Originally, this was posted to the kink meme, but this is my rewritten version with more detail and (hopefully) a better and easier to follow storyline.
Ok, hope you like it! ^_^
/
The room was still. The patient lying in the third bed was unconscious. A nurse keeping vigil at his side was nodded away by Dr. Watson, who assured her that he would be taking care of his friend from then on.
The faintest sob shuddered its way out of Watson's mouth. He had heard that Holmes had sustained grievous injuries, but still he had not been prepared for the sight of his broken friend. Watson's mind took inventory of the various types of damage that had been inflicted. Holmes' femur was crushed. It was bound up in an immobile cast to try to insure proper healing. There was a gash on his forehead, nearly eye to eye in length. His throat was wrapped up like a mummy, that area having suffered a crushing blow as well. It was miraculous that he had been found in time to undergo surgery to repair his windpipe. The policemen who had found Holmes had immediately thought him to be dead for lack of breath. Yet, here he was: heart beating, lungs filling. All that remained was for the great detective to regain consciousness.
Watson rearranged Holmes' blankets, simply needing to move and feel like he was helping. Because in reality there was nothing that he could do.
Eventually, Watson was satisfied that Holmes was as comfortable as possible. He sat in the chair next to the bed, holding his friend's bruised hand. In the unsettling silence, Watson tried to make sense of the last few days.
/
Holmes had been investigating the disappearance of a little girl, Emily Rittenhour. Her wealthy family made daily visits to the detective's home to beg for answers, to cling to any bit of hope that Holmes could offer them. Holmes had been out every night until 3 am, chasing down any whiff of a clue he could grasp. At last, Holmes had had a lead. Watson hadn't been filled in on all the details by Holmes himself. The doctor had been basking in his domesticity with his wife, caring for his flourishing practice. Rather, the telegram that arrived at his home in the middle of breakfast with Mary and the resulting visit from Inspector Lestrade had given Watson the horrific details.
Holmes had taken off, half-cocked as usual, Scotland Yard scrambling to assemble themselves in his wake. When Lestrade and his men had arrived at the suspected kidnappers' hideout they found that half of a balcony had collapsed. Upon investigation later, the officers had found residue from a gelignite detonation. As they first approached the house, however, they had only found Holmes, half-buried in concrete rubble. Clarkie, the dear fellow, had been the first man to recover from his shock and to begin unearthing Holmes from the substantial weight that was crushing him. Holmes had been hastened away to the hospital where two surgeons had worked for hours to save his life.
/
Holmes coughed, an action that startled Watson, causing him to jump to his feet, Holmes' hand still held tightly.
"Holmes?" Watson said cautiously as eyelids began to twitch. The doctor was already counting this small movement a victory. Consciousness was very much preferable to unconsciousness.
Holmes made a small groan and then choked as this sound irritated his throat.
"Holmes, listen old boy. You've been in a bad accident and your throat is damaged. But, you're out of the woods now. You just need to take it easy and recover. Let's take it slowly; don't try to talk," Watson crooned, beseeching Holmes. He wasn't sure if Holmes was conscious of his voice, or in what state of disrepair he'd be in upon awakening. According to Lestrade's account of Holmes' effort in the case, the detective had run himself positively to shreds for the last week. This was apparent in the dark circles around Holmes' eyes and his thinner-than-usual figure.
Holmes' eyes finally opened. Emotions appeared and vanished in quick succession: confusion, fear, pain, exhaustion. His eyelids lowered as if he were about to fall into the arms of unconsciousness once more. At the last moment, however, he cringed and blinked the haziness from his vision. He looked at Watson then, and moved his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to find the effort incredibly painful.
Watson laid a hand gently on his shoulder. "Don't try to talk. Not yet anyway. You should be able to talk in a few days, Holmes. Just try to rest."
A line of worry crossed Watson's face as he witnessed a tear fall down Holmes' cheek and onto the bedsheets.
"Holmes," was all that Watson could say, barely a whisper. He was shocked at the sight of his proud and resilient friend openly weeping without so much as raising a hand to wipe his own tears away from his face. Watson wondered if perhaps Holmes was overcome at having survived the ordeal. Or, perhaps, his worry for the missing child had temporarily broken through his invincible emotional barriers. But, the tears just wouldn't stop coming. Watson forced himself to speak. "Holmes, Lestrade is still searching for little Emily. Trust that they will find her. I'm sure that everything will work out."
