by J. Rosemary MossGenre: 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
~
I walked back into Daniels' bedroom with a heavy heart. I was remembering that day, nearly three years hence, when he, Holmes and I had laughingly created Moriarty and his cohorts. There was a charming innocence to that time—an innocence that would be impossible to recapture now.
I took a seat on the edge of his bed and felt his pulse and his forehead. As I had promised Holmes, he would recover. I just prayed that he would not be fool enough to try again.
I remained at his side until his eyes fluttered open. He stared at me as they came into focus and, at length, flashed me the ghost of a crooked smile.
“The cocaine didn’t work,” he said.
“It didn’t kill you, no,” I agreed.
He looked away. “You oughtn’t be so close to me. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”
“I have cared for more than one consumptive in my time,” I assured him. “Daniels, why didn’t you tell us?”
“What was I supposed to say?” he asked, his voice flat and weak. “I don’t know the script for this sort of thing.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to lend him comfort, but he shrugged it off.
“Don’t touch me!”
I stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding what had driven him to attempt to put a period to his life. It wasn’t that he feared the pain of tuberculosis—it was the thought of being shut away, divorced from human contact. Daniels had always been tactile with his friends and even acquaintances. Moreover, he thrived on the adulation of an audience and the companionship of his fellow theatre folk. What could life offer him now that he stood to lose all of that?
He would not lose Holmes or me. On that point, at least, I could reassure him. But he would lose his life here in London and his career on the stage. Holmes and I would have to convince him to make his peace with that—but that seemed a daunting goal.
“I’m still your physician,” I said quietly. “You will have to bear with my touch.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but finally shrugged. “Don’t let me stop you from risking your hide,” he said.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I placed my arm around him. I am not a demonstrative man by nature—but Daniels was, for all practical purposes, my little brother. I had long considered him such, at any event. So I pulled him to me, all but forcing him to rest his head on my shoulder.
I had noted this hard edge to Daniels before—when he was in his cups. That, no doubt, was why he so seldom drank to excess. He was not a happy drunk. Instead, his mask would slip, revealing a sarcastic young man who was still bitter toward the family that had rejected him...and still angry at himself for failing to live up to his father's bourgeois ideals.
He was not drunk now, but the mask had slipped regardless. He let out a long, melodramatic sigh, and then snorted contemptuously. “I do have a script after all,” he said as he stopped bothering to fight my hold on him. “Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew—or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon `gainst self-slaughter!”
I managed a small smile at the lines from Hamlet.
“But my solid flesh will all but melt away, eaten up by this disease, won’t it?” Daniels continued. “And as for the Everlasting—well, I don’t care if He’s outlawed suicide. He can go f—k Himself.”
I gasped at that blasphemy. I do not claim to be a religious man, but that was going too far. “You do not mean that,” I said softly.
“Oh, I do,” he insisted.
I bit my lip, horrified. “Do you mean to try again, then? Did Holmes and I do our utmost to save you merely so you can inject yourself with the proper fatal dosage next time?”
“Next time I’ll use a bloody pistol,” he said.
I rolled my eyes again. “Daniels—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. “I don't even know how to load a damn pistol. But, if you truly mean to remain my physician, tell me this much: how does this end? Shall I die in some God-forsaken sanitarium? And will there at least be morphine?”
I breathed a sigh of relief: these were questions I could answer. I would not spare him the truth: he deserved and needed my honesty.
“You will not die in a sanitarium,” I said gently. “If Holmes has his way, you’ll live with him in Kent, on a secluded piece of property that his brother owns.”
He shook his head. “I’m not risking Holmes.”
“You’ve already risked him,” I said. “He’s been in constant contact with you after this stunt of yours. He’s been exposed to your sweat, your coughs, your saliva, your—”
“Never mind!” he snapped. “I take your point.”
“Holmes is a grown man,” I continued, “and he’s made his decision. You will not be far from me; I’ll call on you as often as possible. Holmes will maintain his rooms in Baker Street, even while living in Kent, and will likely manage the occasional case.”
Daniels nodded at that. “Perhaps he’ll come to his senses and stay in Baker Street.”
“That is unlikely,” I informed him. “Now, as to the morphine: I’ll teach Holmes how to prepare the proper dosage. You won't have to suffer needlessly.”
“And when the pain grows unbearable?” Daniels persisted.
