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Until now, I had never heard Holmes whimper. He was far too masterful and self-possessed for such a vulnerable noise. Not even in his varied roles onstage had he ever made such a sound, at least not in the years that I had been by his side.
And yet, there was no mistaking that sound. Holmes was whimpering.
“Holmes,” I called from my own narrow bed, one of two crammed in the small room at the back of our current playhouse. “Holmes, are you all right?”
Another low, quavering whimper, and his lanky form twitched under the blankets, the movement barely visible in the low light from the gaslamps and the crimson moon. He twitched again, and then moaned.
“Holmes.” I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the sharp stabbing ache in my thigh. “Sherry?”
Nothing aside from another whimper.
I rose, glad that my shoes were in their usual spot right beside the bed. If our residence was raided, the ability to quickly slip into shoes could mean the difference between a free life and horrific madness. Right now, they just protected me from the cold floor as I limped to Holmes’ bedside and sat.
He had curled up tightly under the blankets, fingers digging into the thin mattress. Another twitching shudder rolled through him, and although the shadows smothered most traces of light, the faint illumination betrayed tears on his cheeks.
That startled me even more than the whimpers, for I had never seen him cry before, not even from pain. He had of course feigned weeping onstage, and he did it excellently, but to shed actual tears?
“Sherlock. Sherry!” I reached out, then hesitated. He and I lived a life of constant peril, one in which any unexpected touch could herald a tentacled limb about to drag one towards death or other worse fates. “My dear fellow, please wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
He didn’t wake up. Instead, he began to thrash, his long, thin arms breaking free of the blankets. They moved in quick, practiced motions that I recognized at once.
In his dream, he was fighting, and not on the offensive. He was losing his fight, perhaps the same fight he had nearly lost some weeks ago.
Sweat broke out across his face, and more tears fell. His whimpering became a continuous whine, low and desperate and terrified.
I could not leave him like this. No matter the risk, I reached out at once, and caught him by the shoulder. “Holmes, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, and you must wake up.”
He only thrashed more violently, a cry bursting from him as he struck out at a monstrous enemy that wasn’t there. But I knew all too well what he was seeing, and what he was feeling. Those too-dexterous grasping limbs, the wild and hate-filled multitude of eyes, the inexorable pull of a incomprehensible mind intent on domination.
“Holmes!” Although it went against all my instincts, I gave him a hard shake. “Holmes, wake up!”
His grey eyes flew open and locked onto me with all the intensity of a Great Old One, so much so that I briefly lost the power of speech. And then, so quickly that I hardly saw the motion, he drew a blade from under his pillow and struck at me.
“Holmes!” I hardly raised my left arm in time to block the panicked slash. The knife skated down the side of my arm, opening a burning line of pain, but at least it had not plunged into my neck. “It’s me, it’s Watson!”
My words did not seem to get through. He pounced at me, and we tumbled out of the bed.
I crashed into the floor, and he landed lithely on top of me with all the ease of the finest predator, like the tigers I had seen in India. Even in this moment, I was struck by his beauty, his grace.
Thankfully, not so struck that I was incapable of speech now. As he raised the blade again, his eyes locked on me, I clutched at the front of his shirt and met his hostile gaze. “Sherry, stop!”
Holmes blinked, and when he looked at me again, the desperate need to do battle and defend himself was gone from his eyes. Confusion took its place, and then alarm. “My dear Watson, whatever are you doing on the floor?”
I choked back my immediate indignant response, for I could see that he still wasn’t himself. Gently, I took the knife from his wavering hand, holding his gaze. “Holmes, do you know where you are?”
“We are in Albion, of course, and quite busy with—” He looked around, still straddling me, and then uttered a sharp curse. “Forgive me, my boy. It seems I have misplaced myself. What have I done?”
Fear lurked in his voice behind the brisk, businesslike tone, and his gaze still wandered. He was likely still seeing our last hunt, when he had nearly been killed before I was able to slay our target.
“You’ve had a nightmare,” I said in my most soothing tone, as I might do with a patient who had nearly been dragged into madness and needed to be guided back. “It is all right. We are still on the Continent, in our room at the playhouse.”
His shoulders relaxed, and he gave a slow nod. This was hardly an illustrious playhouse, but between his acting and my assorted skills, we made enough money on which to live. “Of course. Pray forgive my little lapse. I fear I was…”
He looked down at me, and then seized my wrist in a convulsive grasp. His sharp gaze traveled across my torn sleeve, the jagged white fabric stained red.
“It was not your fault,” I said quickly as realization dawned on his face. “You thought you were being attacked, and the wound is not serious.”
“Dear me, dear me!” he cried, more stricken than I had ever seen him, even more stricken than he had been during the nightmare. “Oh, my boy, I owe you a thousand apologies. Do you sit on my bed, and let me tend to you.”
I knew better than to attempt to argue with him. My leg and shoulder ached terribly from both the tension and my collision with the floor, and I allowed him to help me up. The wound burned with pain, but a quick examination proved that it was not deep.
“It is just a scratch,” I said as Holmes took up his lens and examined the cut even more intently by candlelight. “It does not even need to be sutured. If you will apply pressure—”
“I am well experienced in stopping bleeding,” he snapped, expression grim and haunted.
