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Despite the pleasant warmth of the Cornish evening, I sat huddled before the fire in our little cottage, shivering—not unaware of the irony such an act entailed following the dreadful affair of the devil’s foot root to which this quaint hamlet had just been witness. Watson sat on the other side of the room near a half-opened window, absorbed in a book and oblivious to my discomfort, which was growing by the minute. My arms itched for a needle and my every waking impulse cried out for the rush of my seven percent solution: the same which I had buried three days before, having finally heard that medical wisdom which Watson had been telling me since we first became acquainted. But the knowledge that I had done rightly did little to alleviate my agitated misery. I twitched and fidgeted in my discomfort, glancing over at the drawer which held my little case, now empty; this frenzy of movement drew my companion’s attention. He turned to me with a dark shadow in his eyes.
“Holmes, do you wish for me to leave the room?” Watson said impatiently, clearly upset. His behavior puzzled me, and I let it show on my face—it usually pleased him when he knew something I did not.
“Why should I wish that?” I replied, genuine curiosity in my voice.
“You know why,” Watson replied, casting a suspicious glance from me over to the drawer from which he had seen me draw my syringe on the previous day. I sighed, realizing that he had been observing me, after all. “You seem to prefer at least the illusion of discretion in this matter,” he continued bitterly, “and so I ask you again: do you wish for me to leave the room?”
Ah. I should perhaps have realized that he was still upset about both my devil’s root experiment and my self-dosing at the beginning of our Cornish sojourn, but when I thought of the horrible events that had transpired it seemed to me that I had a reasonable excuse for such…inattention. I bristled, therefore, at his admonishing gaze and opened my mouth to explain to him what I had done with the items to which he was referring, but the restless ache which cried out for the sharp relief of the drug flickered through my veins and raised prickling gooseflesh on the back of my neck—so I snapped back at him instead, rather more coldly than I had intended. If he longed for an argument, damn him, then I would provide him with one.
“Thank you for your concern, Doctor, it is most admirable—but unnecessary, I assure you.” I thought of my little vials, which now lay shattered in the sand of the tempestuous Cornish coast and met his gaze defiantly, if a bit unsteadily. Watson let out a bitter, humorless laugh and threw his book down with a thump.
“So you always say,” he retorted. “Or perhaps it is only that you have dosed yourself already, you certainly look ill enough!” To hear him mock me, mock the discomfort I was suffering—suffering for his sake alone!—was enough to incense me, and I got to my feet, despite the fact that they did not seem quite up to the task.
“You are a fool, Watson,” I said impatiently, coldly. “I have not touched the stuff since Thursday last,” I finished, but it seemed that he had ceased to hear me.
“Ah, a fool, am I?” he cried, enraged. “I see! Enough impairment for one day, what with your little devil’s root experiment this morning? Replacing one vice with another, Holmes?” The words seemed to spill from his lips, and I saw on his face that he did not believe these accusations, even as he hurled them so carelessly at me. I held his gaze with a cold stare of my own and then turned my face back to the fire, my anger fading to hurt.
“I very nearly killed you this morning, Watson,” I said softly, shame prickling up through my skin and leaving beads of sweat on my clammy forehead. I trembled lightly, and longed for the heady rush of cocaine which would have fortified my courage. But the fragile, wounded bravery of a man barely holding his head above water was all I could manage, and so it would have to do. I took an unsteady breath and continued. “That fact alone is enough for me to scorn the devil’s root forever—to say nothing of the danger I myself was in, as well.”
“Danger?” Watson cried disbelievingly, launching himself out of his chair. “When has the danger posed to yourself ever deterred you from your precious seven percent solution!?” As he spoke another tremor racked through me, and the fury painted on his face dragged me down under the waves which seemed to surge and crash all around me. I fell into my chair, weakened.
“Watson,” I pleaded softly, but he was lost in his anger and continued, shouting now, releasing a stream of words which seemed to have been festering inside him for quite a long time.
“You inject yourself with that foul, that wretched—that damned cocaine, Holmes, and you languish, you waste away, and I—do you have any idea what it is to watch you willingly poison yourself? I have left you, God help me, to face your death once before, Holmes—and I will not do it again!”
It seemed to my feverish mind that he had just cut out his own heart and thrown it at my feet. I tried to explain, tried to tell him what I had done, but my lips were stone and my head felt heavy and full, my fevered body shook against the pulsing agony that became my only conscious thought, and I reached out for him, for my Watson, unable to do anything else. He seemed to realize, finally, that something was wrong and approached me, kneeling before my chair and peering intently into my face.
“It hurts, John,” I whimpered like a child, horrified at the raw whisper which I scarcely recognized as my own voice, and I started at the panic I saw in the eyes of my companion. I shuddered, Watson seized me by my shoulders, and I was dimly aware of his voice calling to me through the haze of fever.
“What hurts?!” he cried, frightened. “What’s the matter?”
“I—I buried it. The syringe. The solution. It’s—it’s gone. I—you were right. I have given it up but I—my body still—” I could not continue, it felt as though every thought in my mind were attempting to force its way out at once and the devastation I saw on Watson’s face seemed to etch itself upon my brain; an involuntary gasp of pain escaped my lips and I tumbled from my chair and fell to my knees before him.
“Please,” I said softly, knowing I was becoming incoherent but in too much pain to do anything about it.
“My God,” Watson whispered, pressing one anxious hand to my forehead as the other fumbled at my neck for my pulse. “You—this is—oh, Sherlock.”
