Work Text:
From the diary of Dr. John Watson
I don’t know what to do, how to survive this. I can see the guilt on Holmes’ face every time he looks at me, the terrible guilt. His hands shake as he binds my wounds, a trembling so much worse than what is customary during even his worst migraines or bouts of illness.
What happened to me doesn’t really matter. I wasn’t killed, even if they threatened to kill me. I only have a few serious cuts, which Holmes sutured once he managed to steady himself. As a doctor, I know I shall recover.
But I have been tortured. And as a doctor, I have seen the effects of torture, effects that are not restricted to the damage done to the body. What if I cannot shake off the fear? What if I am always terrified of again being tied to a chair, a knife held to my throat while Holmes pleads for my life?
I do not know if I can survive this. Perhaps it would have been better if they’d just killed me.
---
I feel better now. Well, a little better, but at this point any degree of better is an improvement. I am trying to remember how often my patients who had been tortured suffered from irrational, suicidal thoughts. To be so helpless is quite horrible, even if the injuries are largely superficial, and it is not uncommon for patients to wish to escape such pain in any fashion possible.
I’ve managed to get a little sleep, and more importantly watched Holmes cry as he changed my bandages. It grieves me deeply to see him upset, particularly as he is not the sort of man who is prone to breaking down in tears around even me, yet I do believe that it did me some good, in an odd way.
If Holmes grieves this much over my injuries, then he would certainly grieve far more over my death. If those men who took me captive had actually slit my throat in front of Holmes, as they threatened to do, it would have broken him. My greatest joy in life has always been to help him, and I help him far more by being alive.
So, I will try to be happy that I am alive, even if the concept of happiness seems impossible right now.
I am simply so tired, more tired than is perhaps reasonable for a beating and a few cuts. I wasn’t even struck properly in the head, not enough for a concussion or anything to justify this crushing exhaustion. I wish to stay awake, for I do not want to return to my nightmares, but I am simply too tired to stay awake for long.
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Had more dreams. This time, instead of being captured during the case, I had been held captive for longer, hurt more. At least, I think that was what had happened, although dreams are always strange. It’s difficult to be sure how long had passed.
At any rate, I awoke in a panic, and was relieved to find Holmes beside me. He at once gathered me close, careful to avoid my wounds, and murmured soft reassurances to me. Reassurances that I was safe now, that I need not fear, that he had killed the three men who tortured me.
For a time, I was quite overwhelmed with tears, and could only sob on his shoulder. Sobbing was quite painful, pulling at the deep cuts on my chest, but it was oddly soothing in a way. I am not particularly fond of crying—although I don’t object to it as much as Holmes does—but I believe I very much needed to cry.
I am trying to think of myself as I would a patient. As I would think of Holmes, although to even imagine him in such pain makes me feel ill. But if I were treating Holmes or indeed any other patient, I would encourage rest, and indeed time.
It is difficult to simply wait for my mind to calm, for the sense of raw anguish to subside. Everything all feels so intense, so very painful, and I’m quite exhausted. I think I might try another nap.
---
Ordinarily, I quite like sleep. Even when I’m suffering from nightmares, it’s restorative, and I like sleep even more when Holmes agrees to sleep beside me. I do tend to crave touch, and snuggling up beside Holmes is very pleasant.
Right now, I’m afraid I don’t much like sleep. Quite an awful time to need so much of it, with how badly it’s going. I think I shall ask Holmes to play his violin for me instead.
He has not asked what I’m writing. That’s the remarkable thing about Holmes. He’s so very curious about everything, but he absolutely never pries. I need never worry that he’ll attempt to convince me to discuss something that I don’t want to discuss. If I wish to talk to him, he will listen, but he never pries.
He has not asked whether I’m writing about what happened, or if I’m dreaming about those men torturing me. When I awoke from this most recent set of nightmares, he simply wrapped me in his favorite blanket and held me. The crocheted weight really is very soothing, and I understand why he’s so fond of the blanket.
“I might need to borrow this for a while, old man,” I said to him, and the shakiness of my own voice shocked me. “Is that all right?”
“Of course.” Holmes flicked a small, worried smile at me as he took out his violin. “You are entirely welcome to it for as long as you need. I have my second-favorite blanket, after all.”
I suspect that he wished to say something else, something more, but was not certain where to begin. For a moment, he simply stared at me, biting his lip. Instead of speaking, he patted my shoulder, then began to softly play one of my favorite airs.
For the moment, I fear that I have little hope of sleeping, but it is soothing to listen as Holmes plays the violin for me. There is still guilt on his face, but determination too. He will do anything possible to help me.
I am hurt, my body bruised and cut, my mind shaken and disturbed, but I am alive. And although it is still difficult to believe, I know that these memories will fade in time. I have survived, and I am glad to be safe at home with my friend.