A Chilvarous Gesture, Part Four

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Slash Fan Fiction (Sherlock Holmes)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes

Feedback: Any and all welcome!

Summary: In this sequel to A Masterful Performance, Watson and Daniels work together to convince Holmes to follow-up on a case...

Link to Part One

~

Part Four: John Watson

In light of the biting cold, and the fact that we could accomplish nothing further until evening, Daniels and I elected to remain in his rooms for the time being. I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought that Holmes might be standing outside in disguise, shivering as he kept an eye trained for our departure. However, Holmes was no fool. If he was indeed following us, he would find some warm spot.

Daniels and I had already decided on how best to conduct ourselves within the gaming hell. If we were not lucky enough to encounter Burnwell, we would settle down to a game of Faro. We would lose an appropriate amount of coin, thus winning the goodwill of our companions and garnering whatever information they had to offer. It went without saying that I would let Daniels do the talking. I would be of more use when we confronted Burnwell himself.

For now, however, we were settled into a game of chess in front of a blazing fire. Daniels, I'm afraid, was an indifferent player, but he kept me entertained by voicing his opinions on everything from the innocence of Richard III (he was convinced that the last Plantagenet king was the victim of Tudor propaganda) to the likelihood of Irish independence. (He had, in my opinion, a mistakenly romantic view of the Irish cause.)

After I had checkmated him a third time, our conversation turned to our mutual friend. Daniels stood up, fumbled about for his clay pipe, and then bent his head with a look of intense concentration. I smiled at how exactly his posture and expression recalled Holmes, but I wasn't prepared for his voice.

“Observe, friend Watson, the gentleman across the street who is anxiously wringing his hands,” he said, mimicking Holmes so precisely that I nearly bolted from my seat.

“He is lately arrived from Suffolk, I perceive,” Daniels continued, nodding his head toward an imaginary bow window. “And he has come to town alone on some private problem—not even his valet has accompanied him. Note the haphazard knot of his cravat and the mismatched cufflinks.”

I laughed and burst into applause as he finished. “Well done!” I exclaimed.

“Thank you,” he said with a grin and an appropriately deep bow. “I keep hoping that my impression of Holmes will come in handy during one of his cases—but, alas, he has not yet called upon it.”

I nodded sympathetically. I could well imagine that Holmes did not quite appreciate Daniels' impression of him. I fear that Daniels exaggerated the condescending note in our friend's voice...but not by much.

Daniels tossed the pipe aside and settled back into his chair for another game of chess, wherein he continued to plead the justice of the Irish cause. He did not convince me, I fear—but, looking back, I realise that my memories of him on that day are among my favourite. His boyish enthusiasm for his pet causes and utter lack of regard for anything approaching a strategy for chess rendered him all the more charming.

I cannot explain, therefore, why that day should be forever linked in my mind with an event that occurred nearly three years later. And yet, I never think of one without the other. Perhaps it is because I spent the majority of that other day in Daniels' rooms as well...but under such vastly different circumstances.

~

I remember that later day quite clearly: Holmes stood near a wall in Daniels’ rooms, to all appearances staring absently out of the window. But I knew that even in this crisis his long standing habits had not deserted him. He was absorbed by his minute observations of the pedestrians on the street below.

My presence, meanwhile, had not gone undetected. Holmes spoke without bothering to turn toward me. “Will he survive this?”

I stared at him for a moment and then managed a half-hearted smile for this man who was not only my dearest friend, but also my former lover. “He will live,” I said.

“For how long?” Holmes demanded.

I hesitated, wondering how he had guessed. Or had he already known?

He let out an exasperated sigh at my puzzled silence. “Watson, it takes no special genius to guess what drove Daniels—a man who scarcely touches tobacco, let alone laudanum or cocaine—to attempt to end his life with the help of my seven percent solution. He must fear dying by inches. He is far too attached to life to abandon it for any other reason.”

He paused and finally turned to face me. “Is it a cancer? Consumption, perhaps?”

“The latter,” I confessed.

Holmes nodded. “How long does he have?”

“At this point, I can't be certain,” I said gently. “He could linger for years—although I have seldom seen a patient in his condition last more than five. And that, I'm afraid, is rare.”

I paused as I stepped over to my friend in order to lay a hand on his shoulder. “He has been hiding this from us, Holmes. That is why he has been so wary of our company of late.”

Holmes nodded again. His face was oddly blank. “Will he suffer the whole time?”

“Yes,” I owned. “But it won't always be as unbearable as he seems to think. We must convince him that he still has days worth living ahead of him.”

“In a sanitarium?” Holmes demanded. “That is the law now, is it not? We must shut consumptives away?”

