Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 7

"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it." ~Rabindranath Tagore

Darkness.  Suffocating, blinding darkness.  It weighed heavily upon him.  He couldn't move.  He could scarcely even breathe.  Holmes tried to make sense of things, anything at all.  But darkness was all there was.

Then, a light.  Slightly blurred and dim, but a light nonetheless.  And someone was calling his name.  A familiar voice, though he could not place it.  Whoever it was sounded incredibly far away.  But the more Holmes fought against the darkness and tried to reach the light and the voice, the more he got the distinct feeling that he was falling.  And falling quickly.

Holmes felt his muscles tense and his body jerk as he awoke with a gasping breath.

"It's alright," the voice said, and Holmes' frantic gaze settled on Watson's face hovering above him, his friend's strong and steadying hands placed firmly on his shoulders.  "It was just a dream, Holmes."

"No," Holmes said with a slight shake of his head, sitting up right and still trying to calm his breathing, "no, Watson.  A dream is a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions passing through one's subconscious during a period of rest.  I would commit murder for a simple, pleasant dream.  But that... that was no dream."

Watson was terribly confused.  "Then what was it?"

"Darkness," Holmes whispered fiercely.  "Insufferable darkness."

Watson frowned.  "Darkness?"

"For months, darkness was my only companion," Holmes explained.  "It haunts me still."

He truly was terrified, which explained why nearly all the lamps had been left on in the room.  A question that had been ignored by both of them for far too long was now brought forth by Watson.  "What happened at Reichenbach Falls, Holmes?"

"That is a tale best saved for another time, dear Watson," Holmes sighed, rolling his sore shoulders.  The action allowed Watson his first glimpse of the detective's old wound.  The one that had nearly killed him, and would have done, if not for a certain wedding gift.  Pushing the terrible memory out of his mind, Watson knelt before Holmes to examine the wound with a carefully trained eye.  Holmes visibly stiffened and grew uncomfortable under Watson's apparent concern.  As selfish and conceited as he could often be, Holmes had always hated being cared for.  He was a grown man for God sake!  He could take care of himself.   Just when he was about to tell Watson so, his friend gave him a pointed look.

"I don't want to hear it, Holmes.  I am your friend and your doctor," he said, glaring him into indignant submission.  Watson examined the now jagged scar that looked a bit irritated.  He could tell it had only been completely healed relatively recently.  "I should have been there."

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes muttered.  "What could you have possibly done?"

"I could have helped you, Holmes!" Watson snapped, becoming increasingly frustrated once again that Holmes had waited so long to contact him after his apparent death.  It was obvious now that Watson's fears for Holmes' well being had been justified after all.  "That hasn't been healed for very long.  I can only assume it has been infected?"

"Twice."

Watson took a deep breath to calm himself before he asked again, "What happened at the Falls, Holmes?"

"As I have previously stated, Watson," Holmes said softly, "that is a question for another day.  Surely, with your background in Afghanistan, you can appreciate that some things take time to discuss."

Watson sighed and sat down on the edge of Holmes' bed next to his friend.  "Of course I can.  My apologies.  I should not have pressed the matter."  

Neither looked at each other as they sat in silence, until Watson spoke up.  "Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Why in God's name were you in the closet?"

"It was not the first time, though I suppose it was the first time you have been yourself enough to notice," Holmes smirked, both men still staring intently at the wall before them.  "As I said, for months the darkness was my only companion, and it haunts me still.  It's preposterous, isn't it?  That I, Sherlock Holmes, should be afraid of the dark.  Utter nonsense."

"No.  The body reacts to trauma in ways we often don't understand, Holmes," Watson tried to explain.  "But that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, well, by forcing myself to confront my fears for increasing lengths of time, it should not be long before I am right as rain.  After all, how am I ever going to guide Mary in the ways of moral virtue toward the light of truth in a world so full of deceit and treachery when I cannot even fight back the darkness of my own mind?"

"How indeed?" Watson chuckled.  Then, he grew more serious and finally turned to look at his friend, relieved to find Holmes already looking much more like himself.  "Will you be alright?"

"But of course, my dear Watson," Holmes replied with a devilish grin.  "Aren't I always?"