A Tapestry of Life

[wirralbagpuss]

Title:  A Tapestry of Life
Authors:  Wirral Bagpuss and Med Cat
Word Count : 1, 983
Rating:  K+

Summary: Holmes is injured on a case and Watson is there to watch over him, but in doing so he finds out some unspoken fears Holmes has hidden for so long. Watson deals with the effects with much angst and woe !

Author's Note: Well this is a first collaboration beteween myself and med_cat ! We had alot of fun putting this story together and we hope you will have fun reading it !!  Cross posted to Watson's Woes

 

 

 

A Tapestry of Life

 

A Collab of Two Cats!!

 

Prologue

Where was Holmes?  Now I was growing increasingly frantic as I limped on, calling his name and getting no response. Finally, in the darkest corner of the alley, I saw something or someone on the ground (it was too dark to see who or what) and heard a feeble groan.  Warily, I came closer, calling softly,

 “Holmes?”

I heard back a faintly whispered “Watson”…the relief and trust in his voice made my breath catch…I dropped to my knees next to him, gently turning him onto his side and brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Holmes? Can you hear me?” My fingers were on his carotid artery even as I spoke.

His pulse was thready…blood loss then…and incipient shock, most likely, from pain as well as blood loss. No time to lose.

“Watson,” he whispered back. “Thank God you’re here.” He clutched at my arm with all the desperation of a drowning man.

“It’s all right, Holmes,” I murmured, striving to keep my voice level and my hands from shaking. “I’ll get you to Charing Cross.”

His grip on my arm became even stronger.

“No, no hospitals,” he rasped. “I implore you, Watson.”

“Very well,” I acquiesced, seeing he was growing increasingly agitated. “Baker Street it is.”

“Thank you, my dear Watson,” he whispered and lost consciousness a few seconds later, as I struggled to lift him into my arms without jostling him.

 

Chapter One

I was anxiously watching my friend as he dozed fitfully, tossing and turning in some fever dream, calling out for help, not realizing that I was there right next to him… Oh how I wished I could bring his mind out of wherever it was wandering; wherever it was could not be pleasant, judging from his pained expression and the plaintive tone of his voice as he begged for help…but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. My own eyes were burning from exhaustion but I dared not sleep.  I was so weary myself from sleepless nights and constant worry that my mind was wandering…as a child, I loved to read Greek myths…Bullfinch’s Mythology was one of my favourite books.  I suppose the stories appealed to me, somehow.  One had particularly stuck in my mind.  The ancient Greeks had a belief that the three Moirae (Fates), the three sisters, control human life. Clotho spins the thread of life, Lachesis twists it, and Atropos cuts it.  Clotho thus symbolizes the beginning of life, Lachesis the quality, and Atropos, the end. The threads are woven into a tapestry…I found myself thinking of that story and wishing with all my heart that Atropos wouldn’t cut my friend’s thread of life just yet…

Watson’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a heart-wrenching cry. He looked up and saw Holmes sitting up in bed, eyes staring into nothingness, as he cried out feverishly,

“Please, do not hurt him, Moriarty, I beg you. I forfeited my life for his; I cannot be without my Watson…Watson noooooooo…” screamed Holmes again, as unimaginable terror was written across his face.

Watson struggled to regain his own composure, and, with tears streaming down his face, he gently pushed Holmes back down in bed, restraining him and softly speaking to him, brushing back his hair, which was damp with sweat.

“It’s all right, Holmes, I’m here, rest, my friend, all is well. Please rest, my friend.” Watson’s voice nearly broke and he turned away, too ashamed of his tears.

He concentrated on dampening a cloth and placing it gently on Holmes’s forehead, pressing his hand on it as his other hand gripped Holmes’s in an attempt to reassure his sick friend.  Holmes stirred a little on hearing Watson’s voice, and Watson squeezed Holmes’s hand, acting as an anchor, letting him know that he was there with him as he battled the fever.  Watson checked the shoulder wound again. It was a badly lacerated wound caused by a jagged knife that had gone deep into the soft tissue. The blood loss had been considerable and Watson had needed all his skills as a surgeon to repair the damage. But the knife had been filthy, and now Holmes was battling the fever that accompanied infection.

Watson sat back wearily in his chair, observing that Holmes was now sleeping. He sighed, wondering what it was that made Holmes so fearful of hospitals. He was humbled by Holmes’s complete trust in him, but this was something they both needed to discuss. If he pulls through…when he pulls through, Watson corrected himself. He would see to it that Holmes would. There was a soft knock on the door of Holmes’s bedroom; the door slowly opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson with a tray containing a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and a plate of biscuits. She placed the tray on the table near Watson.

“Here you are, Doctor, I thought you might like some tea, you have hardly eaten or drunk anything these last few days. And I want you to be well. It is bad enough having Mr. Holmes being sick without you being ill as well. How is Mr. Holmes, Doctor?” asked Mrs. Hudson worriedly.

Watson was about to protest, but then saw the look of concern and lines etched across her face. Watson realised that her tenants had become almost like family to Mrs. Hudson over the years.  He smiled gently and replied softly,

“He is still very ill, Mrs. Hudson, but I shall not leave him until he recovers, I can promise you that, “said Watson with a ring of authority he truly did not feel at the moment.

