The Watches of the Night

by Darcy Lindbergh

  'No,' I admitted, swallowing heavily. His touch had already begun to calm me. 'But still – perhaps we should avoid Bishopsgate.'

  'Watson.'

  I grunted. My leg hurt. My hands hurt too, actually – too cold, with a harsh sting along the knuckles. The voice came again, and this time I recognised it, and that hurt as well.

  'Watson. Open your eyes.'

  I did, lifting my chin from my chest with as good a glare as I could manage, which, in fairness, wasn't very good. The skin around my eye was hot and swollen. 'Holmes.'

  'I see you've been down to the gambling clubs again,' Holmes huffed, reaching in to prod at a sore spot on my cheek. Bruise, probably. I hoped it would be brilliant. 'One of my street rats recognised you. You're lucky he came for me instead of the police. Can you walk? Where is your cane?'

  'He broke it. With the back of his head,' I said, though I could not remember who exactly I meant.

  'And how much did this gentleman take you for?' Holmes asked, entirely too perceptive.

  I looked away. 'Everything I had on me,' I admitted quietly. 'And some I didn't.'

  He sighed, lifting me to my feet and slinging an arm over his shoulder to carry me. 'Back to Baker Street then, I think. You can hardly go home like this.'

  'Yes,' I agreed, stumbling along, sore and embarrassed. 'That may be for the best.'

  It was raining again. The muted greys and violets of midnight washed over Sherlock's face, and I wondered if I'd ever see this peace in him in the light of day.

  I stroked a finger over his cheek, hoping to rouse him just enough to say my goodnight. 'Sherlock,' I whispered. He shifted in the bed, mumbling something unintelligible; I leaned in to nudge my nose against his cheek. 'I have to go.'

  Now his eyes slid open, confusion settling in their exhausted haze. 'Go?'

  His gaze was so innocent in that moment, soft and mussed. It hurt me more deeply than I could say to realise that his sleep-worn mind had not considered that I might leave him. To know that he had forgotten our circumstances, and in dreaming had found some world where everything was different and we could share a bed all through the night.

  'I can't fall asleep here,' I said gently. 'I have to go home.'

  His brow furrowed again, then I saw understanding dawn sluggishly behind his eyes. 'Oh,' he said, blinking, 'of course.'

  But he did not respond to my last kiss, and when I reached the door and looked back, he was curled under the blankets, holding a pillow to his chest as if to mimic the warmth and closeness of my body.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The case was an interesting one, and Holmes towered over it, a veritable tempest of whip-smart deductions and physical energy. He would have been intimidating on that score alone, but he also seemed to be agitated, tense and cold in his impatience; I tried not to let the sting of it distract me from the case.

  As we left Scotland Yard, emerging into a wet, chilly night, I was already thinking of Baker Street and how we might find our common footing again, but I was surprised when Holmes stuck out his hand to shake mine. 'Goodnight,' he said, strangely formal.

  I stared. 'Goodnight?'

  He nodded. 'Yes, goodnight.'

  'Holmes,' I said, with a nervous laugh. 'Let us get out of this rain and go back to Baker Street together.'

  'There's no need,' he said, still with that polite tone. 'I understand you have obligations at home.'

  Suddenly I understood – our delicate balance had been upset, and now he was attempting to put distance between us again. To remind himself of his place in my life as secondary, as a secret, as some private shame. 'Holmes,' I breathed, reaching out to stop him from this line of thought, but he had already stopped a cab for himself, and I could only stand there, struck dumb, watching as he left me behind.

  I waited a week to go to him. The door to Baker Street barely opened before Holmes was crashing into me, fumbling the door's lock while he pressed eagerly against me. 'I'm sorry,' he said, crushing his mouth to mine, 'It was foolish to think – I don't know what – '

  He was already down to his waistcoat, hair disheveled and feet bare; his kiss tasted like tea and alcohol, as if he had felt every sour, regretful feeling I had had over the last week and was pouring them back into me. I had come to try to be reasonable, to convince him in any way I could that I loved him, to do whatever I needed to in order to prove my contrition, but it seemed my argument had already been made for me, and accepted, and now forgiveness was the only thing left that I could give.