I swallowed before answering that. “According to our government, I am supposed to alert the proper authorities when treating a patient with tuberculosis. I will not necessarily do so—but his remaining in London is, I'm afraid, out of the question. You must realize that his condition is contagious. I do not fear it, for I have long been exposed to consumptives, but I cannot promise that you are out of danger. Now, as for the sanitaria, they are not all the scandalous prisons we read of in sensational articles. Some, in fact, offer every luxury—”

“I won't hear of it," Holmes insisted. "I do not fear for myself, Watson. You know the relationship between Daniels and me. I realise now that he has been trying to protect me these past few months. I should have seen through his ruse. But I have been exposed to him regardless; further exposure can scarcely matter. And I would refuse to abandon him in any case.”

I began massaging his shoulder, almost as if we were still lovers. He instinctively allowed me that intimacy.

“If you mean to remain by his side, you will have to leave London,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And I believe I know the very place. Mycroft has invested in property in Kent. It is not precisely close to town, but it is no great distance either. Better still, it is relatively quiet and secluded. If Daniels and I were to remove there, would you agree to join us periodically?”

“Of course,” I said at once. “I intend to remain his physician—although we may want a man closer at hand in a pinch. But you must understand the circumstances, Holmes. On…on difficult days, he will need carefully regulated doses of morphine.”

I paused, wondering how to make my request without giving offense. An argument between us would serve no useful purpose now. “You must have your wits about you at all times,” I said at last.

He managed a sour smile at that. “Do not fear, Watson,” he said. “The fact that Daniels rifled through my drawers and pocketed my cocaine with the sole intent of employing it to end his life has rendered the drug surprisingly unattractive to me.”

I started at that, wondering why Daniels had lifted the cocaine from Holmes, rather than simply purchasing his own. He abhorred Holmes’ habit as much as did I—was his theft of the drug, and the use he intended for it, one last protest on his part? Or had he simply been so distraught that, once the notion of suicide struck him, he helped himself to whatever was nearest at hand?

I don’t suppose it mattered. I could only hope that, in light of this crisis, the vile stuff would remain distasteful to Holmes.

“You should retain your rooms at Baker Street,” I said softly, bringing us back to the matter at hand.

“It scarcely matters, does it? If Daniels agrees to this, my time will be taken up in Kent. I will worry about new quarters at a more appropriate hour. Fortunately, I am sound enough financially to live indefinitely without new work.”

But I shook my head at that. “Please keep the rooms, Holmes,” I said. “And I advise you to take the occasional case as well—you know how Daniels is. He will despise himself if you abandon your field merely to play the part of his nursemaid. We can make arrangements to ensure that you are not his sole caretaker.”

I watched him open his mouth to protest, so I quickly intervened. “Holmes, Daniels will refuse your offer to house him if you do so at the expense of your work.”

For a moment I thought he would continue to object, but at length he sighed. “That is true,” he acknowledged. “Very well; I’ll keep the rooms for now and we’ll make whatever arrangements you suggest.”

I allowed myself a sigh of relief. However much I admired Holmes’ loyalty, I knew that it was essential for him to maintain his lodgings in Baker Street and to continue his work in some small fashion. I did not believe that Holmes had any experience in the long term care of a dying patient. It was a draining, exhausting venture. Even if Daniels made his peace with his illness, he was likely to put Holmes’ limited patience to the test.

I was still rubbing Holmes’s shoulder, I realised. I hesitated, and then closed the gap between us entirely by pulling him into my arms. He returned the embrace and for a long moment we simply stood there, clinging to each other. And then…then I kissed him, first on his cheek and then on his lips.

It was a slow, lingering kiss. I shut my eyes, needing to taste him and inhale his scent.

You will think me, perhaps, the worst of men—but I did not feel as if I were betraying my vows to my wife. Yes, there was passion in that kiss, for it was not a lack of passion that had driven us apart. But the kiss was not for passion’s sake. We both needed the comfort of it; the warmth and familiarity. And when we broke apart, we both knew that we would not allow matters to go any further.

I looked away from Holmes for a moment. “Daniels is asleep now,” I said. “When he awakens, I will need to speak with him at length.”

Holmes nodded. “After I say a few words to him, I shall give you all the privacy you require.”

I shook my head. “I must speak with him first. I am his physician, Holmes. I’ve no doubt that you’ve a deal to say to him, but he will need the ear and the advice of his doctor before the strictures or sympathy of his lover.”

He sighed and favoured me with another sour smile. “You are quite high-handed today, friend Watson.”

I returned his smile. “I defer to you in most instances, my dear man. But not when it comes to the welfare of my patient.”

“Quite,” Holmes agreed, reaching out to touch my hand briefly. “Very well, I shall make myself scarce when he comes to. Have you any other orders for me, old chap?”

“Only one,” I said, grinning. “I think you had best pour us both a stiff brandy.”

LINK TO PART FIVE