elaby | Birthdayfic for Jane the Marvelous

One of my absolute favorite people on this green earth,

janeturenne, is having a birthday today :D And in celebration of the occasion, I have written her a fic. Janie, acushla, you make the whole world better by being in it - a small but rather important-to-me part of that being my life, my writing, and my fannish enjoyment in general. *huggaluvs*

Title: Entirely Natural
Characters: Holmes/Watson
Words: 1541
Summary: Holmes falls ill after the close of a case.
Rating: PG
Warnings: I don't want to spoil anything, but those who don't like slash might want to steer clear of this one.
Notes: Shameless hurt/comfort. This is fairly early in the timeline, I think, certainly pre-SIGN. Most of the dialogue (or non-dialogue, as the case may be) is Clive Merrison's doing. And in the end it is all utterly yours, Jane-my-dear.

It was a combination of events, really. Holmes had been immersed in a case almost nonstop for the better part of a week, forgoing so-called extraneous things like sleep and nourishment in spite of whatever remonstrance I could fit in when he appeared. As for myself, a wave of respiratory influenza had struck the West End and I was making house-calls every day from dawn until well after nightfall. It was thus that I found out from the paper, rather than from Holmes, that he had solved his case, and proved without a doubt the guilt of Judge Cobb-Simmons's son in the murder of his stepmother.

Mrs. Hudson was just closing the door to our sitting room when I climbed the stairs that evening. "Good evening, Doctor," said she, sounding weary.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Has Holmes returned?"

"Returned sick as a dog," she replied. "He's caught that influenza of yours, and easily enough, I expect, after running himself ragged as he does."

I removed my hat and relinquished all hopes of setting aside my medical bag for the night. "Oh dear. Well, I'll see to him. You did try to persuade him to eat something?"

"Of course I did. And do you suppose he listened? I can barely get him to eat when he's not ill, Doctor."

"That's true enough." I started to open the door, and Mrs. Hudson made a motion as if to put her hand on my arm but hesitated before she touched me. I left the knob unturned and inclined my head to her to go on.

"It's not just the illness," she said. "You know how he gets when he's finished a case. He came home like that this afternoon, and I would never dare ask what's fretting him."

"Don't worry," I said, with I hope far more reassurance than I felt. "I'll take care of him."

"I know you will, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said, with a small sigh. "I must admit I was relieved to hear you coming up those stairs." I smiled and patted her arm, and then went into our rooms.

I was met with even more of a mess than usual, owing to my having been out of the house so much in the past days. A cooling supper rested on the sideboard, along with something furry-looking that must have been a wig or false beard. Clothing of every description lay in heaps on the floor, interspersed with newspapers. The fire was burning low, and there was a huddled lump of blankets on the settee that I identified as Holmes.

He did not shift when I approached. Only the upper part of his face and his tousled black hair were visible within the cocoon of blankets, and he did not appear to be using a pillow, but instead merely curled horizontal on the settee's cushion.

"How are you feeling, old man?" I asked gently. I received no answer for so long that I thought him asleep, and then only a deep, hollow exhalation. "Chills?" I went on. "Headache? Muscle pain or nausea?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and somewhat," came his dulled voice from within the wrappings. I put the back of my hand against his cheek, and he flinched down further into his nest. He was warm, but not dangerously so. That was a relief, at least.

"If you don't feel up to eating anything, you must at least have something to drink. You'll become dehydrated otherwise." He said nothing, which I took as acquiescence, and moved to the sideboard to pour him a glass of water. Upon bringing it back to him he listlessly opened one eye, but made no move to sit up. "Holmes," I said, "I am not in the habit of chastising grown men as if they were children. Take some water, please."

"Just let me be," he said, and closed his eyes again.

He did so hate me to fuss over him that I was loath to press him more, but this was incontrovertibly a matter of his health, and he could hardly argue the fact this time. I set the glass down on the small table near where he lay and said, "I will have you drink this water within the hour, Holmes. It's no use putting yourself out of commission for the next case that's bound to come along."

