'Mrs Hudson will have gone to bed already.'
'I'm sure I can manage,' he insisted, indignant at the implication that he could not, and went to prove himself.
He did, in fact, come back some time later – and if it was much later than it would have taken Mrs Hudson, I chose not to mention it. He set a cup on the bedside table and pressed a cool cloth to my forehead. 'Thank you,' I said.
'You're quite welcome,' Holmes said softly. 'I hope that by tomorrow you are feeling better.'
My tomorrow was not, in fact, any better.
'Oh, for God's sake – ' I slammed my book shut in disgust as I looked up at the clock again. It was half past eleven in the evening: only three minutes later than it had been since the last time I had checked.
There was still no sign of Holmes.
He'd set off hours ago, disguised as a dock worker and intending to situate himself in a few disreputable pubs to listen to the gossip, hoping for some word of the whereabouts of some notoriously dangerous criminal. Although by now quite familiar with his work, tonight I worried: he would be in danger if he were caught, and there was no one to aid him. Once again, I cursed my health – would that I could've been a trustworthy fellow to have at his back.
Finally I heard the turn of the latch-key in the door, and was on my feet in an instant.
'Watson,' Holmes exclaimed when he saw me, clapping his hands together. 'Good, you're awake. I must tell you everything.'
He was fine, of course. 'I'm ready to hear it,' I managed, trying to hide my relief from Holmes' attention. I could not tamp it down entirely, though – for the first time all night, I felt as though I could breathe.
Chapter Three
In those first months at Baker Street I healed, though not entirely. The fevers became less frequent; the ache of my shoulder and thigh less troublesome. Holmes began bullying me out of the flat on occasion, slowing his long gait so I could walk beside him through Regent's Park, deducing passersby, or else taking me to dinner in the Domino Room or down Fleet Street whenever the irregularity of my appetite was brought to his attention. In return, I began bullying him about his use of narcotics, fussing about the negative effects on his mind and his person whenever I had the chance.
We were neither of us terribly at ease with society at large – Holmes being somewhat of a Bohemian in character, and myself being somewhat averse to strangers or crowds – but as 1881 passed inevitably into 1882, and then 1882 to 1883, so too did we pass inevitably from simply sharing rooms into an easy friendship.
'Did you know,' he said some January night, blowing blue smoke into the room, 'We've been sharing rooms two years now, Watson.'
'Have we? It hardly seems so long.'
'And yet it seems as if we've always done, doesn't it?'
There was a smile curving around his pipe. 'It does,' I agreed, surprising myself. 'How easily time does seem to pass us by.'
'Strange,' I said to Holmes, as we waited together in the dark for Helen Stoner's signal, 'Until now I don't believe I've been out of London since I came back from India.'
'Stoke Moran is hardly a resort town. Perhaps next time we shall take a case by the sea, Watson. What do you say?'
'I say wherever it is you have a case, I am your man.'
His eyes glinted in the dark; his voice was thick with satisfaction. 'I didn't realise you had such interest in the detective business.'
'I daresay it breaks up the monotony of life.'
'Do you think we lead a monotonous life?'
'I certainly don't think you do.'
'Is your own life too monotonous?'
'It could do with a little shake-up now and then.'
'Once you told me your nerves could not withstand a row. Can they now withstand the difficulty of a case like this? The tension? The waiting? The dangerous crossing of the land at night?'
'I daresay it would do them some good, in fact, and sometimes we row anyway.'
He laughed brightly, his long fingers pressing lightly upon my wrist. 'Good,' he said firmly. 'Now look – there's our signal. Let's see if we can put an end to Dr. Roylott's terror, and finally solve the mystery of this supposed speckled band.'
Following the Roylott case, Holmes did hold true to his word, and I did find myself now involved in a series of fascinating little problems. Of course most of Holmes' cases he solved from the comfort of our sitting-room, and I either listened in or kept to myself, depending on how interesting they were.
Sometimes, however, a simple case became something much more dire, and led to Holmes banging up the stairs to my room sometime past midnight. 'So sorry to disturb you,' he said breathlessly, slumping into my chair as I hurried from my bed into a dressing gown. 'But there are certain conveniences to having a doctor in the house, and I'm afraid I must call upon them.' And he took his hand from his forehead, revealing a bloody gash.
'Holmes!' I cried, and immediately set to work. The blood had pooled along his hairline, and once the gash was clean, I set two stitches in, cursing at the poor light. 'It will serve you right if it scars,' I told him. 'You must be more careful, Holmes.'
'I promise,' he said soberly, his fingers catching on my wrist. He did not cry out, but I could see the pain in his eyes, and I gentled my touch as well as I could, into barely more than a brush.
As I was creeping up the stairs a week later, I hoped Holmes would have already gone to bed, that I might be able to slink into our rooms with him none the wiser, to lick my wounds in peace.
But Lady Luck had already proved she was not on my side tonight, and Holmes was still sprawled out on the sofa where I had left him earlier. What was worse: he'd been joined by a syringe, which was on the floor beside him.
'You can't say you wish I wouldn't,' he said softly, barely opening his eyes to study me, 'when you yourself have been out engaging in your vices.'
'There's not so much danger at the tables as there is in that bottle,' I said, but I knew he was right. There was nothing wrong with a card game or the occasional bet, but some weakness in me made it difficult to walk away even when my chances of winning were next to none.
I had resisted the tables for years, with my occasional locum work and Holmes' cases to distract me. It seemed the distraction was no longer strong enough.
'You are the pot,' he sighed, his head falling back. 'And I am the kettle. We have both been in the fire, Watson, and we are both black.'
Other nights, we laughed.
'Hush!' Holmes scolded, pulling me up several steps into a doorway halfway down some foul alley. I struggled against the laughter in my chest, but Holmes' plea for silence would have been easier to manage had he himself not been shaking with mirth.
I didn't try very hard; I needed the laughter.
Footsteps echoed throughout the alley behind us. Our pursuer snarled and growled, but the sound was too high and thin to be threatening, and I had to bury my face into my arm so that my giggle would not be heard.
Finally the footsteps retreated, and I could safely look up, but one glance at Holmes' face again and I fell back into laughter. 'I'm sorry,' I said, trying to catch my breath. 'I hardly know what came over me.'
Holmes clapped his hand to my shoulder. 'I'm afraid the problem was,' he said as somberly as possible, 'that the gentleman was ridiculous,' and we burst into laughter again.
Once we collected ourselves, Holmes leapt from our hiding place and turned to offer me his hand, helping me down. His fingers were warm and strong beneath mine; when he let go, I clenched my hand in my coat to ease the feeling of their heat on my skin before the memory could settle into my bones.