Season's Greetings to all. Yes, I know, it's been a while. Let's see if I can remember how this goes...

Worth a Wound

There is a general census of opinion that doctors make the worst patients. On that point, I must disagree, or at least add that another portion of the population is equally qualified to hold this dubious honour. I refer of course to the unofficial consulting detective.

Into this category fall few individuals, and indeed it may be argued only one, for Sherlock Holmes would argue he is unique in the annals of crime and detection. Certainly, he stands alone as being quite the worst patient it has ever been my misfortune to treat, and on one occasion in particular he sorely tested the limits of my patience to breaking point.

It was a pleasant winter's afternoon on Christmas Eve in 1881, that momentous year of our meeting, a day still free of those frosts that tend to linger past morning when the sun holds its position low in a cloud-heavy sky. A slight ague and a debilitating ache from my shoulder brought on by the chill had forced me to remain indoors, whiling away my time before a heartening fire and catching up on my reading of the latest issues of the British Medical Journal.

Holmes had had a visit from Inspector Lestrade the day before and he had left early in the morning in a state of suppressed exultation. I gathered he was involved in a case, although he had been too preoccupied to avail me of the details. His agitation was such that I was obliged to abandon the sitting room the night before and leave him to his own devices. Long into the early hours I could still hear the creak of floorboards as he paced about, followed by catches of incoherent melodies as he scraped listlessly at his violin.

By the time I rose the next morning, he was dressed and ready to leave. As he fairly flew down the stairs, he called out that he would tell me all on his return. With the hands of the clock now standing at half past three and having tired of my reading material, I was awaiting his return with some little impatience.

I was not disappointed for long. Five minutes later, I heard the door bang downstairs. I expected to hear the sound of his fleet footfalls as he bounded up the stairs. Instead I heard a dull step, interspersed every now and then with a small protestation of pain.

I rose and went to the door to find him on the landing, pale as a ghost and looking slightly worse for wear. It did not require a trained eye to see that he was hurt.

"Holmes," said I, "whatever has happened?"

He was somewhat perturbed to see me. Immediately he relinquished his hold on the banister and tried to assume an air of nonchalance.

"Nothing at all, my dear fellow," said he.

I was not convinced. "Well, it seems to me that you are injured."

He forced a smile. "Not at all. Just a little tired."

He attempted to make for his door, favouring his right leg as he went, but I reached the threshold before he did and stood in his way. A frown touched his brow and his eyes narrowed.

"I see you are feeling better, at any rate," said he irritably.

"I am much improved, I will not deny. However, it is you who concerns me at present."

"What makes you think anything is wrong?"

"You were limping as you came up the stairs."

"You were mistaken, Doctor."

I shook my head. "I think not. I heard it quite distinctly. Now are you going to tell me?"

There was a moment's hesitation in which I could see him weighing up his options. As determined as he was not to tell me, I was equal in wishing otherwise. With balance in favour of my side of the argument, the contest did not last for long.

"Very well," said he. "If you must know, I had a slight accident."

"You fell down the stairs?"

"No."

"You slipped on the pavement?"

"No."

"You pulled a muscle?"

"No."

"Twisted your ankle?"

"Watson," said he with a weary sigh, "I appreciate your concern, but if we are to continue this catechism, would you have any objections to my sitting down?"

Before I could reply, there came a knock at the front door. I leaned over the bannister just enough to hear Mrs Hudson hurry along to answer it and then exchange a few words with our visitor.

"Yes, Inspector, Mr Holmes came in a few minutes ago," I heard her say. "He's upstairs."

"Lestrade," Holmes hissed. "Watson, I will be eternally in your debt if you could make an excuse for my absence."

"You don't want to see him?"

He had retreated to his room and was halfway over the threshold. "Not at the moment."

He closed the door and I was left alone on the landing. As Lestrade's footfall sounded on the stair, my eye was caught by several dark spots on the floor where Holmes had been standing. I stooped and touched the nearest. My fingertips glinted red in the glow of the gaslight. I took out my handkerchief and scrubbed the blood from my hands as Lestrade rounded the half-landing.

