Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was only recently that my friend had his breakdown. 

One day in the spring of the year 1897, when I returned to Baker Street from a trip to attend the wedding of a distant cousin of mine, I was greeted by Mrs Hudson who seemed quite distressed. She told me that she shall bring food upstairs for me shortly, since it was already almost time for dinner. I asked her to prepare some for Holmes too, but she merely shrugged with a shaky, exhausted sigh.

Once upstairs, I found the apartment an absolute mess, which was not an uncommon occurrence. This time, though, it felt different in a way I could not quite place. There was a certain stillness, almost fatality to it all. As if this was the end of something, though I knew not what.

I walked up to Holmes’s desk to find open the drawer which he kept locked at all times, except for his occasional indulgence in cocaine. 

I had noticed that the drawer had been opened more often than usual as of late, but I would not comment. Holmes’s habits and methods were often beyond me. He had always possessed a nervous demeanour, and the fluttering movements of his cold, gray eyes showed how alert he was to every possibly relevant detail. This was just a part of who he was.

Recently, I found myself worrying about his health more than I used to. The tremors which had recently started agitating his limbs were wholly uncharacteristic of him; had lost their agile and calculated flow. The great Sherlock Holmes was weakening, and it hurt me more than I realized.

My step was unsure as I walked to his room, my hand heavy as I knocked on his door. It was unlocked, and creaked open a few inches, but it was enough for me to see my friend laid still across his bed. Darkness enveloped him, a thick cloud of smoke obscuring my vision. I pushed the door gently and saw that his eyes were wide and bloodshot. 

“Holmes…”

His eyes did not even move in my direction. They stayed fixed to the ceiling, devoid of any sign of life. Only the slight twitching of his fingers showed me he was still alive.

I took a deep breath and approached his bed, kneeling on the carpet where a few cigarette carcasses were carelessly thrown. I then noticed, having gotten used to the dark, that his hair was now cut short. This worried me more than the rest, for I had learned in my years of studying medicine that impulsive haircuts were often a sign of depression or deep psychological distress. 

“If you are unwell, you must talk to me.”

“I am afraid there is nothing to say” he replied with a hoarse voice, which had clearly not been used in days.

A sense of dread began to overtake me but I managed to remain calm so as to not agitate him further. My first reflex was to place the back of my hand to his forehead, feeling no apparent fever, but the moist coldness of his skin told me everything I needed to know.

Without another word, I stood to turn on a few lights. The curtain reeked of cigarette smoke and felt heavier than it should have. 

Back when I moved in with him, he told me that I could have the second floor bedroom, the one with the most light. He said he had never felt the need for sunshine in his own room. I was grateful then, of course. I had always assumed Holmes was a creature of darkness, but I now saw how dark and gloomy it could feel. I could not understand how he managed to thrive in those conditions. Perhaps he never did.

The dying light of one of the first spring mornings cast a strange, yellowish shadow on the walls. It made me feel uneasy.

“When did you last eat?” I asked him while opening the door wide to dissipate the smoke.

He did not answer. Usually, it would have triggered a long rant about the body being a machine which needs fuel to function, et cetera, et cetera.

“My dear Holmes,” I said, trying to keep a gentle voice since I felt this situation was more delicate than the previous ones. “I say this not as your doctor, but as your friend; You need to get out of this room. You need to eat something. I don’t…” 

I cut myself off. Voicing my own concerns would have been of very little help at this moment.

He finally looked my way, his eyes bearing an expression of helplessness that I had rarely seen in him, a break in his otherwise cool and emotionless attitude. I extended a hand to him, wordlessly willing him to get up. He raised an eyebrow at my hand before reluctantly accepting it.

“Where would I be without you, I wonder,” he muttered with a sarcasm which almost reassured me.

Standing seemed like a painstaking process, as if he would collapse back onto the mattress at any moment, but he finally managed to walk away from the bed and even stretch. His joints cracked and popped as he did. It was evident he had barely left his bed all day, let alone his room. 

I followed him out the door and we both sat on our respective armchairs without another word. He was intentionally avoiding looking at me in the eye, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands. Concern started to boil and bubble in my mind until I could no longer keep silent.