  I could not deny him. I took his kisses and returned them twofold. 'I was the fool,' I managed before his hands flew to my trousers. He was going to have me against the door, and I was going to let him; I was helpless to do anything else under the gale force of his desperation. I arched into him, kissing my apology into his jaw, fingers flying to undo his buttons.

  The fever took me quite by surprise; I was fine one night as I went to bed, and found the next morning that I could not summon the strength to get out of it again. On the third day of my illness, I surfaced long enough to ask that a message be sent to Holmes, informing him of my circumstance, but it must not have been sent straight away because it was already gone half-nine in the evening by the time I heard his voice carrying up the stairs, insisting upon seeing me.

  Mary's voice cut in over his, not unkindly but very firm. 'He's in no fit state, Mr Holmes,' she said. I imagined them, stubbornness matched for stubbornness, and had to smile, though as I drifted I thought I had not heard such strength in her voice for some time.

  I came to later when a warm compress was placed on my brow. Mary smiled down at me as she sat on the edge of the bed. 'Was Holmes here?' I asked.

  'He was,' she confirmed. 'I told him he would have to come back tomorrow, if he wanted to see you. It was odd, you know – he can seem so aloof, but when I told him he couldn't see you, I thought he was going to beg.'

  'Tell me something that no one else knows,' he said, slowing his movements, sucking at the hinge of my jaw as his hips rocked his cock gently inside me.

  'Is now really the time?' I laughed, and he rewarded my cheek with a single deep thrust, driving the breath out of my lungs. I laughed again. 'I'm sure you know more about me than I know myself.'

  Sherlock hummed against my neck; I could feel the vibration of it through my throat and into my chest. 'There are hundreds of things I don't know about you, John. Thousands.'

  Suddenly, he no longer felt like he was with me – above me, yes, and inside me, but not present. As though between one thrust and the next, he had gone away, lost inside himself, and the rock of his hips and the drag of his cock had become automatic, painfully secondary to whatever thought he was having.

  I clutched at him, digging my fingers hard into his neck. 'There's only one thing you need to know right now,' I said fiercely, startling him, watching as his eyes cleared again, 'and that's how it feels to have me on your cock, Sherlock Holmes. Now fuck me, and when we are finished I'll tell you absolutely anything in order to satisfy your great, bothersome brain.'

  That brain was mercurial. With the arrival of never-ending rain the following weeks, Holmes took to his bed for days.

  It wasn't physical illness, as far as I could tell. Just listlessness, a disinterested melancholy that he couldn't seem to shake off, not with articles from the papers – scientific or sensationalist – nor even with a puzzle or two from the odd client. Holmes had turned everyone away, barely even bothering to speak his dismissals aloud. Only I stayed. I would not go.

  'I'm worried about you,' I whispered in the deepest moments of the night, having crept through the flat to lie beside him in the dark.

  He looked at me across the pillows, bleary and overly warm from having been laid up in bed. He'd begun to smell a bit sour, as unwashed, unmoving bodies do when they've been lying in stuffy rooms for too long. He licked his lips, trying to smile. 'You must enjoy having your own use of the rooms.'

  'You know
I don't,' I chastised, finding Sherlock's hand in the sheets and holding it close. 'Come back to me soon, please.'

  'I'm trying,' he answered, squeezing my hand. But then his eyes closed, and he was gone again, and I couldn't follow. I could only lie next to him, and wait for him to come back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Baker Street was deserted at this hour of the night, and I was glad of it as I stumbled along the pavement. Any passersby would surely have thought me intoxicated or insane. I wished I was the former; I was not yet sure about the latter.

  Holmes had dismissed me.

  No, it was more than that, worse than that – he had cast me aside, thrown me over. He had risen from his chair, pale features set like unfeeling marble, and stated his decision to end our association without once looking at me, without explaining his reasoning. 'The reasons are immaterial,' he had said. 'The result is the same: we cannot continue. I would ask you to leave here, Watson. I would ask you not to return.'

