The Country House (sequel to The Circular Room)

Chapter One

xXx

*Watson's POV*

April had been spreading its gloom over London for weeks. Rain, violent at times, along with thick clouds on better days were all we could expect from this, the cruelest of months.

My leg ached, my head hurt and I was exhausted long before Holmes began to complain. Even the criminals had been discouraged by the bleak weather, leaving us without a single case to follow, putting Holmes into one of the blackest of his 'black moods'. More often than not, he disappeared into his study without a word and I didn't see him for days at a time. Nor did I seek him out as I was having certain problems of my own.

Sleep, or more precisely, the lack of it.

Ever since my rescue from Moriarty's prison, nightly rest had become elusive. At first, I attributed it to the exuberance of finally being safe at home, the long hours it took to drift off into a much too short slumber but then the nights took on a darker hue and the sleep I yearned for turned into fitful bouts of nightmares, each one beginning where the last one ended, all of them variations of the same scene.

I was back in that damned room. No doors, no windows and Moriarty sitting across from me, smiling and telling me that this time - this time - there would be no escape and I would pay a terrible price for denying him. Sometimes there would be smoke, a repeat of the fire that almost killed myself and Holmes and sometimes ...

Sometimes the walls would spin and collapse upon me, closing in until I woke up feeling as if I were suffocating. Occasionally the dreams were so real, I found myself opening a window and leaning my head on the sill, gasping for air.

Night after night it went on and refused to stop. Nothing helped; not warm baths, nor milk or ceasing my tea at a certain time. I took long walks through the endless damp, trying to exhaust myself and this did little more than make my leg throb horribly which only added to my frustrations.

After an entire week had passed without a satisfying night of rest, I desperately reached into my bag and dosed myself with a tincture of laudanum, which succeeded in knocking me unconscious for a few hours but I awoke as unrefreshed as if I'd never laid down at all.

Needless to say my temper suffered as much as my body during this time. I tried to not let it get the better of me but everything irritated me, like nails upon a chalkboard. Every clink of china from the kitchen, every note from Holmes' violin, even the poor dog's snoring seemed to drive me into an unreasonable state of anger.

My treatment of patients suffered and I was forced to temporarily suspend my practice, lest I accidentally injure one of them while in this virtually incapacitated state.

To say I was miserable would be to put it lightly.

Unfortunately, Holmes didn't seem much better off than myself. Instead of exhausted, he was agitated, pacing and speaking too quickly, too often. He played incessantly on his instrument, tapped his fingers and snapped books open and shut, staring off in the distance as if unaware of what he was doing.

He and I, at that moment in time, were the worst of all possible combinations. "You're driving me mad," I told him one day, barely able to keep my fists from clenching as he tapped and paced and played. "Can you not relax for one moment?"

"I should ask the same of you," Holmes replied, frowning. "You're haunting these rooms like a ghost. When was the last time you've slept?"

Already angered, my fingers curled against my palms. "Perhaps it was the last time you've deigned to grace these apartments with some peace and quiet. God knows when that was."

Throwing himself into his chair, he snorted and started playing away on the violin. Tuneless, awful scratches and I swore to heaven that I would end up killing either him or myself or us both if he didn't stop right there and then.

I raised my voice loudly. "For God's sake, Holmes! Have you no courtesy? Stop that!"

With a violent gesture, he threw the bow across the room. "Have you any courtesy? I live here as well! It's bad enough that we are trapped in here with this blasted weather but now I must crawl around my own home and tiptoe past you like a child hoping to avoid a wretched parent. It's intolerable!"

"You are a damned child!" I yelled back. "As for intolerable, there's a mirror. Go to it and view the perfect definition of the word!"

Dropping the violin, Holmes stalked off to his desk and removed his Morocco case, the one that held his syringes and drugs of varying strengths. Defiantly, he tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, knowing full well how much I despised seeing such a blatant display of self-abuse.

"Oh, that's good," I snarled. "Very good, Holmes. You've found yourself yet another ridiculous way to prove you're incapable of mature discourse. Yet to find any emotion that can't be drowned by your needles, eh?"

With a careless shrug, he filled the syringe, almost to the top. "Maybe you should get yourself a needle, Watson. You seem rather out of sorts."

"Only because you make me so," I replied, rising and limping past him, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to throw the case, the needle and him out the window. "I'd wish you a good-night but I know you don't believe in such maudlin salutations. Not that you'll be sleeping for the next three days anyway, nor will anyone else within listening distance."

"Good-night, Watson," he called after me as I stormed out. "Sweet dreams."

I slammed the door in my wake. "Go to hell."

Once in the hallway, I paused a moment to collect myself. Almost immediately, I regretted my anger but as is so often the case, I was still too annoyed to go back and try to make it up. I needed to rest, even if I couldn't sleep and perhaps we could sort things out in the morning.

With a groan, I lay down on my bed, closing my eyes and wishing for a miraculous bout of sleep without dreams. Hours passed and I had achieved a very light doze when I heard a crash in Holmes' study.

