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Holmes peeled the hand off his neck and staggered to his feet, head spinning. His vision darkened at the edges, and his heart pounded in his head. He tried to take a deep breath, and couldn’t manage it. His throat and neck burned with pain, and he could not stop shaking.
He’d thought he was about to die. This was hardly a new experience, as many had tried to kill him. And yet, the thought looped in his mind, repeating. He had almost died.
“Holmes! Holmes!” Watson ran up to him, revolver still in hand. “My God, are you all right? I didn’t hit you when I fired, did I?”
Excellent. He had not seen.
Flashing a quick smile, Holmes indicated the murderer who had been attempting to do away with him when Watson fired. “Just him,” he managed, and his throat seized with pain. “Would you?”
He indicated the approaching police, and Watson brightened at being given a task. The good doctor jogged over to Lestrade and began giving him a detailed account of what had transpired in the pursuit of the suspect through these rickety tenements.
He was not fully aware of what had transpired, however, and Holmes intended that it remain that way.
There was a cracked mirror in the nearby dressing table. Holmes approached, relying on the light of the police lanterns, and pulled down his collar. The beginnings of bruises darkened his neck, the marks of the hands that had been choking the life out of him.
He pulled his collar back up. With shaking hands, he wrapped his scarf around his neck as well. For a moment, he began to panic, and then forced himself to be calm. No, his scarf was not strangling him. It was merely helping him to avoid worrying Watson more.
He was still trembling by the time Watson finished speaking with the police and rejoined him. “Well, that fellow won’t be murdering anyone again,” Watson said, his voice a little unsteady. “Are you all right, old man? Any injuries?”
Holmes flicked a smile at him and shook his head, not daring to speak. He had worked with enough victims of violence to be well aware that the hoarseness he had already exhibited would likely give him away. If he could perhaps get some rest, he would be fine in the morning.
They were soon in a cab on their way back to Baker Street, although he struggled to catch his breath. The scarf around his neck, although both keeping him warm and hiding the bruises, only increased the waves of anxiety. It was as if even the gentle pressure of the scarf was cutting off his air again, worsening the ache in his throat.
He coughed once or twice on the way back, but managed to keep it from becoming a persistent issue or from betraying his secret. But the pain and discomfort continued, and he could hardly catch his breath by the time they reached 221B. He was not eager to climb stairs.
Watson looked at him strangely when he coughed next, distracted from his explanation of what he had told the police. “Are you all right, Holmes?”
“Yes,” Holmes murmured, keeping his voice low and eyes distant. Perhaps Watson would think he was merely thinking rather than concealing something. “Go on.”
Although Watson gave him another concerned look, he finished his account. Holmes was not listening. He took off his overcoat without dislodging his scarf, then snatched up his favorite blanket and wrapped it tight around his shoulders as he crumpled onto the settee. He still couldn’t stop shaking, and it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe.
“Holmes.” Watson knelt in front of him, touching his knee. “You’re breathing strangely. Did you receive a blow to the chest or abdomen?”
Holmes shook his head, avoiding the worried gaze. Watson was too perceptive these days to be so easily shaken off. It would be necessary to manage some response. “I am merely cold. It is…”
He tried to get enough air to force out more hoarse words, and the breath rasped in his throat. He began to cough, and a sharp noise of pain escaped him. Everything went into a wild spin again, his vision darkening at the edges, and his heartbeat pounded in his head.
“No, you’re not just cold. It’s clear to me that something else is wrong.” Slowly, Watson moved to sit beside him on the settee. “May I remove your scarf, old man? I’d like to see your neck.”
Holmes’ stomach tightened. He could continue the ruse, attempt to brush Watson off—but what would be the point? Watson knew, or at least suspected.
So instead of protesting, he gave a reluctant nod. He flinched as Watson reached up, and could not control the quivering that swept through him even though he could never be frightened of his Watson.
“Easy, Holmes. It’s all right, it’s all right.” Very gently, Watson unwrapped his scarf, then touched his collar. Holmes flinched at that too, and Watson inhaled sharply. “My dear Holmes, you’ve been strangled!”
“Excellent, Watson,” Holmes managed, then coughed again. His vision swam, and he struggled to inhale. “You—”
Before he could manage to say anything else, another fit of coughing overtook him, and the entire world dimmed as if he was about to faint. He swayed, and thought that he was about to topple off the settee.
Watson caught him, though, and eased him down to the pillows. He flung Holmes’ scarf across the back of the settee, then loosened his tie and collar. “Gently, Holmes, gently. You mustn’t talk.”
“Nonsense,” Holmes gasped, digging his fingers into the cushions. “Don’t worry, I’m…”
He cut off, wheezing, and Watson pressed a gentle hand to his chest. “Shh, shhh. It’s all right. Lie still. This looks like bruising from manual strangulation, is that correct?”
Holmes nodded weakly. His head still pounded, and the pain in his throat alone was enough to deter any further attempts at speaking. It was deeply irritating, yes, but he certainly had no hope of concealing it now.
