A/N: Written for Christmas fic/art exchange in watson's woes LJ comm. This was the request: Pure fluff and/or h/c. During retirement years, Watson gets sick/has a bad fall/something of that sort in London, and Holmes comes back to London (probably the only time he did) to entertain and take care of him for however long you choose.

Also inspired by KCS's sentence: Fall

#27 – Fall

Growing older had never seemed so terrifying as the afternoon a telegram to his cottage informed him that the Doctor had taken a bad fall in his consulting-room that morning and would be laid up in bed for a fortnight – but he wasted no time in wishing for the past; he had a valise to pack.

Holmes burst into my bedroom just as he used to in the old days, nearly taking the door off its hinges in his hurry, dropping his valise by the door and skidding the last few feet to my bedside. His eyes lost just a little of their anxiety when he saw that I was awake and cognizant. Nonetheless, he lost no time in inquiring, "Watson, how are you feeling?"

"Holmes, I am not in any danger of imminent demise," I was aware that my voice held a hint of fond exasperation. "Glad as I am to see you, you really need not worry so much." I heard him mutter under his breath, "Touché." I smiled and continued, "It is merely a bad sprain and some torn ligaments, in addition to a slight concussion. I shall have to spend a fortnight in bed with my leg elevated, after which time I shall have to use crutches for the next few weeks. I feel silly, really, that this happened. You see, I had my hands full with a stack of my medical notes and prescriptions and neglected to look at where I was placing my feet…and what should happen but that a toy dropped on the floor by one of my younger patients lay exactly in my path." I paused to draw a breath.

"I must admit I am a little surprised, however," I continued, "how did you happen to get here so quickly?"

"Your housekeeper apparently took it upon herself to inform me of what had occurred…" his voice faltered almost imperceptibly, "and I took the next train to London."

"Interfering woman," I muttered, "but I suppose I ought to be grateful in this particular instance." Holmes and I smiled at each other. I must have drifted off shortly after (side effect of concussion, no doubt), because next time I opened my eyes, morning sunlight was streaming through the blinds and Holmes was sound asleep slumped over in a chair next to my bed.

During that morning, I had but to blink to have Holmes anxiously bending over me and asking if there was anything I needed. I admit to being equally touched by his concern and slightly annoyed by his fussing. He truly has mellowed in his later years; he did not seem wary of showing emotion any longer.

I admit the annoyance was beginning to outweigh my gratitude when I hit upon an idea that I supposed would entertain me and keep him occupied at the same time. "Holmes," I brightly inquired, "have you brought your violin with you?"

"Yes, Watson, I have. Would you like me to play for you?"

"I would greatly appreciate it."

Holmes's touch of rheumatism, which I mentioned before, certainly did not affect his violin-playing. On the contrary, his playing, which has always been excellent, now has become…oh, it is so difficult to describe, but it was more…heartfelt, somehow. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the music.

The next few days weren't wholly unpleasant. It was a nuisance to be confined to bed, certainly, but Holmes's society more than made up for it. In fact, I found myself thinking that it was worth taking a fall to have him spend time with me. One afternoon, as we sat talking of anything and everything, he surprised me by putting this question to me:

"How can you remain so patient, Watson? You are such an active man…I know forced inactivity for a fortnight would drive me mad—although granted, I'm not the most patient of mortals."

I grinned knowingly. "Well, I shan't argue with that statement, seeing that it came from your own lips. As to my patience—I learned that from an old and dear friend of mine."

"I am not quite certain I understand, Watson. Would you please elaborate?"

"That is easily done. Would you hand me the small volume in the middle of the bookshelf above my desk?"

"Certainly," he responded, getting up and striding over to the bookshelf. "This one?" his hand hovered next to a slim and obviously well-read green-covered volume.

"Yes, that is the one--"The Discourses of Epictetus." Thank you, Holmes," said I as he handed me the volume. I opened it and rapidly rifled through the pages until I came to the passage I wanted and started reading it aloud.

"Indeed, a man loses only that which he already has. 'I have lost my cloak.' Yes, for you had a cloak. 'I have a pain in my head.' You don't have a pain in your horns, do you? Why, then, are you indignant? For our losses and pains have to do only with the things which we possess.

'But the tyrant will chain--' What? Your leg. 'But he will cut off--' What? Your neck. What, then, will he neither chain nor cut off? Your moral purpose. This is why the ancients gave us the injunction, 'Know thyself.' What follows, then? Why, by the Gods, that one ought to practice in small things, and beginning with them, pass on to the greater. 'I have a head-ache.' Well, do not say 'Alas!' 'I have an ear-ache.' Do not say 'Alas!' And I am not saying that it is not permissible to groan, only do not groan in the centre of your being. And if your slave is slow in bringing your bandage, do not cry and make a wry face and say, 'Everybody hates me.' Why, who would not hate such a person?"

"I see." Holmes bowed his head with a look as near to embarrassment as I've ever seen him display.

"Well, let us talk of something else," I hastened to say. "Tell me, how are your bees?" I was treated to an hour-long lecture on the creatures in response.

The two weeks passed much faster than I would have thought possible, thanks in no small part to Holmes's company. A day or so after I was up and about and he was satisfied that I was all right, he went back to his cottage in Sussex and those infernal bees…but not before I extracted a solemn promise from him to come and visit me regularly.