“How could you let yourself get to this point? You are the smartest man I know, and yet you blatantly disregard your health as if it was the most trivial of things. I cannot stand to watch you waste away like this, Holmes!”

He took a drag on his cigarette.

“Do you hear me, man? If you love me, I beg you, talk to me.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke before answering.

“My dear boy… I am afraid you have found me in a state which I would rather have never let you see. I see now that you are quite upset.”

“Upset?” I exclaimed. “You must realize that there are people who care about you. The problem is not that I saw you this way; The problem is that you willingly let yourself rot!”

“Hardly willingly…” he muttered under his breath.

“Then what? How could you possibly defend this behaviour?”

“I am ashamed, Watson! These days, I often find my brain functioning in ways which scare even me. I managed to spare you from witnessing it, but now… There are things happening in my head, things of a nature which I could hardly disclose, even to you. I am… scared.”

My expression softened almost immediately at his words, though I remained insistant.

“There are better ways to overcome this, we both know it. But please, Holmes, you need to—”

I was cut off by the lucky intrusion of Mrs Hudson walking in the room with a platter in her hands. She stared at Holmes for a few seconds, as if she could not believe he had actually come out of his room at last. Her departure was prompt, but it was enough to interrupt our conversation. 

“You must be starved, my dear fellow! Come now, I’m sure eating will already make you feel a whole lot better.”

I knew it would not, but still I insisted until he joined me at the table, cigarette still in hand. I admit to having been slightly distracted by his short, choppy hair, which stood from his head like tall grass in a field, but I quickly averted my gaze to serve myself some mashed potatoes and meatballs that Mrs Hudson had made for the both of us as I requested.

“It’s quite horrid, isn’t it?” he blurted out.

“What are you—”

“My hair, Watson. I appreciate your lack of commentary, but your expression spoke for itself.”

“Well, Holmes… I merely find it strange that an aesthete such as yourself would so carelessly make this drastic of a change,” I said as casually as I could, taking a bite of my food.

“I myself could not tell you why I did it,” said he, looking down. “You must think me a fool.”

I nearly let out a scoff at his words which I found quite absurd.

“Nonsense! I shall never think such things of you. Now, eat, before it gets cold.”

As I gladly started eating, I saw Holmes hesitating, a nearly fearful glimmer in his eyes whenever he would look at his empty plate. With a compassionate sigh, I filled up his plate for him. In this state, he would need my help and company for every step of his recovery. 

I always tried to be there for him, even when he called himself a burden. I loved my friend, and is this not what people should do for the ones they love? 

But I digress.

After many long minutes, once I was already almost done with my own food, Holmes finally, though reluctantly, brought the fork to his mouth and began to eat. My relief was short-lived. He had only taken a few bites before he set down his fork with a nauseated expression on his face. 

“I really am awfully sorry, my dear friend, you must believe me.”

His eyes were slightly red when he looked at me, as though he was on the verge of tears. It was only then that the realization dawned on me: I had never seen him cry. 

“I am not the one you should apologize to.”

“To whom should I apologize then, if not to you?”

I would have said “to yourself”, but it now felt like a waste of time to even begin to make him understand how deeply his health impacted his work, which meant everything to him. I did not wish for him to get better for me; I wished for him to get better for his own sake, to want to get better. It was, of course, most useless to tell him these things.

It was therefore in silence that I finished my plate, and it was in silence that I went back to sit in my armchair, lighting a cigar.

I had to find a way to help my friend.

Chapter Text

A few days later, it was clear that Holmes's condition would not improve without intervention. His mood was more erratic than ever. Although we still saw each other every day, he barely spoke, apart from the occasional apology about his state and the noises of disapproval he had made as he was reading my most recent publication.

He spent part of those days working on a case, which, to my surprise and concern, he took on alone. He told me that he could handle it and that I should focus on my work. He had never said anything before about my needing to work, but I simply assumed that he wanted to be alone.

In the meantime, I made sure that his cocaine bottle remained untouched. However, I was convinced that he was constantly waiting for me to leave the room for that very reason.

I soon became afraid to leave him alone in the apartment, but my work called and I found myself away from him more often than I would have liked. It was far from the first time I had taken the responsibility of handling his bad moods, but is was quite enough for me to know that if I let his drug mania get out of control, it could be as devastating as an awakening volcano.