“That might be years away, yet,” I reminded him, carding his hair with my fingers. “But when the time comes, I’ll increase the dosage to suit your pain.” I paused to take a deep breath. “And by the end—well, often it is difficult to tell whether the morphine or the disease has triumphed.”
He shut his eyes at that and let out a deep sigh against my shoulder. “God damn it all,” he muttered. “Is Holmes here?”
“Yes. I ordered him to let me speak with you first, as your physician. Shall I call him in now?”
“Please,” Daniels said. “But don’t go—not yet. I—I could use your company too.”
I stared at him for a moment, wondering if he feared facing Holmes alone. He was looking rather aghast at his actions. But at length I nodded and called out to our companion.
Holmes opened the door to the bedroom a moment later and paused on the threshold, looking the pair of us over. Daniels gave him the same crooked grin he had given me—but there was a hint of apology in it now.
“Sorry about this,” Daniels said, his face reddening. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned my condition. And I'm sorry to have exposed you to it. Both of you. And you ought to keep away.”
Holmes crossed the room and sat on the other side of the bed, facing him. “We're both here of our own free will,” he pointed out, taking one of Daniels' hands in his own. “Don't presume to lecture us on the risks—we're quite well informed, I assure you.”
I felt Daniels relax against me at that. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Watson says you want us to move to Kent.”
“Mycroft has property there,” Holmes explained. “I believe I can persuade him to rent it to us.”
Daniels sighed. “Sherlock, I—damn it. I'm grateful. Of course I'm grateful—but I'll hate it. I'll hate being out of town. I'll hate being shut away from civilisation, even if it's to stop the spread of this damned consumption. I know it's necessary, but—oh, God, can you see me rusticating on some bloody farm?”
Holmes tightened his grip on Daniels' hand, but he said nothing. I think he knew that it was best simply to listen.
“If you mean to go through with this,” Daniels continued, “you must understand that I will make your life miserable. I'll be an awful patient—and I'll resent you and Kent and the disease. And I'll know it's not your fault, but I'll still blame you.”
“And God, apparently,” I reminded him.
Daniels had the grace to laugh at that. “I've been shocking poor Watson with my blasphemy,” he explained. “And he's right—I do blame God for the whole of this.”
Holmes favored us both with a sour smile. “I have my own axe to grind with God at present,” he said, “but I rather think we can be forgiven our anger, under the circumstances. Certainly you can—Jews, I've noticed, make a habit of arguing with the Almighty. It seems to be one of their duties.”
Daniels gave him a playful scowl. “We have no monopoly when it comes to arguing with God,” he insisted.
“Perhaps not,” Holmes retorted, “but your religion is alone, I think, in raising said arguments to an art form.”
Daniels and I both laughed at that, and any remaining tension among the three of us disappeared. I watched as Holmes raised Daniels' hand to his lips, kissing it lightly before setting it down again. “Will you come to Kent?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”
Holmes winked at him. “Baruch HaShem,” he said, mimicking an expression that Daniels himself often employed. I believe it's Hebrew for 'thank God' or 'praise God' or some such.
I stared at Holmes. There was a soft but intent light in his grey eyes as he regarded Daniels. He had never looked at me quite that way, with that expression that was both loving and piqued. Daniels, I suspected, would remain something of a mystery to him; one he would never penetrate completely. The boy's history and experiences were too foreign to our own. And it did not help that even now Daniels' mask was back in place.
But I am being unfair. I do not believe it was not a mask; not entirely. Our playful, laughing boy existed side by side, I suppose, with our sarcastic, bitter young man.
I sighed as Daniels drifted back to sleep, his head still resting on my shoulder. I continued staring at Holmes as I realised just what I stood to lose.
When Daniels died, I would bury more than another brother. I would lose the part of Holmes that only Daniels could elicit—that part of Holmes that was so intrigued by the young man's foreign culture and skillful mask. That mischievous part of Holmes that liked to tease Daniels about his religion or Shakespeare...that obsessively curious part of him that was driven to unearth more of Daniels' background.
Don't mistake me; of course Holmes would retain his mischief and his obsessive curiosity. But without Daniels, something would be lacking. I shut my eyes, resting my chin on top of Daniels' head. The loss of that part of Holmes, I knew, would be almost as hard to bear as the loss of Daniels himself.
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
~
I walked back into Daniels' bedroom with a heavy heart. I was remembering that day, nearly three years hence, when he, Holmes and I had laughingly created Moriarty and his cohorts. There was a charming innocence to that time—an innocence that would be impossible to recapture now.
