his hands as if to throw the doctor to the side, but the weakness of his grip betrayed the sickness that had taken hold of him.
“You are not, Holmes. Yet need I remind you that I am a doctor . What’s more, I am your doctor, and I say you are to remain up here, and I shall fetch your package.”
Realising his defeat, the detective pulled away and once more wrapped himself tightly in his dressing gown. He cut a miserable figure back to the fire, where he dropped into the chair that Watson had only too recently been warming.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the doctor immediately realised the flaw in his plan. His hands still tingled from the altercation with the patient. He’d been in Holmes’ space for weeks and in close contact with him today. Halting in his tracks, he sighed and called down the stairs.
“Mrs Hudson?”
The knock at the front door had to be Wiggins with no sign of their landlady.
“ Mrs Husdon!” he called, much more firmly this time. “The door, if you’d be so kind? We have a situation.”
When she appeared it was full of the bustle and outrage that he’d come to expect from her. She made for the door and gave Wiggins a penny for his trouble. When she made to come up towards Dr Watson, he held up two hands to stop her.
“I beg you, Mrs Hudson. Do not come up these stairs. I’m afraid that Mr Holmes might be coming down with something. And given this current climate of uncertainty, I think we shall have to isolate the first floor from the ground. Would you mind leaving anything for us on the stairs? I can come part way and collect.”
By the time Watson had returned to the sitting room, Holmes was sat at an awkward angle, body folded up on the chair, knees twisted towards the fire, his face turned away resting on his hand. Upon spying the doctor he sprang up with a start and moved to take his package. Backing against the closed door, Watson clasped it tightly, reaching his other hand to seize Holmes by the shoulder.
“What could possibly be so urgent that you should get it delivered after all the posts, in the midst of our isolation, while you are quite clearly unwell?”
Holmes made an unsuccessful grab, his chest pressingly firmly against Watson’s. It was almost comical if he hadn’t been so convinced that his beloved was at risk of becoming dangerously ill if he continued.
“ Holmes , I beg you to stop this at once. Let me ring out for some tonic and tea and get you back to bed. Mrs Hudson can’t come up here, but I don’t mind getting the coal scuttle and building up a fire in your-”
“I do not have influenza, Watson. Why will you not listen to me for once and do as you’re told .”
Watson froze as if he’d been struck as if Holmes’ words had slapped him full across the cheek. The brown paper package was snatched up and its owner stalked back to his room, all but slamming the door behind him.
A long time ago, John Watson had promised himself that he wouldn’t take Holmes’ bad moods personally. His jabs and barbs could sting, but they were symptomatic of a troubled brilliance. Most importantly Holmes was never cruel. He didn’t lash out for no reason, and if he was ill-tempered he either apologised or burst in upon him sometime later full of life and joy enough to clear the salt from the wound.
None of that had changed since the first day he’d taken John to his bed. That kiss framed against the morning glow before he dropped the clunky blind in his bedroom. Sometimes Holmes was more affectionate, but in truth, he had always been tactile and expressive of his feelings when he wanted to. Even during their confinement, there had been a gentleness to his lover that was being slowly eroded by something more than boredom.
Usually, Watson would sit and stew. Perhaps even go back to his bedroom to get a book. But given how erratically Holmes was acting, there was a high chance he might just take off into the night. He didn’t fancy breaking the curfew just to chase after him, but he liked the idea of letting a potentially ill Sherlock Holmes loose in the city even less.
Steeling himself against the potential backlash, Dr Watson drew the fireguard and strode to the closed bedroom door.
He knocked, was met with silence and so knocked again. When then no answer came he called out, his hand on the doorknob.
“My dear Holmes, may I come in?
Once again he heard nothing and ventured past the portal into the dimly lit bedroom. Holmes sat at his dressing table, the picture of quiet distress. His long slim legs extended under the board while he sat with his head resting on an open palm. One exposed knee bounced with nervous energy, but what the doctor could see of his pose, he was exhausted.
He didn’t look up when Watson came in, his chest rising and falling with a gentle rapidity that the doctor didn’t care for.