The fever set fire to every nerve in my body, and I opened my mouth and attempted to soothe Watson, to do anything I could to take away the agony I had thrust upon him, but as I raised my head to look at him the blood pounded and roared in my ears, and with a cry I fell backwards against the armchair and knew no more.
I awoke some time later to the weak light of the early morning sunshine upon my face, the warmth of it striking a strange contrast with the cool, damp cloth which rested against my forehead. I lay there for a moment, blinking languidly, content in the comfort of the bedclothes, but with a start the events of the previous evening reasserted themselves on my consciousness and with a cry I began to sit up. I did not get far: a warm hand settled on my chest and pushed me gently back against the pillows.
“It’s alright, darling,” said Watson gently, rubbing at my shoulder and busying himself with adjusting the cloth upon my forehead.
“It’s alright now, just rest.”
“But—”
“It is alright,” Watson repeated firmly, raising his eyebrows and meeting my gaze directly, his eyes bright with worry and red-rimmed with watery relief. “You are safe, just be still,” he continued, cooing as one does to a spooked horse. But he knew better than to trust that I would remain as pliant as I was in my sleepy fog, so he preempted any further struggle against his ministrations by helping me to sit up, fussing with the pillows as he arranged them behind my head. An undefinable ache rose up in my chest as I looked upon his face, his expression grateful and terribly fond—marked with a tenderness I feared I did not deserve.
“I am sorry,” I said softly, my head dropping to my chest in my shame. But he reached out for me and tilted my face back up to look at him, tears in his eyes as he held my cheek in his hand.
“No,” he said, stricken. “It is I who must apologize; you were ill—not because of the cocaine but rather because you had forgone it—and I accused you, I shouted at you…I was so angry, so afraid that, for a moment, it eclipsed all else. I am so sorry, Sherlock.”
By way of response I leaned into his touch, letting my head rest in his hand, and my meaning was understood. Silence hung heavy between us for a moment, its comforting weight soothing the hurts of the previous evening—but I remembered something else.
“Please forgive me,” I said softly, recalling the way his voice had trembled as he pleaded with me: I have left you once and I will not do it again. “I know what it means to you that I should shrug off this most dangerous of my many vices—self-poisoning by cocaine is no better than an eternal resting place in the great cauldron of the Reichenbach Falls, I suppose,” I said sheepishly, but this quickly faded into shame when I caught sight of the horror on his face.
“I am sorry I reminded you of it at all,” I added quickly, filled with regret. A sad smile touched his features, and I curled myself against him and pressed my head against his shoulder in silent atonement. We sat wordlessly together for another long moment as he held me contentedly in his arms, his fingers tangled in my nightshirt.
“Thank you,” Watson said softly, breaking the silence. I looked up at him, stunned, without an idea in the world what I should say to this kind acknowledgement.
“It has all been for you, you know,” I blurted without conscious thought. It took my mind a moment to catch up, and I sat there, struck dumb by the betrayal of my own voice. Watson turned to look at me, patiently waiting as I strung the right words together, my voice barely more than a pained whisper. “Giving up the cocaine. Coming to Cornwall. Even…even going away for those years—it was to protect you…although I fear instead that it rather broke your heart.”
“Long ago broken and long ago mended, Sherlock,” he replied gently, stroking my hair. “What matters now is that you are still here, you are safe…and you are—I hope—still mine.” I felt tears sting my eyes at the uncertainty in his voice; I could not bear to hear it.
“I will be yours, John,” I replied, reaching up to catch hold of his hand, “for as long as you shall have me.” Watson smiled at me, and I felt a heat rushing to my cheeks that had nothing to do with my lingering fever.
“Forever then,” Watson replied warmly, his fingers tightening gently around my own where they lay, entangled, between us. “I do love you, you sentimental fool.”
“And I you, darling,” I replied, laughing quietly as I pressed my forehead to his. I smiled against his lips as he took me tenderly in his arms once more, and then I kissed him, reveling at my ability to do so, endlessly grateful for the unending patience of my dearest companion. I lay in the circle of his arms and quickly fell once more into sleep, conscious only of the soft murmurs of affection and endearment whispered against my hair, a tender absolution that took my breath away with its simple, unselfconscious adoration. He is all that I have, and all that I need.
I shall not pretend that this was the end of all our troubles; my poor Watson spent the remainder of our Cornish holiday as my nursemaid, suffering through nearly two weeks of an incorrigible and ill Sherlock Holmes. But he never complained, was never less than perfectly tolerant and gentle, qualities which, after all these years, have never failed to surprise and delight me, his capricious and often impatient companion. Toward the end of my convalescence he suggested taking a walk, just as we had done when we first arrived, and I gladly agreed, knowing the sea air and sunshine would do me a world of good.
And so it happened that, under the evanescent coastal sun, leaning heavily on my companion as we strolled together along the same beach where I had buried my needle not two weeks ago, I began to laugh.
“What is so funny?” Watson murmured quietly, smiling, and I clutched at his arm tenderly, adoringly.
“Nothing,” I replied honestly. “It is only that—a new life has begun, my dear, and I find it far more agreeable than I ever should have hoped.” He laughed with me, the sound of it brighter than the sun, and I surrendered myself to the influence of something far gentler and far more sublime than cocaine as we continued down the beach, I held securely on the arm of my dear Watson—precisely where I belonged.