Title: Cry, Baby, Cry

Rating: PG-13.

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)

Chapter: 1/1

Pairings: Watson/Holmes

Warnings: Angst (a la depression/despondency), infantilism.

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Out of necessity, Holmes and Watson have formed a routine that Watson knows exactly when to implement.

Disclaimer: No gain of any kind is made on this story; just havin' fun.

Word Count: 1396

Man is a fragile creature.

This is something Holmes reminds me of when he arrives home in a melancholy state of mind and immediately presents himself to me. He will stand with his stare downcast, leaving scarcely a breadth between our bodies.

I know, at these times, that he is ready to crumble inside, and I cannot help but wrap my arms around him. He counts on me to; he may go ahead and crumble if I fail to give him that much.

When Sherlock Holmes, brilliant and vibrant person that he is, runs out of steam... When the grown man in him can no longer deal with the world the way it is, that is when the boy emerges. Beyond the man he's become, Holmes is also a lost, frightened child. He comes to me not only for solace, but for my control. Down to the tiny, everyday mundanities, he requires direction; when Holmes relinquishes his vices and responsibilities, his surrender is absolute.

For his sake more than mine, I do not ask him to explain what happened to trigger the reversion this time. Instead, I shift my weight slowly to rock him back and forth in my embrace. I coo to him nonsensical phrases meant to calm him as much as they are meant as permit for him to release what inner chaos torments him. Wet, salty chaos I can feel land in tiny drops upon the shoulder of my weskit.

Sometimes, as he cries and whimpers against me, I thank the heavens that he allows himself to be overcome. The drugged ignorance of his basic psyche was slowly killing him, in more ways than one. What he does now, despite appearances, is a healthier route than the needle.

Sometimes, a tear or two of my own mingle with his.

Holmes' body is tense, his skin fevered with stress. His muffled keens are like those of a madman at first, but his eyes lay tell of a true pain in his soul. Once he begins to quiet, once he has to sniffle to breathe, I stop rubbing his back and I draw away just enough to take him by the arm. He needs me to stay close, but he also needs more than a solid hug. He shuffles alongside me, gratefully allowing me to steer him into the bedroom.

It has taken time, but I have learned to see what he needs without being told. I find it remarkable now that I was ever so blind as I was to the depth of what Holmes hid from when he used to go so far as to sedate himself; it horrifies me now. I used to be upset with him - I thought it most irresponsible behaviour.

I was right.

All responsibility is mine for undressing him once he lies on the bed. Holmes somehow conveys his gratitude as he looks up at me, though he looks the saddest he ever could. He responds brainlessly to my cues as I coax him to roll onto his side, to sit up, to straighten his legs. Eventually, he is naked on the blankets. I spot fresh goosepimples on his arms and rub warmth into him from my hands. Instinctually, he slumps forward and makes himself small against my chest. I envelop him as best I can and encourage him to let the tears out.

He is past crying, though, and moves to bite his thumb. A physical pain to distract from the anguish is what he seeks to create, but I cannot allow it. I bend down, rub my thumb at the corner of his mouth, and pull his hand away with mine. Holmes' thumb is wet and holds indents shaped like teeth. I give him a disappointed - but not scolding - look, and I take something from the bedside drawer.

I hold his head and give him a firm kiss. Holmes tries to lose himself in it, sucking and biting at my bottom lip. There is too much mental uproar and he is confused; he would throw himself just as easily into sex to escape his qualms.

I break away. With my other hand, I slip a rubber dummy nipple into his mouth.

Embarrassed and calmed at the same time, Holmes accepts it and begins to suck. His body stills, he lets go of my shirt and allows me to step away long enough that I can assemble the supplies I require. He watches silently while I arrange his nightshirt and other things beside him on the bed.

A thick, quilted cloth goes in the middle of the bed. Holmes darts a glance at me from beneath wet eyelashes and scoots himself over the cloth. In the quiet room, between his waning sniffles, I can hear Holmes' throat work as he transmits his frustrations to the pacifier.

I climb on the bed with Holmes, press another kiss to his forehead, and ease him back so he lies down. He draws up his knees, without being prompted, to make room for me to powder his bottom and pin the diaper around him. I do, and once it is on I give Holmes a squeeze in the front; he deserves a small reward for being this cooperative, and it never hurts to bolster his self-esteem when he is in these moods. I smile down at him with what I hope he knows is love.

Holmes squirms his hips and manages a shy smile back around his pacifier, which is more than enough to tell me we're on the right track.

Soon, I have him swaddled in his oversized nightshirt and tucked snugly beneath the duvet. I set him up with a small, wooden toy to keep his mind occupied while I procure hot tea from Missus Hudson, downstairs.

The cup I pour for Holmes is almost half milk, turning the tea creamy. Sitting next to him, reclined on a small mountain of pillows, I pull out his pacifier gently and hold the soothing drink in front of Holmes to see if he will take it and feed himself. He is not always of a mind to; when he is like this, he still has times where he is more reliant on me than others.

He takes it, but is clumsy with the cup thanks to a level of emotional numbness he feels now that the initial wave is over; it is strong enough to become chill, real numbness that seeps into his slender fingers. He fumbles with the cup on his first sip. I anticipate him losing his grip and I take the tea from him just before it can fall.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His eyes are red and puffy.

He should know, by this point, that he needs not apologise. But his shortcomings, however insignificant, upset him especially in this sensitive state. He seems to feel he must make recompense in some way, even in mere words. I flinch at hearing it.

"Hush," I tell him softly, "you did nothing wrong. Here, open up and drink."

Holmes opens his mouth obediently. His gaze does not leave mine as I lean in and tilt the cup to his lips.

I brush the backs of my fingers up and down his cheek while he sips, and I encourage him, "There's a good boy."

A nerve is struck with that, and Holmes' tears begin afresh. He looks down, focuses on the cup as I feed him.

"You are my darling boy, my dear," I tell him. "You are such a good boy, Holmes." I am well aware that I stoke whatever it is that makes him weep, but I also know it is something he needs to hear.

Whatever makes him doubt it, I do not know, but I repeat it to him after the tea is gone and he is curled up in bed with me at his back.

"Good boy. Good boy," I whisper.

I press close to him and inhale. He makes a sleepy hum when I reach between the sheets and start to rub circles on his warm belly. Holmes is exhausted after a good cry, and I am confident he will sleep a decent portion of the night through once he drifts off.

In the morning he will be of slightly better cheer, but he will still be my precious baby boy.

~fin~