  I slumped against a wall and covered my face with my hands, thinking of the arguments I could've made, knowing that none of them would have made a difference. Holmes had refused to look at me. He had refused to hear that I loved him.

  He had refused to say whether he had ever loved me.

  'It is over,' he had said instead, turning away. 'It is done.'

  I had never imagined I would hear him say such words. Now I thought I could feel them etch themselves, destructive and everlasting, into my very bones.

  After that, the days ran together.

  Mary must have known that something was deeply amiss. I told her it was only a bit of hay fever; a poor excuse, but at least it provided some explanation for my red-rimmed eyes and constant sniffling.

  'Perhaps you should go and see Mr Holmes,' she suggested one evening, as she sat with her needlework and I stared into nothingness. 'Surely whatever falling out you had, it can be mended.'

  She was always more perceptive than I gave her credit for. I laughed creakily, caught out in my lies as I was, and was grateful yet again for her unending kindness. I should have known better than to be untruthful to her. 'He asked me to never return,' I finally confessed. There didn't seem to be a reason not to be honest anymore. 'Our friendship, our partnership – it is done.'

  Mary put aside her needlework and came to me; her hand in mine was so small, so soft. So unlike his. I clutched at her, pressed my lips to her skin.

  'Let's go to the seaside,' she suggested gently, when I had gathered myself again. 'Or to the Continent. Somewhere out of London. It would do us some good, I think, to go somewhere you were not reminded of Mr Holmes, or of his business.'

  I found the mention several lines deep in a newspaper article about a recent spate of killings out of Brixton. Strangler Apprehended! the headline blared. I had avoided all of the papers after we returned from the seaside, but before I could even reconsider it I was ducking into an alley to read one by weak lamplight, rewarded by the first mention of Holmes I had had in weeks.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes, an amateur detective, the article read, was of great assistance to Scotland Yard in their discovery of the Brixton Strangler.

  I read on, eager for more information, but that was the sum extent of Holmes' mention. The rest of the article detailed the Brixton Strangler's crimes and Detective Lestrade's ingenuity in investigation; I laughed to myself as I read, seeing Holmes' hand in every twist and turn the case had taken. He must have been brilliant, I thought. Just absolutely brilliant.

  I stepped back out to the street, eager to head toward Baker Street, thinking of the congratulations I might offer him – but then I remembered suddenly I was not welcome there. I dropped the paper, startled at my own forgetfulness; I stared as the pages began to soak up the mud, and then took a deep breath and set off again toward home, trying to regain my bearings.

  I looked up from my book, brow furrowed; across the sitting room, Mary coughed into a handkerchief.

  'That's a nasty cough,' I commented. It sounded wet, as if it were deep in her lungs already. She'd had a cold the previous week, with cough and sore throat, but if the cough had lingered overlong, I hadn't noticed it until now. 'How long have you had it?'

  She waved away my concerns. 'Only since last week, Doctor,' she said. 'I'm sure it'll be fine. You know London air sits a little heavily.'

  Something in her manner seemed unusually flippant, though. I looked closer; she was too pale, I noticed, and probably too thin. 'You should tell me if you've been feeling poorly,' I said, putting my book aside and going over to feel her forehead. She wasn't unduly warm, but her skin was clammy; I wished I had my stethoscope handy to listen to her lungs and heartbeat.

  'I didn't want to worry you,' she said. 'I know you've had quite a lot on your mind lately.'

  'Even so,' I said. 'You must let me take care of you, Mary. I'll get a poultice for your chest tomorrow, and something to soothe your throat for now.'

  She smiled wanly up at me. 'Something warm,' she agreed, 'and I think a little bland.'

  It was past two in the morning when the knock came to our bedroom door, waking Mary and I with a start, and I knew immediately there was only one reason our housekeeper would have disturbed us. I put on my dressing gown and my hardest expression, and headed down into the parlour.