It was then that his eyes alighted on the source of their fracas, the mysterious package. The paper and string had been torn away with abandon, exposing the edge of a neat cardboard box with a hand-scratched label on it. Watson recognised it almost instantly, and his heart sank. But not before he spied what Holmes must have secreted in his robe pocket during his pass through the sitting room.
If Watson could live the rest of his life without seeing that damned needle, it would be too soon.
“Yes, Doctor? Have you come to prescribe more wisdom? More medical proselytising?” It seemed as though he were trying to sound angry, but in its stead, there was a barely restrained note of desperation.
When he didn’t receive an immediate response he sat up in pained animation. His eyes were bloodshot as he entreated with a crackled cough.
“I have been locked within these walls for months my dearest Watson. Your amiable company and talented hands have been magnificent distractions, but I have not been sleeping well. My mind has been understimulated. My usual dosage didn’t seem to touch the coiled mass at the back of my head.” He rapped sharply against his skull to punctuate his point, and Watson reached out instinctively to take hold of those pale fingers.
This time Holmes did not pull away, instead, he allowed himself to be held, his drawn face turned away from his beloved.
“It pains me, John, to have been such a very bad companion during this quarantine.”
Whether it was the unguarded use of his first name or the crackle in his voice, but Watson’s heart broke to see Holmes like this. Pulling gently at his hand, he drew his lover in close. With his head tucked so neatly against his chest, Watson could feel the weak shake of Holmes’ spine, his ragged breathing and the distinctly anxious tremor of his pulse.
More than anything, Watson wanted to hold him and show him that he wasn’t angry. He could forgive his love anything, even if it meant forgiving his self-destructive tendencies.
“I forgive you, Holmes. I cannot be cross when you have put yourself in such a state,” he murmured, knowing his voice would carry through his chest.
Running his hand through the soft mop of his dark hair, Watson delighted in Holmes’ shiver, hoping it was from delight rather than the awful withdrawals. His eyes falling on the needle again, he absently let his hand linger on the back of his slim neck. Holmes’ soft, acquiescent noise of approval spurred him on and he ran his thumb down the tense muscles there.
“Did you say you hadn’t been sleeping well?” Watson, it seemed, had broken the spell of their silence as Holmes rose out of his seat, moving to close his blind clearing his throat.
“Yes, terrible nightmares. Likely chemically induced, but no less unsettling to a soothing routine. And it’s been rather cold of late.”
“I can still go and fetch the coal-scuttle if you want me to build you a fire?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
Sweeping his hair back from his face, he tugged his dressing gown loose then threw it into a heap with the rest of his discarded clothes. Beneath his nightshirt, he looked pale and wan, likely still trembling as he had in Watson’s arms. There was a shyness to his tone which hinted at his deeper purpose, which made the doctor smile to himself, struggling to hold in a chuckle.
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you. But you know, Holmes? It is a little fresh tonight, and you haven’t been feeling your best. So, if you wanted some company, you know, to help you drop off. Perhaps to warm your bed a little, I don’t have to head to my room straight away?”
Holmes waved a nonchalant hand in response but was already tiring of the game by the time he’d whipped back his bedsheets and scrambled in.
“You know, my darling Watson. That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all week. Not that I’ve been keeping track.”
“Not that you’ve been keeping track,” Watson laughed as he shed his own robe and turned down the lamp. It was no wonder that Holmes’ had trouble sleeping considering how cold his legs were as he crawled into his lover’s arms.
John kissed the top of his head and revelled in the luxury of just lying back and holding him. If this were some small thing he could do to make their detention more manageable, then all the better.
“Watson?” Holmes murmured against his chest, his voice clear but already tinged with an edge of comfort. “If I heard you correctly, then our good Mrs Husdon will not be troubling us tonight?”
Grasping Holmes’ chin with one broad hand, Watson tilted his head until they were looking into each other’s eyes. The gentle intimacy of their proximity punctuated by the obvious want in Holmes’ eyes.
“Nor tomorrow morning,” the doctor responded, stroking his lover’s cheek. “It would be a shame to waste the good fortune of a long interrupted night. If you are up to it?”
“My dear John, after my long stretch of self-imposed anhedonia-” Holmes interrupted himself to arch his neck and draw him into a kiss, one long overdue. Before smiling, “-I positively insist on it.”