I should never have left it unchecked. I should have told my colleagues at the clinic that I was unwell and had to stay home. 

For a while, I thought everything was going steadily. My friend was unstable but not aggressive, and was progressively, it had seemed, losing the manic energy I had seen in him in the beginning of the spring. His hair was slowly growing back, and he even began to greet me before I left for work. 

On one particular morning, though, he did not. He was already sitting in his armchair, smoking, at the early hour at which I left, yet did not say a word to me. I did not find it particularly strange, as he often acted aloof after he had solved a case, and therefore thought nothing of it. 

However, if I had possessed Holmes's powers of deduction, I would have noticed that the way he had tied the belt of his dressing gown that morning indicated a particularly nervous behaviour. While it was usually tied neatly and symmetrically in a bow, this time it had been tied in a tight double knot, with one side visibly longer than the other. In all the years we had lived together, I had only seen it tied like that once before: the night before we left for Switzerland.

It is, of course, much easier to analyse such things in retrospect. My friend's gift gave him the ability to prevent disaster before it began. That is what made it so incredible a talent — and what made my own failure feel all the more bitter. Had I applied his methods in time…

I will now recount the events in their correct order, without allowing my remorse to influence my account. Nobody will ever read this; it will remain between Sherlock Holmes and me, as he requested.

When I returned that evening, I found the sitting room empty. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but the silence had a weight to it that made me shiver. It had the same eerie quality as a silent hospital waiting room, which, given my recent interactions with Holmes, could not bode well.

As I neared Holmes’s bedroom, my nose caught the faintest trace of iron. It was an unmistakable scent.

I hurried towards it, my fist still tightly clenched around the handle of my bag. His door was slightly ajar. When my eyes had adjusted to the shadows shrouding the room, I saw that he was not resting on his bed, as he usually would be at this time of day, and felt a jolt of panic in my chest.

Instead, he was sitting on the floor leaning against his desk. The sleeves of his robe and shirt were rolled up to his elbows and left his forearms bare.

His hands and wrists were stained with blood.

He looked up at me, his expression as close to resignation as was possible in his state. The razor beside him glinted in the ray of light that the thick curtains had allowed inside. In the moment, I had almost wished it had been a syringe.

I rushed to his side and pulled a bandage out of my bag. The instincts I had developped from my years on the field took over just enough to steady my hands, but my heart felt as though it would jump out of my ribs.

“Holmes! Good God, Holmes, what have you done?” My voice cracked with distress. “What have you done?”

He did not protest when I grabbed his arm and tightly wrapped the cloth around his wrist. In fact, he hardly reacted at all. His skin was cold like the dead.

“I miscalculated…” He said weakly. “As I often do, these days.”

I held the cloth in place by pressing his wrists with both my hands, trying to stop the flow of blood. Thank God the cuts were shallow — but they were deliberate. They were not done in a frenzy, but with a surgeon’s precision. My voice caught in my throat.

“I need you to stay awake. Focus on my voice, Holmes. Do you hear me?”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

“I am tired,” he whispered. “You must be very disappointed in me.”

“Don’t say that. It’s all right, Holmes. You will be fine.”

“No. No, I rather think I won't.”

“You will be!”

He flinched. I did not mean to raise my voice, but seeing my friend in such a state was more than I could bear. If anyone else had treated Holmes half as badly as he had treated himself in the past few weeks, I would surely have wished hell upon them. But this time, there was nobody else to blame. Not since Moriarty fell.

I composed myself, took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as I could.

“Listen to me, Holmes. I will not let you drown. For as long as I am alive...”

“I know, my dear friend. I know.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes while the bleeding slowed down. When I judged that he was well enough for it, I put my arm around his shoulders and placed my other arm around his waist to help him up off the floor. Once I had laid him down on his bed, he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

“I never wanted you to see me like this, Watson.”

“You fool! Do you truly, honestly believe I care how I see you, so long as I see you alive?”

He smiled faintly and finally looked at me. His eyelids were already beginning to droop.

“I was a fool, yes. For thinking I could solve this alone.”

“You were never alone, my dear friend. But once you're on your feet again, I expect a thorough explanation. If you want me to help you, I must know what is amiss. I cannot operate if I don't know the source of the problem, and this applies to psychological wounds as well.”