“Then stop staring at it with your lens, and stop the bleeding.”
I had not intended to be so blunt, but he gave a quick, silent laugh in response before lapsing back to grimness. “You are quite right to chastise me, but I wished to be certain that not a trace of emerald blood had entered your wound. My knife has been in many foul places.”
“Yes, and you have always cleaned and sterilized it after.”
“Quite true, and yet I could never forgive myself if it had poisoned you. If I had done some irreparable harm to my Watson...” His lip trembled, and a tear slipped down his cheek. For a moment, I thought he might begin to weep in earnest.
But he collected himself, sprang up, and dashed for my medical bag. He had not put on his own shoes, and I winced at the thought of how chilled he must be. Seeming not to notice the chill at all, he came back at once, gently collected my arm, and pressed a bandage to the wound.
I watched him closely, worried. He was attempting to appear calm and masterful, his usual self, but even in low light he could not hide the continued glimmer of tears in his eyes. He frequently swallowed hard, and was scarcely breathing. From time to time as he kept pressure on the wound, his lip trembled.
“It was not your fault, my dear Holmes,” I repeated when I could bear his distress no longer. “You did not mean to harm me.”
He gave a sharp snarl of disagreement. “And yet, I did harm you. I really am so very sorry.”
“I am all right. It’s just a scratch. You have examined it yourself, in detail.”
“It is superficial,” he admitted, grudging.
“And it will heal easily. As it is on my left arm, it will not even impede my writing.”
“You should not need to comfort me.” He quickly wiped his eyes with his free hand. “I ought to be comforting you.”
“I am not in need of comfort. My only concern is for your well-being.” And he did not need to know about the guilt coiling in my chest, the feeling that I ought to have been more careful in waking him. “You were having terrible nightmares. You seemed to be losing that last fight again in your sleep.”
For a moment, I thought he would simply ignore me and continue tending to my wound in silence. But then he gave a slow nod, and shivered. “I admit I am still a little out of sorts. The dream was most vivid.”
“You did not awaken when I called to you.”
“I did not hear you.” He shivered again, more violently this time. He, like me, had gone to bed still in his shirt and trousers. They did not seem to be warm enough for him now, or perhaps the horror of his dream would prevent anything from being warm enough. “It had me, Watson. I attempted to break free, just as I did that night, but I could not manage it. It began to consume me, unraveling my mind and combing through it in search of the most delectable morsels.”
This time, I was the one that shivered. I had never suffered the same degree of attention from one of our oppressors, but each time we battled them, there was always a chance that one or both of us might succumb to the sheer horror of the things we fought. That we might be overcome by the wrongness of them, our minds unable to cope with the way they moved, looked, smelled.
“It did not succeed in consuming you,” I said as firmly as I could manage, laying my hand on Holmes’ arm. “You are here, and I am here. It will be all right.”
He let out a heavy sigh and touched our brows together. For a time, we simply sat in that manner, both shaken but relieved not to be alone. And for my part, feeling incredibly lucky not to have been more seriously injured.
At last, Holmes drew back. Avoiding my gaze, he dug in my medical bag and drew out a roll of bandages. “Well, well. I suppose that once I finish tending to this regrettable would, I ought to allow you to return to bed. No doubt you should like to rest.”
He would never ask for what he needed, but I had every intention of giving it anyway. “Perhaps I could share your bed? I would feel better close to you.”
It was a most transparent offer of aid, but his expression softened nonetheless. “Even after I have wounded you?”
“Of course. I always feel safe with you, and this does not change that.”
Tears glistened again in his eyes, and once he had finished bandaging my wound, he seized my hand and shook it. “I am most honored by your trust, John.”
I kicked off my shoes and we squeezed into bed together, pressing close against each other in the darkness. Holmes had blown out the candle, and the crimson light of the moon once again held sway.
Even curled together, sharing our warmth, Holmes shivered violently. I drew him closer and brushed slow, tender kisses to his brow, his cheeks, and finally one to his lips. “It is all right,” I murmured, smoothing his hair. “I’m here.”
He let out a long, shaky breath. “I fear I am a little reluctant to sleep, Watson. I have no wish to return to the realm of dreams so soon. I must admit I have not entirely slept well these past weeks.”
“I know.” I had not heard whimpers, no, but it was impossible to miss the way that Holmes avoided sleep, and often awoke with a start. His performances onstage had not suffered at all, for he was a consummate actor, but he spent much of his free time in silent, moody brooding. “But perhaps you will feel better if I am by your side?”
Holmes smiled slightly, brushing his hand against my cheek. “My dear Watson, everything is better when you are by my side.”
Despite his protest about his unwillingness to sleep, his eyes closed within a few minutes and he drifted into slumber. I laid beside him, watching his peaceful expression and listening to his steady breaths. My own nerves finally calmed. I had been left deeply unsettled by his earlier reactions, the whimpers and tears.
For now, at least, there were no signs of distress, no indications that the inhuman monsters who ruled our world were clawing at his mind even in sleep. And even if he fell into nightmares again, if those past horrors seized him, I would be close at hand to pull him out of their grip at once.
I pressed a gentle kiss to his brow, blinking away tears of my own. “Good night, Sherry,” I whispered. “Sleep. I am here beside you.”