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Being trapped in bed was unimaginably dull. It had been horrible enough even when Holmes had been floating in a morphine-induced haze for much of the time. At least then he had certainly not felt like moving, or indeed even sitting up.
He felt like sitting up now, but was not certain that it was a wise idea. The steady pounding in his head worsened whenever he so much as rolled over. He had only managed his little outing the previous night because of the case, and because Watson could not maintain his guise as an expert in Chinese pottery for long. Intervention had been necessary.
Necessary, but it had not helped with the pain in his head. It was much worse today, and the light troubled him immensely. He tried to sit up, and crumpled back with a gasp as everything went into a spin.
“Dear me.” With a shaky exhale, he covered his eyes with one hand. That hurt too. In fact, his entire body was extraordinarily painful, as if he had been beaten all over again.
The boredom was perhaps more painful than the after effects of being nearly beaten to death, however. It gnawed at him, a pervasive buzzing frustration that had only worsened as the day went on. And Watson was not even courteous enough to be keeping him company at the moment.
Holmes sighed. Watson was, in fact, out fetching newspapers at his request. But his absence only heightened the agitation until Holmes felt as if he might scream. He must do something to relieve this.
Perhaps he could at least briefly rise from bed. That would certainly be preferable. Walking out to fetch his pipe would be an immense relief. Even going over to see the model ship that Watson had given him would be a relief. He simply needed some form of stimulation.
The model ship was in his room at the immediate moment. It would be simplest to reach that first, and see if he was well enough to proceed to his pipe.
With some difficulty, he struggled into a seated position. His heartbeat raced, each beat pounding in his temples and especially on the left side of his head where he had received the worst blow. His stomach lurched, and for a moment he thought he might be ill.
But that would be deeply inconvenient, especially as Mrs. Hudson was likely listening for sounds of trouble. Struggling for control, he touched a finger to his lips and attempted to focus.
He would not be ill. He did not have time to be ill. Being ill would not, in any way, be good stimulation.
He struggled out of bed, fumbled for his cane, and made his way across the room as quietly as possible. Breathless, he leaned against the wall and studied the model ship.
It was not as stimulating as studying something unfamiliar would be, but it did have an immense amount of detail and brought up an immediate flood of memories that he might use as a distraction from his likely impending loss of consciousness.
He did not have time to faint either. That too, would not be good stimulation. He attempted again to focus on those memories.
Watson had built the ship, and been so terribly proud of himself when he gave it to Holmes. The good doctor did love sea stories, and his excitement had more than made up for the fact that Holmes had no idea what he was supposed to do with a large, impractical gift that took up rather more space than a painting.
Its impracticality meant that the ship had sometimes sailed to the hallway when Holmes needed more space in his room, but in time he always brought it back to its original berth. And although at the moment his vision was growing increasingly blurry and his legs weakening, he smiled as he gazed at it. Yes, he did love this ship. It had been a gift from Watson, after all.
Sudden, sharp pain stabbed into Holmes’ head, and he lost control over a sharp cry. His hand quaked, and his cane slipped from his fingers. It clattered to the floor, no doubt alerting Mrs. Hudson.
At the moment, he had larger worries. Namely, that his head seemed to have decided that it was going to explode. This was certainly not good stimulation.
“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes?”
He gave a breathless sob, clutching at the dresser with one hand. The other, he pressed to his left temple. Rather than relieving the pain as it usually did when he developed a severe headache, it only worsened the agony. Still, he could not stop.
“Oh, sir! What are you doing out of bed?” Hands caught his arm, and he instinctively tried to jerk away from the unwelcome touch. “Mr. Holmes, you must sit down.”
“I am… perfectly all right,” he choked, and the crashing pain in his head became so violent that it was all he could do to stay upright. His stomach churned, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the light. “I am just…”
Just vomiting, it seemed. His stomach flipped over, everything lurched, and then he was doubled over. He managed to twist away to avoid being sick on either Mrs. Hudson or his ship, at least, but there was little else he could do.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson gripped his arm, which was fortunate as he seemed to be falling over. “Doctor, come quickly!”
“Mrs. Hudson? What’s wrong?” Steps bounded up the stairs, and Holmes winced at the sound. Watson would wound himself running upstairs that at such a speed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Holmes!”
Soon Watson had hold of him too, and was half carrying him back to bed. At least, that was Holmes’ assumption. He was too busy gagging and retching to be certain.
“Easy, old man. Easy.” Watson cradled the back of his head in one hand and eased him back to the pillows. Holmes moaned vaguely. “Mrs. Hudson, can you bring me water and a cloth?”