I took a seat on the edge of his bed and felt his pulse and his forehead. As I had promised Holmes, he would recover. I just prayed that he would not be fool enough to try again.
I remained at his side until his eyes fluttered open. He stared at me as they came into focus and, at length, flashed me the ghost of a crooked smile.
“The cocaine didn’t work,” he said.
“It didn’t kill you, no,” I agreed.
He looked away. “You oughtn’t be so close to me. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”
“I have cared for more than one consumptive in my time,” I assured him. “Daniels, why didn’t you tell us?”
“What was I supposed to say?” he asked, his voice flat and weak. “I don’t know the script for this sort of thing.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to lend him comfort, but he shrugged it off.
“Don’t touch me!”
I stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding what had driven him to attempt to put a period to his life. It wasn’t that he feared the pain of tuberculosis—it was the thought of being shut away, divorced from human contact. Daniels had always been tactile with his friends and even acquaintances. Moreover, he thrived on the adulation of an audience and the companionship of his fellow theatre folk. What could life offer him now that he stood to lose all of that?
He would not lose Holmes or me. On that point, at least, I could reassure him. But he would lose his life here in London and his career on the stage. Holmes and I would have to convince him to make his peace with that—but that seemed a daunting goal.
“I’m still your physician,” I said quietly. “You will have to bear with my touch.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but finally shrugged. “Don’t let me stop you from risking your hide,” he said.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I placed my arm around him. I am not a demonstrative man by nature—but Daniels was, for all practical purposes, my little brother. I had long considered him such, at any event. So I pulled him to me, all but forcing him to rest his head on my shoulder.
I had noted this hard edge to Daniels before—when he was in his cups. That, no doubt, was why he so seldom drank to excess. He was not a happy drunk. Instead, his mask would slip, revealing a sarcastic young man who was still bitter toward the family that had rejected him...and still angry at himself for failing to live up to his father's bourgeois ideals.
He was not drunk now, but the mask had slipped regardless. He let out a long, melodramatic sigh, and then snorted contemptuously. “I do have a script after all,” he said as he stopped bothering to fight my hold on him. “Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew—or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon `gainst self-slaughter!”
I managed a small smile at the lines from Hamlet.
“But my solid flesh will all but melt away, eaten up by this disease, won’t it?” Daniels continued. “And as for the Everlasting—well, I don’t care if He’s outlawed suicide. He can go f—k Himself.”
I gasped at that blasphemy. I do not claim to be a religious man, but that was going too far. “You do not mean that,” I said softly.
“Oh, I do,” he insisted.
I bit my lip, horrified. “Do you mean to try again, then? Did Holmes and I do our utmost to save you merely so you can inject yourself with the proper fatal dosage next time?”
“Next time I’ll use a bloody pistol,” he said.
I rolled my eyes again. “Daniels—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. “I don't even know how to load a damn pistol. But, if you truly mean to remain my physician, tell me this much: how does this end? Shall I die in some God-forsaken sanitarium? And will there at least be morphine?”
I breathed a sigh of relief: these were questions I could answer. I would not spare him the truth: he deserved and needed my honesty.
“You will not die in a sanitarium,” I said gently. “If Holmes has his way, you’ll live with him in Kent, on a secluded piece of property that his brother owns.”
He shook his head. “I’m not risking Holmes.”
“You’ve already risked him,” I said. “He’s been in constant contact with you after this stunt of yours. He’s been exposed to your sweat, your coughs, your saliva, your—”
“Never mind!” he snapped. “I take your point.”
“Holmes is a grown man,” I continued, “and he’s made his decision. You will not be far from me; I’ll call on you as often as possible. Holmes will maintain his rooms in Baker Street, even while living in Kent, and will likely manage the occasional case.”
Daniels nodded at that. “Perhaps he’ll come to his senses and stay in Baker Street.”
“That is unlikely,” I informed him. “Now, as to the morphine: I’ll teach Holmes how to prepare the proper dosage. You won't have to suffer needlessly.”
“And when the pain grows unbearable?” Daniels persisted.
“That might be years away, yet,” I reminded him, carding his hair with my fingers. “But when the time comes, I’ll increase the dosage to suit your pain.” I paused to take a deep breath. “And by the end—well, often it is difficult to tell whether the morphine or the disease has triumphed.”
He shut his eyes at that and let out a deep sigh against my shoulder. “God damn it all,” he muttered. “Is Holmes here?”