Mrs Hudson patted Watson’s shoulder and left the room. Pulling her shawl around her, she looked back at the closed door of Holmes’s bedroom and sat down by the glowing embers of the coal fire, thinking that her two lodgers were more like brothers than merely friends and colleagues. She shuddered to think what would happen when one of them would no longer be in the world to support the other. Mrs Hudson looked up at the print of the Falls and held back her tears. Watson thought Holmes dead for three long years. He would not be able to deal with losing him so soon after he had come back. Slowly Mrs. Hudson rose from her chair, went downstairs to her room, closed the door behind her, and climbed into bed.  The well of tears could be contained no more and Mrs. Hudson sobbed until she fell asleep exhausted.

Watson poured himself out a cup of tea and then another. He had seen the biscuits but he did not feel hungry.  As the night wore on, Watson struggled to stay awake. His exhaustion was overwhelming him. Watson buried his face in his hands as the sound of Holmes’s laboured breathing became too much for him. He drew his chair closer to Holmes and held Holmes’s hand in his own. A thread in the tapestry of life and death. Don’t you dare give up on me Holmes, you have much to do yet, and I will not let you go.  Watson finally succumbed to his exhaustion and knew no more.

The fingers of early morning light slowly made their way across the room. Holmes stirred and then slowly opened his eyes; at first, the light hurt his eyes, but he tried again and this time was able to keep his eyes open. He felt a weight on his bed and, looking to his left, saw Watson lying there, his head resting on the bed and his arm stretched out across it. Holmes smiled weakly and then realised his hand was enclosed in Watson’s. He had felt and heard Watson in his nightmares, and judging from the stubble on Watson’s face, at least several days must have elapsed since Holmes’s injury. And then a realisation came to him that Watson had been crying; the tear stains were still evident on his face. Oh my poor Watson, what have I done to you?

Holmes lifted his free hand, placed it on Watson’s arm, and gently croaked to his Boswell.

“Watson…”

Watson stirred and looked into worried grey eyes. It was the most welcome sight he had seen for days; Watson’s lines of exhaustion gave way to a smile and he embraced Holmes in sheer relief and joy.

 

Chapter Two

“How are you feeling, Holmes?”

“I’ve been better...but at least I am alive.  How long has it been?”

“Since you were injured?”

“Yes.”

“Five days.” The slight tremor in Watson’s voice was unmistakable, at least to someone who knew him as well as Holmes did.

“My dear fellow, what is the matter?”

“Nothing; I was not injured—why do you ask?”

“Watson, as I believe I’ve mentioned in the past, prevarication does not become you nor are you skilled at it. I can see that you are not injured, but it is equally clear to me something is troubling you besides the obvious fatigue and worry resulting from your vigil over me.”

“It is of no importance.”

“Yes, it is to me.  Now come, out with it.”

“Well, it is of no consequence, really...”

“Watson, vacillation does not suit you, either.  Now please, out with it—I haven’t the strength for a long argument.”

Watson bowed his head in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Holmes, it’s just...this was a serious injury.  And the ensuing infection made it even worse.  I would have taken you to the hospital had you not all but forbidden me to...Holmes, if you had died while under my care...” Watson’s voice broke.

Holmes placed his hand on Watson’s arm. “Oh my dear Watson, I never meant for you to blame and doubt yourself in that manner; pray forgive me.  No doubt you’re wondering why I was so adamant about not going to the hospital?”

“Well, yes, the thought did cross my mind...but I had to respect your wishes.”

“For which you have my sincere gratitude and appreciation.  It’s a long story, Watson, but briefly, the facts are these.  When I was just starting out as an independent consulting detective, shortly before we met...” Holmes paused to draw a breath.

“Holmes,” Watson hurried to say, “you can tell me the rest later, when you are recovered.”

“No, pray let me finish.  As I said, one of my very first cases concerned a hospital physician suspected of embezzling funds.  I had gone to work at the facility disguised as an orderly.  Good heavens, Watson, the things I saw there...Patients died sometimes because of nothing more but lack of care...and died alone...” Holmes broke off but not before Watson noticed a slight but perceptible tremor in his voice.

“You do know not all hospitals are like that, don’t you, Holmes? And I would watch over you even in the hospital...It’s just that if you are ever injured beyond my skill to treat...”

“In that case, my dear fellow, of course you have my permission.”

“Thank you, Holmes,” said Watson. “You really should rest now; you are still far from recovered.”

“I believe I shall; I confess I am rather tired.” And with that, Holmes’s eyes drifted closed and his breathing immediately evened out.  Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

Watson got up, turned down the oil lamp, and softly closed the bedroom door behind him. He decided to stay downstairs for the night to be near to Holmes in case he was needed. Watson stoked the coal fire and sank back down onto the couch, watching the flames flicker. Watson thought of what Holmes had said and smiled softly. He would always be there for Holmes to catch him when he fell. Watson closed his eyes and slipped into the arms of Morpheus. With Watson and Holmes side by side, their life threads would interweave in the tapestry of life until the end of time.