“All my apologies,” Holmes mumbled. He was no longer vomiting, at least, but his head spun wildly. And the pain still had not lessened. “I had not intended to decorate the floor.”
“It’s all right, sir. Don’t you worry about that.” Gently, Mrs. Hudson touched his shoulder. “You just rest now and let us take care of you.”
He had little choice. Rising had clearly been a poor decision, and although he was still remarkably bored, he could do nothing about it. He must simply focus on regaining control and not humiliating himself further.
Watson wiped his mouth clean, then took a fresh cloth and bathed Holmes’ face. “You shouldn’t have gotten up, Holmes. You put serious strain on yourself last night, and rising again so soon was more than your body could tolerate.”
“Thank you, Watson. We have established that.”
Lips pursed, Watson stroked his hair off his brow, then adjusted his bandage to lay more comfortably. It had been rumpled when Holmes grabbed at his head. “What were you thinking? You know how ill you felt last night.”
Holmes grunted. He had been hardly able to think yesterday after he and Watson burgled Baron Gruner’s house. Returning to Baker Street had taxed him further, and he’d needed assistance even to walk. It had indeed been an unwise idea to rise today, and yet.
“I was bored.” With the steady pounding in his head, it was difficult to say even that, let alone explain just how miserable he had been. “Watson, I could not bear to simply…”
Another sharp pain jolted through his head, and he cut off with a wince. His stomach churned again, protesting his attempt to think.
“My poor Mr. Holmes.” Gently, Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder again. He tried to flash a quick smile at her, and suspected that he had hardly managed a twitch. “Is there anything I can fetch for you, sir?”
His pipe. His scrapbooks. An interesting case. A considerable dose of cocaine…
Watson would certainly not approve of any of those options. However, Holmes could not think of any others.
“Why don’t you make us all tea, Mrs. Hudson?” Watson suggested when Holmes entirely failed to find a reply. “Thank you for taking care of Mr. Holmes.”
“Well, he does need plenty of looking after, and I’m happy to do it.” She gazed down at him far more tenderly than he deserved after being sick all over her floor. “You just rest, sir. I’ll be back with your tea soon.”
Holmes managed a quick, tiny smile, then attempted to collect himself. Shivering, he rubbed his hands together. Even that motion was enough to make him a little dizzy, and to set off a fresh wave of pounding through his head.
“I should not have gone to collect the newspapers,” Watson said, taking his hand as soon as he laid it down. “I knew you were bored. I should never have left you alone.”
“Oh, Watson, don’t start that. You were retrieving…” Holmes winced again. It seemed that finding words was overly taxing for him at the moment.
“I know I was retrieving the papers because you were bored, but I still should not have left you alone. Normally, you have little regard for your own health.” Expression grim, Watson stared down at their joined hands. “Given the circumstances, I should have expected you to have even an even worse ability to control your impulses than usual.”
Holmes was not certain whether he ought to be offended by that, which was likely not a good sign. “Hm?”
“Holmes, you received severe blows to the head, blows that rendered you unconscious. That kind of trauma can easily create ongoing effects, and it is not the first time you’ve been struck in such a manner.” Watson met his gaze, and the worry in his eyes made Holmes’ heart wrench. “Your brain is under considerable strain, and still trying to heal. Pushing yourself this quickly could slow your recovery.”
“I feel slow, on the whole.” That was a perfect way to describe it, and he found himself alarmed that he had not considered it until now. “My thoughts do not race as they should, and I am so very tired. But I cannot bear this idleness, Watson. I wished to find some form of stimulation.”
“Looking at the model ship I gave you is stimulation?” Watson asked, sounding entirely baffled.
“Of course it is. I have many fond memories associated with it. And it is a gift from my Watson.”
“I could bring it closer.” Watson squeezed his hand, then stood. He went to the dresser, picked up the model ship, and carried it to the table beside Holmes’ bed. “There, old man. How’s that?”
Holmes flashed a weak smile. “Thank you. Perhaps you might read…”
The pain stole his words, and he groaned. His heart still beat too quickly, and he could no longer keep his eyes open. The light hurt, which also discouraged open eyes.
“I would be glad to read to you when you feel able to listen,” Watson said softly, taking his hand again. “Perhaps those papers after all. Or, if you’d prefer, maybe some sea stories.”
Although it hurt Holmes’ head to do so, he chuckled. “Sea stories would be excellent, Watson.”
Stories would not be nearly as stimulating as being able to move freely, but perhaps they could provide a distraction while he was confined to bed. He suspected he would be here for some time to come, as his head seemed to violently object to any movement. At least with Watson’s company—and Mrs. Hudson’s tea—the need to rest was a little more bearable.