I hesitated before continuing.

“I was in the army, Holmes. I understand how it feels to be scarred. To be haunted by old ghosts.”

He merely sighed and closed his eyes. I knew it was going to be a difficult task to convince him that he needed support, and not only from me. Admittedly, I am versed enough in psychology, but I knew that would not be enough — not for a mind like his. I knelt silently beside his bed and fetched my kit and a bowl of water so that I could clean and bandage his wrists properly. He let me take care of him but did not utter a single word until he drifted into a troubled sleep.

I remained at his side all night, sleeping on his desk chair. At around six o’clock, I was awakened by my spine, protesting quite violently by that point. I tended to his wounds once more. He stirred when I lit the bedside lamp, but he did not seem conscious enough to resist or complain, which made the task slightly easier for me.

Once I was certain that he was fully asleep again, I went to my desk to write a note. I promptly sent it to its recipient, then spent the next five hours in a state of anguish, thinking about my friend and trying to fathom what could have driven him to commit such acts against himself.

I tried my best to avoid blaming myself for not having seen the signs.

Holmes only began showing signs of life at eleven o'clock. I made sure I was there when he woke up, as I did not want him to feel alone. Returning to the room was unpleasant, given the oppressive atmosphere and the smell of dried blood mixed with rubbing alcohol.

I opened the window, letting the fresh spring breeze into the room. It was humid and rainy outside, and the air was heavy with the scent of the city, but it was infinitely preferable to the stagnant air that still lingered like a bad dream. That is when Holmes finally awoke. My heart pounded as I began to dread the prospect of having to tell him about the note I had sent earlier.

“You don’t need to nanny me, Watson. I am feeling perfectly well this morning.”

“Yes, and I am the Queen of England. You are as pale as death.”

I sighed and sat by his side. For good measure, I placed my hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He was still quite cold, but, to my relief, he no longer felt like a corpse.

“I want to help you. But I fear I am no expert in the matter of…”

“In the matter of what? Lunacy? Trust me, my dear boy. You have lived with me long enough to be qualified as a true connoisseur.”

I had grown quite used to the self-deprecative humour he often used during his dark phases. I gave it no reaction, but internally, I was bracing myself.

“Holmes,” I began, my voice sounding a bit more solemn than I had intended. “I believe you should know that—”

The knock at the living room door spoke for me. I turned in the direction of the sound, then turned back to face Holmes. He gave me a sidelong glance. 

“I was not expecting any clients, and Mrs Hudson never knocks so loudly. I presume you called somebody, perhaps a colleague, to treat my… condition?”

“He is Dr Moore Agar, a friend of mine. I would not have called him if I did not think it necessary. I might have told you about him already. He is a psychologist, and is therefore much more knowledgeable than I am about the workings of the mind and such matters. You can trust him as surely as you can trust me.”

He let out a short, mocking laugh. 

“I don't need help with the "workings of the mind", as you so politely put it. It was a mistake, and I have no intention of repeating it. My mind will only cease to stagnate once I get an interesting case.”

“A case? My dear Holmes, that is out of the question! Now wait here while I let our guest in.”

I promptly walked out, leaving the door on the latch. I took a deep, steadying breath, then let Dr Agar in with a tight smile.

“John,” he greeted me. “I came as quickly as I could. Is Mr Holmes in the right state to talk at the moment, or do you think I should better wait?”

“I am indeed in the right state to talk.”

I turned to look at Holmes, who had finally emerged into the light of his own accord. Somehow, he had managed to comb back his hair and put on a clean robe in the short time since I left his room.

“Splendid!” Agar exclaimed. “Then let us—”

“I am in the right state to talk, but not to someone who is merely here to create an erroneous map of my mind and put me in a cage.”

“That is very well, as I assure you I have no such intention. John, you may go to your study now.”

I nodded and walked towards the stairs. On the way, I stopped in front of my friend and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Trust me, Holmes. I would never entrust you to an incompetent person. If you need me, I'll be upstairs.”

Once I was in my room, I sagged against the door. Now, all I could do was hope that Holmes would at the very least accept that he needed help. And he needed it quickly, before miscalculation turned into tragedy.