"Well, well, Dr Watson, compliments of the season to you, sir," said he.

"And the same to you, Inspector. If you're here to see Mr Holmes, you've missed him."

"Oh. Your landlady said he had just come home." He came up the last few stairs and glanced down at my stained handkerchief. "Had an accident, have you?"

"Cut my hand on a broken glass," I lied.

"Very careless, sir," said he. "You want to take care of that. I had an aunt who died of an infection after she accidentally stuck a needle in her thumb. She always said darning her husband's socks would be the death of her."

Given my discovery, I was not keen for Lestrade to linger. "Is there anything I can do for you, Inspector?"

"Well, it was Mr Holmes I really wanted to see." He had been glancing around, taking stock of his surroundings. His gaze settled on Holmes's door and the red smear I had only just noticed on the doorknob. "You see, there was an incident earlier. A nasty individual, Danebury, he got away from us right at the end. The thing was, he was armed. A shotgun. Buckshot. He fired before we could stop him."

"Good heavens," I said. "I trust no one was hurt."

Lestrade tore his gaze away from the doorknob and gave me a knowing look. "There was a child, a little girl, playing the street at the time. He was aiming at us, but she was in his line of fire. Mr Holmes snatched her out of the way just in the nick of time. Closest thing you ever saw."

I was beginning to understand. "I see, Inspector."

"Well, I thought I'd call by because he left before I had a chance to speak to him. The child's mother wanted to thank him too. As he'd gone, she wrote this note for him." He had been delving in his inner pocket and now produced a slip of paper. "Make sure he gets that."

"I'll be sure that he does."

Lestrade nodded and turned to go. "You take care of that hand, Doctor," said he as he made his way down the stairs. "Merry Christmas to you both."

I waited until I heard the front door close and then I knocked on Holmes's door.

"Lestrade has gone. You can come out now."

The door opened a crack, then certain we were alone, he let it swing wide. He seemed reluctant to join me in the warmth of the sitting room. "I'm obliged to you, Watson. Now if you don't mind, I am going to retire for the evening. The day has been trying and–"

"You were shot, weren't you, Holmes?"

It stopped him in his tracks. I saw in his mobile features the struggle between admitting what I knew to be true and denial. Finally, something in my own expression must have convinced him because he relented.

"Lestrade told you."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Did he also tell you that the case was badly handled? Had Danebury been arrested when I alerted the police to his involvement, the whole sorry scenario could have been avoided. That no one was killed was fortunate."

"Well, it is the time of year for miracles."

Holmes gave me a sullen look.

"Now," I continued, "where were you hit?"

He waved aside my concerns. "It is of no consequence, Watson. A trifle, nothing more."

Only Holmes could call such a wound a trifle. Others among us, the normal, sensible people, who know a serious injury when they see it, would have sought medical assistance without delay.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

I had removed my coat and was rolling up my sleeves when Holmes raised his hand.

"Really, it is unnecessary."

"Holmes, you are bleeding and you cannot put your foot to the ground. If the pellets are still in the wound, infection could set in."

"You presume, Doctor," said Holmes in a stern voice. "I may have acquired a slight injury in the course of the investigation, but it is nothing that concerns you. I shall see to my own treatment."

"Very well."

I must confess to being disappointed by his attitude. In the little time we had shared rooms, I had hoped I had impressed him with enough of my medical knowledge to earn his trust.

I said nothing of this to Holmes. Instead, I turned to go. Before I left, however, I had a parting shot before he shut me out.

"Richard the Lionheart."

"What about him?" Holmes enquired

"Do you know how he died?"

His expression was withering. "I sincerely doubt it involved a shotgun."

"A bolt from a crossbow, in matter of fact. They say part of his clothing was buried deep in the wound. It took him twelve days to die after gangrene set in."

"Fascinating. Good night, Watson."