It wasn't one of his ordinary crashes, the careless dropping of a glass or overturning of a chair, this sounded like a body hitting the ground and I immediately bolted upright, forcing myself to my feet. "Holmes!" I called. "Are you all right?"

No answer. Exhaustion forgotten, I ran into the study, horrified to see Holmes lying on the floor, his entire body shaking and writhing. There was the smell of vomit in the air and his pupils were dilated to the point where there was little iris left.

"For the love of God," I cried, falling clumsily to my knees and cradling his head on my lap. "Holmes, you've taken too much."

His lips were shaking so badly, he had trouble forming the words. "I ... thought ... I ... measured it."

His pulse was trip-hammering beneath the skin and for a moment, I was seriously afraid he'd have a stroke or heart attack right in my arms. I couldn't find it in me to berate him, I only wanted to make sure he got out of this alive. "I'm going to get you a sedative. We have to lower your heart rate. Here, get up and try not to move too much." Groaning, I lifted him into a sitting position. "Try to breathe steadily, I'll be right back."

Rummaging through my supplies I found a diluted opiate that was mild enough to counteract the cocaine without causing greater harm. It wouldn't make him feel much better, but it would probably save his life. I filled the syringe as I limped back into his room, cursing beneath my breath.

By the time I'd found a good vein, my hands were shaking nearly as badly as his. "Hold still if you can. I want to do this without killing you."

"Might be a kindness," he rattled out. "I'm sorry, Watson."

"Be quiet and hold still," I ordered, relieved when the injection proceeded without too much trouble. "There. You should feel less like death in a moment." With a sigh, I sat down hard on the floor, utterly drained. Outside, lightning flashed and the rain beat its merciless rhythm against the windows. "What a damnable night this is."

Slowly, his breathing evened out. "I agree." Pulling his knees to his chest, he curled himself over them. "Again, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," I said, dragging myself over to sit next to him. With a sigh, I reached over to rub his still-trembling shoulders. "We're not ourselves these days."

"Moriarty," he murmured as if that one word explained everything.

"I want to disagree, but ..." I exhaled noisily. "I can't sleep, Holmes. My dreams, they are too terrible still."

"At least yours are dreams," he replied. "There's not a waking hour that I'm free from thoughts of him and what I've ..." Holmes paused, the little color in his cheeks draining away completely. "I wish there was some way to escape all this."

"I thought we'd escaped already," I sighed. "I guess I was mistaken."

Holmes shut his eyes and tucked his head further down against his knees. "Maybe tomorrow."

With a wry smile, I shook my head. "There is still rain in the forecast for tomorrow. And the day after, I'm afraid. As for our nightmares, a few hours won't change them."

"Then we'll leave them behind. I know a country house, three hours north. Enough to escape the rain which is coming from the south. The landlord is a good cook, the area is quiet and if we must be stagnant, at least it will be in the fresh air. What do you think?" He looked at me beseechingly. "Anything is better than this."

I peered at him, his pale cheeks and dull eyes and nodded. "I'm not too busy for a trip. Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

He nodded shakily. Against my protests, Holmes wavered to his feet and retrieved the Morocco case. He didn't hesitate before tossing it to me. "Here is my peace offering, Watson. Keep it and come with me to the country. We'll find better ways to 'drown our emotions', to use your own colorful phrasing. Perhaps we'll return with clearer minds."

Turning the leather case over in my hands, I wondered how at such a light thing could be the source of so many sorrows. "I'll begin packing then. As for you, you rest for the time being. I'll help you gather your things in the morning. I say this as your doctor."

His lips curled into a watery smile. "What does my friend say?"

"Your friend says you're a complete ass but he loves you regardless. Now go lie down."

With a tired laugh, he obeyed and I left the room, trembling from tiredness. Maybe a change of scenery would banish my terrors.

Maybe it could help Holmes as well.

xXx

*Holmes POV*

Accidents weren't my usual forte. I was well-versed in the dosages of the drugs I used for recreation but there was something evil in the air, a lingering presence in these apartments that neither myself nor Watson could shake.

Maybe the overdose wasn't an accident to my unconscious self. I was loathe to admit such folly, but I couldn't rule it out as a possibility.

I was haunted and there was no escaping this fact. Not by my poor, sleepless friend who still had enough patience to care for me when he should have abandoned me weeks ago, but by my own actions and thoughts during the time of Watson's incarceration.

By the thoughts I was having at that moment, every minute of every day. About finding Moriarty, killing him and sticking that damned jewel in his mouth for the Yard to find.

I was consumed. With anger and shame and more anger that Watson was ill from fear and the only way I believed our pain could be relieved was by murder. If I could only find the bastard, then ...

It's why I had to go. I needed to find my center again. London had too many temptations, even while drowned in rain. I needed sunlight and air and my mind to properly realign itself before I lost my bearings entirely.

I needed ... something. Something that wasn't found in a Morocco case.

Perhaps I could find it far away from the specter that was following me wherever I went.

xXx

continued in Chapter Two

A/N: This is more a fallout piece than an outright adventure. There will be a mystery to contend with though, as well as much angst. Thanks, as always, for reading!