  There he was: Sherlock Holmes.

  He was beautiful.

  'Watson,' he breathed, his eyes wide and surprised at the sight of me. 'I did not know if you would see me.'

  I refused to grant him the same vulnerability. 'Holmes,' I said shortly. 'I have no idea what you could possibly want of me, but I assume it's important.'

  Instantly, as though scalded by boiling water, he drew back. 'I apologise sincerely,' he said. 'It is a matter of urgency. I – there was no one else I could turn to.'

  His manner was unusual, unnatural to him. I looked more closely; he was too thin, too haggard. 'It's a case?'

  'Yes,' he said. 'I need your help, Watson. I cannot do this alone.'

  As much as I wanted to turn him away, I couldn't deny him the opportunity to be heard. I gestured for him to take a seat, promising myself that I would keep my distance, steadfastly ignoring the way the very sight of him warmed my blood.

  Though Holmes and I had spent several days in close quarters, on the run from Professor Moriarty's machinations, the tension and awkwardness did not seem any nearer to abatement. We barely knew how to talk to each other anymore.

  'I should not have involved you,' Holmes said one night when we were in Brussels, delving his fingers into his hair in his frustration. 'You were well shot of me, and now I've dragged you in. It was an exceedingly poor decision on my part. I am sorry for it, old boy.'

  My back stiffened at the endearment. I had not heard it in months, and though it was itself perfectly innocent, it still reminded me of warm nights in Baker Street, of seeking hands and seeking mouths, of secrets shared in moonlight. 'Perhaps you should stop making decisions on my behalf,' I said bitterly, remembering his decision to turn me from Baker Street.

  Holmes looked up, his expression softening as he understood. 'That decision wasn't for you,' he admitted. 'It was the only decision I could make.'

  'You sent me away,' I whispered. 'I thought maybe you had tired of me.'

  'You were already gone,' he said, but slowly, as though he didn't know he were doing it, he reached out his hand.

  I reached back. I would always reach back.

  'It could be like this.'

  Sherlock's head tilted back, his pale skin shining and damp with the efforts of our coming together, his dark hair stuck to his brow. He was ethereal and golden, pink with heat and warm with lassitude, and I pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 'What could be like this?'

  'We could,' he whispered. His voice was soft and dreamy; I thought he must be half-asleep already. 'The two of us. Traveling the world, staying one step ahead of our enemies. Conquering our own Napoleon, as it were. What
do you think?'

  I laughed. 'I think you get particularly fanciful after a good hard rogering.'

  He turned onto his side, nudging his nose at mine. 'It'd be possible, you know,' he returned quietly. 'If you wanted.'

  I blinked, suddenly concerned that he was taking the idea seriously, that he might actually be proposing that we make a run for it. 'You know we can't,' I said gently. 'Not really. There's Mary to consider, and your family – and never to return home? It would be no way to live, Sherlock.'

  His eyes fluttered closed, hiding his thoughts. 'Of course,' he excused, 'just an idle daydream,' but his touch fell away, and his smile from across the pillows had gone small, and fragile, and brittle.

  I waited for hours.

  The roar of the falls dulled my ears; I could barely hear my own thoughts underneath the barrage of water, underneath the hiss of the spray and the chaos of my realisations.

  The broken ferns and branches along the path told the story as well as if I had been here to see it myself: the confrontation, the struggle. Muddy footprints danced in the soil, glistening here and there as the drifting spray caught in the hollows. I touched my fingertips to them now and again, as if I could still feel Holmes' warmth in them. As if they could tell me whether he had thought of me, there at the end.

  It could be like this, he had said. The two of us. If you wanted.

  I had denied him and so he had sent me away, penned his goodbye as steadily as if he'd been at home at his desk, and followed Moriarty down into the cream and crack of the Reichenbach cauldron, clasped in the arms of his enemy.

  I waited, calling out for him, praying that I might hear his voice call back to me, but the falls stole away the sound of my cries, and I was left with nothing but the half-human echo of the water breaking upon the rocks below.