Watson ran through a series of gentle questions, ones that Holmes could answer with a nod or shake of the head. Then, with light touches, he palpated Holmes’ neck and throat to check for injury.
It should not have been frightening in the least. Holmes had never been afraid of Watson, and trusted him fully. But the feeling of even the gentlest hands on his neck sent a rush of terror through him, and he tensed with a shuddering gasp.
“Holmes, Holmes, it’s only me.” At once, Watson lifted his fingers from Holmes’ throat. He caught Holmes’ shaking hand and held it within both of his own, the grip warm and steady. “Sherlock. It’s me. It’s only me.”
Still shivering, Holmes managed a quick nod and a flash of a smile. Ordinarily, he was not overly fond of prolonged physical contact. At the moment, though, he wished only to cling to Watson with considerable desperation.
Watson seemed to have no objection. He sat beside the settee, holding Holmes’ hand, and murmured soft reassurances to him until the trembling calmed. Then he gave a warm, gentle smile. “There, that’s more like it. Now, all I can do with these injuries is monitor your condition. There shouldn’t be anything life threatening, but I must keep an eye out in case your swelling worsens. Would you like some brandy?”
Holmes nodded again. Something to revive the spirits sounded quite ideal.
Primarily, though, the brandy relaxed him. He dozed fitfully, wandering in and out of an exhausted sleep. His throat still hurt terribly, and that alone kept him from solid sleep.
It was not merely the pain that disrupted his sleep, however. It was the nightmares.
They struck with some little regularity, persistent bursts of horror. Of the murderer lunging at him out of the hallway, the two of them falling together to the dusty floor. Hands wrapping around his throat, cutting off his air. Desperate attempts to breathe, to free himself.
But the man was too strong, had too much of an advantage. There was no air, everything was going black, there was no air, no air, he was going to die—
A hand on Holmes’ shoulder, and he jolted awake with a weak cry that quickly turned into a helpless cough. For a moment, he thought of running, but how could he possibly get enough air?
“Easy, Holmes. It’s just me, shh. It’s all right, it’s all right. You’re with Watson.” A familiar face hovered over him, blurred in the lamplight. “It’s just Watson.”
“John,” Holmes mumbled, the name coming out hoarse and pained.
“That’s right. I’m here, old man.” Expression worried, Watson stroked hair off his brow, smoothing it back. “I’m right here. Just try to calm yourself.”
Holmes wished to snap back that it was difficult to calm oneself after being very nearly murdered, but he could not get the air. Instead, exhausted, he simply focused on Watson’s presence. If Watson was here, then no one would hurt him. He was perfectly safe.
That was some reassurance, and Holmes managed to fall asleep again. Each time he awakened, Watson was right beside him. The good doctor murmured reassurances, helped him sip brandy or tea, patted his shoulder and encouraged him to rest.
It was morning when Holmes awoke properly, still with a horrible sore throat. He groaned and touched a hand to it, sucking in a sharp breath. The entire area was remarkably sore, but did not, at least, feel particularly swollen.
“Holmes.” Rubbing his eyes, Watson sat up straighter and gave him a tired smile. “How do you feel, old man?”
Holmes took a slow breath, then tried to speak. “Horrible.”
The word came out as little more than a croak, and Watson winced. “Shh, all right. All right, old man. Don’t try to talk.”
Not trying to talk would be horrible too. Granted, there were times when Holmes lapsed into silence for a considerable period of time. But at the moment, he was not deep in thought or deep in melancholy. He was simply injured.
“I’m aware that it will be boring,” Watson said fondly, no doubt responding to the look on his face. “But it’s necessary to give yourself a chance to heal. If it would help, I could give you my notebook and pen.”
Irritably, Holmes flicked his hand in agreement. He would prefer to talk to Watson normally, but writing would do for now.
Once Watson handed over the items, Holmes scribbled, Thank you. You saved my life, Watson.
He flipped the notebook around, raising an eyebrow. Watson read the note and smiled. “I suppose I did. It was a great honor to do so, Holmes.”
Holmes hesitated a brief moment. He did not like to admit vulnerability, either vocally or on paper. But as the memory of it was still troubling him, he wrote, I thought I was going to die.
This time, pain dimmed Watson’s expression as he read. Then, very gently, he took Holmes’ hand, bent, and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. “I will never let that happen.”
The words were murmured into the kiss, with all the weight of a vow. Holmes smiled, touched. The encounter could easily have turned fatal despite all of Watson’s protectiveness. But it had not, and they were both alive.
When Watson drew back, Holmes tugged his hand free and wrote again. How long to recover? What now?
“Well, it’s hard to be certain how long recovery will take, but a great deal of rest will be required. As for now, I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up some tea with honey,” Watson said, and chuckled as Holmes immediately started writing again. “I think I’ll ask her to fetch some more paper as well. My notebook won’t last long.”
Holmes flicked another smile at him, and continued writing out all of his protests about how dull resting would be. No matter how much paper he had, it would certainly be boring to be unable to pursue his cases or interests. But with Watson tending to him, at least his recovery was assured, and he would be perfectly safe from all threats.