While bridges still burn: VIII

Watson was limping more so than when the walk began, even with the added help of Holmes. He winched each time he placed his foot to the ground and his grip tightened on the detective's shoulder. It was just as they reached the outskirts of the gardens that Holmes decided to carefully hoist the man into his arms.

“Holmes! Put me down!” Watson yelped, holding on firmly to Holmes' shoulders, “Holmes!”

“Hush now Watson, you'll wake the homeless.”

The doctor continued his protests, no matter how fruitless the outcome were to be. Holmes marched on wards to 221B Baker Street , ignoring the objections for his companion , and resisted breaking breath to him until they reached the door way.

He carried him over the threshold and straight to the living area.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs Hudson placed a hand to her mouth, “What in God's name happened?”

“It's nothing, Mrs Hudson.” Watson answered as he sat upon the couch.

“Indeed. Please just bring the doctor some tea.”

Reluctantly, she left. Holmes retrieved a roll of bandages, some damp cloths and mild disinfectant solution from Watson's rooms. He gently began to rub at the doctors scuffed cheeks.

“Holmes,I am quite capable of doing this myself.”

“No you are not, you can barely stand.”

“You lifted me with out asking.”

“You were limping. Hold still.”

“I always limp. Give me that cloth!”

Watson snatched it from Holmes' hands and gently pressed it to his left eye.

“I can take care of this. Go to your bed.”

“I can not let you do this yourself. I inflicted this -”

“And you will allow me to fix it.” Watson barked.

Holmes lowered his head and moved to the furthest end of the couch. He watched as the doctor hissed and swore when the disinfectant touched his skin. The scratches and bruising left behind after the blood was washed away made Holmes sick to his stomach.

The fact that the detective looked in better shape than the doctor roused suspicion in the landlady and Holmes could clearly see her suspicions.

“Who did this to you, doctor?” Holmes heard her whisper, her eyes constantly on him.

“A back ally drunk, my dear. Not a worry.”

Holmes began to ask why on earth Watson had not told her the truth when the doctor gave him a stern look.

“I think you should go to bed, Holmes. Try to sleep. We have a case in the morning.”

Hesitantly, the detective nodded. He lifted his hat from the floor, bid the doctor good night and strode to his rooms. There he sat on the edge of the bed. He could feel the guilt clogging his arteries, the weight on his chest having gained at least six ounces. He kept hearing Watson's cries as he hit him over and over. He could feel the sticky texture of the blood on his knuckles and the crack of his bones beneath his fist. It was the fact that he saw himself in Watson,that made him stop. He had become a wild beast wallowing in its own self pity.

He bit back a whine and thrust his fingers through his hair. It was times like these Holmes needed the drugs. The cravings shook his entire body from head to toe and his hands scratched violently at the skin on his arms. The detective was desperate for any emotion other than guilt.

**

From the moment Holmes was given the case he took to his room. He could be heard pacing at all hours of the night, muttering incoherently to himself. The week continued as normal for Watson whom ate breakfast in the morning, attended work and came home to his nightly routine. However, not once did he set eyes on Holmes. They had barely spoken at all since that evening in the park; in fact, not a breath was uttered about it.

It wasn't until the second week into the case that Watson dared to set foot into the detective's parlour. He was sat in front of the fire, pages surrounding him, gun at his belt and the remainder of the room in chaos.

“Holmes.” Watson whispered.

The man jumped and turned to face his intruder. The skin beneath his eyes was an unhealthy mixture of black and yellow and the sclera were bloodshot. He looked worn, strung out on lack of sleep and nutrition. Watson bit back a sigh.

“Ah, my dear Watson. Your face is looking better. Now, this case -”

“Holmes, when did you last eat?”

“Just this morning.”

“No you didn't.”

“No. You are correct of course. Weeks ago is my answer.”

Holmes turned back to his work and began, once again, ruffling through the pages. Watson sat upon his seat by the fire. Still, the detective muttered and sorted and combed his fingers through his tussled hair, all as if the doctor was not watching.

“You smell.”Watson commented.

“Thank you.”

Watson pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“You need to bathe. And eat.”

“Not until I have cracked it. Then I shall do both. And sleep.”

“You have not slept?”

“Of course not. Sleep wastes my precious time. Horrible hours of hallucination and fantasy. I do not need them messing with my system.”

“Right.” Watson sighed.

He continued to watch as Holmes fussed over the case before him. The man's movements had quickened ten fold from his depressive state just weeks ago. His hands sorted, combed through his hair, tapped at his mouth, scratched at his skin; it's as if they couldn't stop.

“It's been two weeks -”

“Oh my gracious, has it?!” Holmes gazed up at him with wide eyes, “This is indeed more challenging than I expected.”

Watson had not words. This behaviour was manic and beyond anything he had ever expected from the detective. It was not long ago that Holmes would have had the case closed within three days of receiving it. It was both strange and terrifying to see him take so long. And yet, it seemed, that Holmes was moving as fast as he could.

“Ah ha!” He cried, jumping to his feet and doing a sort of horrid jig, “I have got it, dear Watson. I have cracked it.” He threw off his dressing gown and replaced it with his jacket, “Come now, we must go straight to Scotland yard. We haven't much time.”

“Holmes that jacket is much to big. You should --”

“We haven't got all day,” Holmes was now fixing a scarf around his neck, “There is to be a murder!”

“When?”

“Tonight!”