"And it's no use leaping up again," he responded slowly, despondency tugging at the underpinnings of his voice, "when that case may be just as banal and meaningless as the rest."

"Nonsense," I said, but I'm afraid it couldn't have sounded very encouraging; his tone shook me in a way I was not sure I understood. I walked over to the breakfast table, which was buried in opened correspondence. "Why, look at all these letters of thanks from the poor lady's family. You cannot call that meaningless. And Mr. Cobb-Simmons is well known for his graciousness. I have no doubt you'll be hearing from him soon too."

I heard a strange fluctuation in his breath, a troubling rattle to my ears, and the thought of what havoc the influenza could wreak in his lungs spurred me toward my medical bag. Holmes mumbled something as I was rummaging in it for my stethoscope.

"Sorry?" I asked, straightening.

"I said I don't believe I will."

"Whyever not?"

"Because he's dead."

I froze with my stethoscope half way out of the bag. "What?"

Holmes said nothing for several seconds, then: "Telegram, table, far right corner."

It was just where he said it was: a wire from Scotland Yard. It relayed, in the briefest of terms, that Judge Cobb-Simmons had been found by his household staff early this afternoon, with a pistol in his hand and a bullet through his brain.

"Oh, Holmes."

"Been to see the coroner," he said, still speaking into the back of the couch, and the professional tone he'd slid into was at odds with the low raggedness of his voice. "Gunpowder traces prove suicide conclusively." His wife dead by his son's hands, and his son set to hang for it - I didn't wonder the man had despaired. But as a doctor, I had trained myself to view these things objectively. It was a tragedy, yes, but physicians - and military physicians in particular - were so steeped in tragedy that self-blame was reserved for only very singular situations. It was not so with my companion.

I left the telegram on the table and went to the settee. This at least began to explain his reaction, beyond the illness and the usual post-case languor. He was still curled beneath the blankets, chin tucked down to his chest and his face buried in the folds. All I could see were the hectic spots of red on his pale cheekbones, his sweat-dampened hair, and his eyes tightly shut beneath knotted brows. I rested both hands on the settee's arm and bent over him. "His death was not your doing," I said. Sincerity does not come hard to me, but if I could be granted only once chance to make him believe me, I would take it now.

He gave no response but feverish shivering. "Watson," he said finally, and his jaws were tight with control, "leave me alone."

I did not leave him alone. Instead, I did something impulsive, dangerous, and entirely natural. I leaned over the settee's arm and kissed him, upside-down, on his cheek. He went still as stone beneath me, and when after a moment I drew back, I saw that his eyes were open now and staring fixedly, unseeingly forward. I was still close enough to feel his heat, but an icy slither of panic went through me in the wake of realizing my presumption. It was then that he turned his head, and his eyes sought mine - eyes that for the briefest of moments held a terrible, apprehensive, pleading fear.

Then he shut them and brought his head up, and I kissed him on the mouth this time. The panic faded into a surprisingly comparable mixture of heart-flipping relief and elation, only to momentarily writhe back to the surface when he moved. I had nothing to fear: he only disentangled his arm from the blanket and reached up to grasp me behind the shoulder, pulling me down further.

After a moment I found myself leaning over the arm of the settee, now on my elbows and somewhat breathless. I inclined my head so that my cheek rested against Holmes's. His fingers uncurled from the fabric at the back of my shoulder and brushed against the nape of my neck as he brought his hand away.

I moved around to the front of the settee and sat there on the carpet, and Holmes rolled to face me. He closed his eyes and gave an odd sleepy tilt of his head against the cushion, reminding me of a cat I once had that would nudge my elbow for attention. In response, I drew my hand over his forehead, pushing back his hair with my thumb, and I said, "I'm staying here."

"Thank you," he replied, half-hoarse, and some time later he agreed to drink the water.