“Yes. I ordered him to let me speak with you first, as your physician. Shall I call him in now?”
“Please,” Daniels said. “But don’t go—not yet. I—I could use your company too.”
I stared at him for a moment, wondering if he feared facing Holmes alone. He was looking rather aghast at his actions. But at length I nodded and called out to our companion.
Holmes opened the door to the bedroom a moment later and paused on the threshold, looking the pair of us over. Daniels gave him the same crooked grin he had given me—but there was a hint of apology in it now.
“Sorry about this,” Daniels said, his face reddening. “I suppose I ought to have mentioned my condition. And I'm sorry to have exposed you to it. Both of you. And you ought to keep away.”
Holmes crossed the room and sat on the other side of the bed, facing him. “We're both here of our own free will,” he pointed out, taking one of Daniels' hands in his own. “Don't presume to lecture us on the risks—we're quite well informed, I assure you.”
I felt Daniels relax against me at that. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Watson says you want us to move to Kent.”
“Mycroft has property there,” Holmes explained. “I believe I can persuade him to rent it to us.”
Daniels sighed. “Sherlock, I—damn it. I'm grateful. Of course I'm grateful—but I'll hate it. I'll hate being out of town. I'll hate being shut away from civilisation, even if it's to stop the spread of this damned consumption. I know it's necessary, but—oh, God, can you see me rusticating on some bloody farm?”
Holmes tightened his grip on Daniels' hand, but he said nothing. I think he knew that it was best simply to listen.
“If you mean to go through with this,” Daniels continued, “you must understand that I will make your life miserable. I'll be an awful patient—and I'll resent you and Kent and the disease. And I'll know it's not your fault, but I'll still blame you.”
“And God, apparently,” I reminded him.
Daniels had the grace to laugh at that. “I've been shocking poor Watson with my blasphemy,” he explained. “And he's right—I do blame God for the whole of this.”
Holmes favored us both with a sour smile. “I have my own axe to grind with God at present,” he said, “but I rather think we can be forgiven our anger, under the circumstances. Certainly you can—Jews, I've noticed, make a habit of arguing with the Almighty. It seems to be one of their duties.”
Daniels gave him a playful scowl. “We have no monopoly when it comes to arguing with God,” he insisted.
“Perhaps not,” Holmes retorted, “but your religion is alone, I think, in raising said arguments to an art form.”
Daniels and I both laughed at that, and any remaining tension among the three of us disappeared. I watched as Holmes raised Daniels' hand to his lips, kissing it lightly before setting it down again. “Will you come to Kent?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”
Holmes winked at him. “Baruch HaShem,” he said, mimicking an expression that Daniels himself often employed. I believe it's Hebrew for 'thank God' or 'praise God' or some such.
I stared at Holmes. There was a soft but intent light in his grey eyes as he regarded Daniels. He had never looked at me quite that way, with that expression that was both loving and piqued. Daniels, I suspected, would remain something of a mystery to him; one he would never penetrate completely. The boy's history and experiences were too foreign to our own. And it did not help that even now Daniels' mask was back in place.
But I am being unfair. I do not believe it was not a mask; not entirely. Our playful, laughing boy existed side by side, I suppose, with our sarcastic, bitter young man.
I sighed as Daniels drifted back to sleep, his head still resting on my shoulder. I continued staring at Holmes as I realised just what I stood to lose.
When Daniels died, I would bury more than another brother. I would lose the part of Holmes that only Daniels could elicit—that part of Holmes that was so intrigued by the young man's foreign culture and skillful mask. That mischievous part of Holmes that liked to tease Daniels about his religion or Shakespeare...that obsessively curious part of him that was driven to unearth more of Daniels' background.
Don't mistake me; of course Holmes would retain his mischief and his obsessive curiosity. But without Daniels, something would be lacking. I shut my eyes, resting my chin on top of Daniels' head. The loss of that part of Holmes, I knew, would be almost as hard to bear as the loss of Daniels himself.
2 comments:
*waah*
I don't want it to happen. But I know it must. I'm actually hoping Daniels manages to end it himself. I'd prefer to hold my destiny in my own hands.
It's been a bad week, and you would think this sad entry wouldn't help. But reading about Watson's quiet herosim, and particularly his integrity, offers me hope perhaps there are souls in this world like that.
Thanks Rose.
Thank you so much, Liederlady!
Watson's definitely one of the good guys. I hope this somehow helped to make your week a bit more bearable.
~Rose
Post a Comment