I put my hand on the door to prevent him closing it. "If you have no faith in my skills, Holmes, then let me send for Dr Roberts. It is Christmas Eve, but I dare say he would come in an emergency. Mrs Hudson!"

I was out on the landing before Holmes could stop me. Our landlady appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Mr Holmes has been injured. Would you please send the boy for Dr Roberts?"

"Dr Roberts?" said she in consternation. "The one with the weeping boil on his neck? Didn't you say he never cleaned his scalpels, Doctor?"

"I did," I returned. "However, needs must when the Devil drives."

"Belay that request, Mrs Hudson," said Holmes as he limped out to join me. "Very well, Watson, you win."

"Good. Mrs Hudson, could you bring up hot water and towels?"

"Oh, good heavens, is it serious, sir?" said she.

"I don't know yet. Thank you, Mrs Hudson, as quick as you can. Now, Holmes, your room should suffice, I think."

Even with his surrender secured, he had the temerity to procrastinate. "Watson, I cannot ask you to do this," said Holmes. "Your constitution has been under strain of late."

"I have treated men missing limbs in foreign climes. I have given aid to those who have lost facial features to weapons of war. I think I can manage a shotgun wound." I took him by the arm and half-guided, half-supported him as he limped into his bedroom. "Now, where were you shot?"

He had the look of a deer cornered by the hounds. I did not know the reason for his continued reluctance to let me examine him; whatever the cause, however, I was fast growing tired of his behaviour.

"Are you going to show me or will I have to guess? Is it your thigh?"

Holmes looked away, looked up at the ceiling, at the wall, anywhere rather than meet my eye.

"Higher," he finally admitted.

Now I understood. There was something about his excessive modesty that was vaguely amusing. "Do you mean the gluteus maximus?"

"Yes, yes," said he with annoyance. "That is exactly where it is."

"You wouldn't be the first I have treated, Holmes. It must be very sore."

"Nothing I do not deserve for my blundering."

"The mother of the child takes a different view. Here, she wrote you a note thanking you. You should read it."

I passed the paper across to him. As he perused it, I fancied that I saw a slight smile touch the corner of his lips before he thrust it into his coat pocket.

"She makes too much of trifle," said he dismissively.

"As do you."

Holmes sighed. "Watson, we have shared lodgings for nearly a year. It is an unconscionable liberty to presume upon your good will in so delicate a matter in such an early stage of an acquaintanceship."

"I see," I said thoughtfully. "Do I take it then, where it not Christmas Eve, you would have sought attention from your own doctor?"

Holmes conceded with a shrug. "If I had one. I have been remiss in securing the services of a trustworthy physician since the move to Baker Street."

"Then you are in luck, Mr Holmes. As it happens, my surgery is open tonight and I am taking on new patients. Would this arrangement suffice for the time being?"

A flicker of amusement played across his lips. "I believe it would. A professional approach to the matter is acceptable, Dr Watson."

"Capital. Well, then if you would pop your trousers off and lie on the bed, I'll see what the damage is."

"Watson, let me stop you there. I have never 'popped' off any item of my clothing in the past nor do I intend to do so in the future. If it is some futile attempt at easing an already awkward situation, then it is misplaced."

"Remove then." I caught the sound of the stairs creaking. Mrs Hudson was approaching with the water and towels. Before I went out to take them from her, I paused. "It was a brave thing you did, Holmes."

"Anyone would have done the same," said he.

"You saved that child's life. Worth a wound, wouldn't you say?"

"Undeniably. The location could have been better. Well, Doctor, I am in your hands. I say that loosely of course, speaking as someone who has seen how you carve the Sunday roast. One can only trust that you intend to avoid a similar result on my person." A look of gratitude momentarily touched his stern features before it was banished. "Watson, I am in your debt."

"All in a day's work, Holmes."

Little did I know when I said it how rare were to be those moments when Holmes was to bestow upon me anything approaching praise, especially in my attempts to emulate his own skills. Ironically, it take a long time and another bloodletting for that severe mask to slip.

And as on that propitious Christmas Eve in 1881, it was well worth a wound.

The End