Holmes just stared back at him, seemingly baffled by Watson's words. The detective turned his head fitfully as though his neck couldn't rest properly in any position. Watson attempted to adjust Holmes' pillows to make the ailing man more comfortable. Holmes batted his hands away, impatiently. A moan passed through his battered throat as he finally stilled.
"Holmes, are you in pain? Have you received no medication for your injuries?" Watson asked. If so, then a few heads were going to roll across the hospital floor.
Holmes screwed his eyes shut and shuddered. Watson was two seconds away from calling for help. However, Holmes' lips parted and a phantom whisper reached Watson's ear. " 'urtsssss."
Watson didn't need to hear anything further. He patted Holmes companionably on the arm and voiced a few comforting syllables before swiftly exiting the room. He then raised his voice and made reference to his authority as a doctor and his respectability as a war veteran, demanding that his friend be given preferential care. "The bones in his leg are crushed, and he's just returned from surgery a few hours ago. Why did you not see to it that he was properly sedated or medicated for pain?"
"But, sir," said the younger doctor that Watson was screaming at, "we have been properly dosing him with morphine for the pain." He looked carefully over some paperwork. "Yes, you see here—" he indicated an entry, "—he just received an injection an hour ago. And before that, three hours."
Watson looked carefully at the log book. Everything seemed to have been adequately accounted for. "Why is he complaining of pain?" he asked.
The younger man gave an empathic smile. "He is very likely disoriented and confused right now. He has been treated with a lot of medicine, and had a very traumatic experience."
"How is his prognosis?" Watson asked. "On second thought, I should like to speak with one of the men who performed the surgery."
Before the other doctor could respond, there was a cacophony of sounds and echoes from Holmes' room. Without a second thought, Watson ran into the hospital room to find out what had happened. He expected that Holmes had thrown something across the room (probably a bedpan or a vase) in a fit of rage at being unable to voice his needs.
When Watson came into the room, Holmes was lying half on the floor, his broken leg remaining tethered to the bed, his shoulders and neck the only parts of him that actually touched the ground. He clutched his arm to his chest (he had likely injured it trying to get out of the bed, or during the fall) and made unrecognizable and yet meaningful sounds of pain. His dressing gown was snagged on the arm of the bed, leaving him partially exposed. He fought with the trappings on his leg as if they were solely the cause of his pain. He was reminiscent of a fox or a dog caught in a hunting trap, growling and snarling and fighting to free himself. Watson simply stood in the doorway, numbly, as if he were dreaming this macabre scene. Finally, his strength depleted, Holmes' upper body collapsed against the floor. He began to cry again, moaning and sobbing as though he were dying.
Watson at last emerged from his trance-like state and crossed the room. "Holmes," he said softly. "Let me help you back into the bed, old boy. Then I will get you a pen and paper and you can write to me what is the matter." Watson was desperate to help Holmes, to calm him down, damnit, because this behavior was completely and utterly absurd to him.
Holmes just stared up at the ceiling, tears unchecked running down his face.
Watson called for an orderly to help him lift Holmes and settle him back into bed. Holmes offered no resistance to Watson and the strange man hefting him and gently laying him back in the confining apparatus. Watson rearranged the pillows, placing a small one under Holmes' leg. He adjusted the sheets and fixed Holmes' misshapen collar. He then retrieved a notepad and pen from the physician's desk. Watson handed the notebook to Holmes who took it, but held it as though it were just some further sort of annoyance. The doctor then held out the pen for Holmes to take. Holmes stared at it but didn't reach for it. Watson simply put it into Holmes' hand and curled his fingers around it.
"Please, Holmes," Watson begged. "Write down what you want to say. I need to know what I can do for you."
Holmes took the pen and pressed it to the paper, to Watson's relief. Watson waited patiently, staring at Holmes' concentrating face. After a few minutes of writing, Holmes stopped and let the notepad fall into his lap. Thinking this was strange, Watson nevertheless picked up the paper to read. There were no words on the paper; there were only strange and haphazard lines drawn all across the page.