A/N: This is set during the second episode 'The Crown of Mazalin', in which poor Watson gets knocked out during the fight. This story is set between the fight and the end, in which Hound and Watson's friendship develops! Hope you all enjoy reading!
Disclaimer: Sherlock Hound and Co belong to their rightful owners (Which is not me)
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"Shall we take him to the hospital too?" An ambulance stretcher bearer jerked a thumb at an unconscious Watson, who was supported by one pair of midnight blue clad arms. A second bearer started to move to relieve the police officer of his burden, when a second, self-assured voice spoke out.
"No, no, that will not be necessary, my good man. I shall take him home immediately, and see to his injuries myself."
Sherlock Hound did not fail to deliver his customary masterfulness- one which the police knew all too well. The stretcher bearers just nodded at each other, unwilling to argue, and then at the sleuth, who had a gleam of determination in his eyes.
"Just ensure he keeps awake when he comes to, and make sure his injury is well bandaged, Mr Hound." They informed, but the detective's paw sweeps the air dismissively.
"I can deal with minor injuries." Hound's voice assured smoothly. "He is in good hands, gentlemen." Then he turned away to see some of Lestrade's men lifting an unconscious Watson into their car.
He'd never thought he'd get to use such a word, but this man is now his flatmate and associate. Shaking his thoughts off, he handed a mud splattered white sack to a nearby policeman. "Here is the crown of Mazalin- please return it to Mr Sampson. And also," He paused to look at the ambulance behind them, where a faint but persistent moaning could be heard. "…pass my regards to Inspector Lestrade, if you would be so kind."
…
Hound did not expect his shoulder to come into good use that night.
After hitting a particularly nasty bump on the road, Hound got the car under control- but he was very surprised when the older man's head fell with a dull thud onto Hound's shoulder. This made him smile a little- but he was also worried for his comrade.
The rest of the drive home consisted of Watson's head constantly bouncing gently on Hound's shoulder on the way home, but the detective did not mind at all. He just patted his companion's shoulder amiably in response to Watson wincing in pain at having his bump aggravated repeatedly.
"Nearly home, old boy," He informed his acquaintance consolingly. "I must say, Watson- you put up a terrific fight back there." He added sincerely, with a note of both awe and anxiety in his voice. The ugly, purple swelling near Watson's left ear easily spoke for itself.
….
The first thing Hound did as soon he reached 221B Baker Street was to stop the engine, and help a still comatose doctor out of the vehicle, cursing all the while as he - accidentally, of course- bashed the doctor's limbs against the frame of his beloved car. He did not wish to damage it, or worse, hurt Watson.
Thankfully for him, Mrs Hudson heard the commotion, and despite Hound's chivalric protests, she helped the two inside to the front lobby. "Is he alright, Mr Hound?" She asked anxiously, looking at the doctor with her usual maternal concern, before gazing at him imploringly with her soft green eyes, causing Hound to gulp a little.
"He will be soon, Mrs Hudson. He just needs some minor medical attention." The detective answered distractedly, trying to remember where the deuce the doctor left his medical bag, in an attempt to avoid being distracted by his landlady's beauty.
"I have it, Mr Hound." She informed him, as if she had read his mind- or deduced the object of his search.
Hound's head perked up, and he plucked his prized pipe from his teeth. "Ah yes, thank you, my dear. Would you mind bringing it upstairs for me? I should bring him up to our rooms."
"Why not just use my living room, Mr Hound?" She asked him, as a suggestion. "I wouldn't mind at all, and I don't want you lifting Doctor Watson up those stairs and see either of you get hurt in the attempt."
"Hm, a capital idea, Mrs Hudson- your help is much appreciated." Hound replied in relief. Watson was a great deal heavier than he, and he had a feeling getting him up seventeen stairs would not end very well for either of them.
…
Once the two helped Watson through to Mrs Hudson's rooms, she handed her tenant his flatmate's medical bag, and with a brief nod of thanks, Hound rummaged around and retrieved a roll of bandages from within.
"There you are, old boy," He said quietly, although Watson was still unconscious, wrapping a bandage round his colleague's head, near his left ear. It was badly bruised, but not bleeding. He cut off the bandage, before tying it up. He smiled thoughtfully at his handiwork on the good doctor as he grabbed his pipe from his pocket, before settling into an armchair beside the warming comfort of the fire to observe the good doctor.
But even though he had done all that he could, Hound was still worried, so he remained in his landlady's rooms, observing and smoking his pipe. Mrs Hudson brought him tea, which he gratefully accepted, but he drank very little.
At last, at quarter to twelve, Hound was roused by a light moan. At once, he sprang across the room, and was delighted to see the dear doctor's eyes open slowly. "Watson! Are you quite alright?" He asked in a rush.
"Oof...A bit sore on the head, Hound," Watson answered ruefully "but I'll live." He nodded, and managed a smile at the sleuth. He was surprised to see Hound show such a great deal of concern. The detective was not heartless- certainly not- but there was something in his distress over the doctor's wellbeing that made him think that Hound
"I know- you took a nasty bump from Smiley and Todd." Hound answered coolly, no longer worked up over the doctor's state of health. Nevertheless, he placed a hand on Watson's head, and light, spindly fingers gently stroked and caressed the bruise throbbing under the bandages. "Better?" He asked, hopefully.
The Scottish terrier could still feel the tender contusion just beside his ear, but his friend's gentle massaging technique shooed some of that pain away, leaving him with a dull, mild niggle which could easily be ignored for the time being.
"Thank you, Hound." Watson said gratefully. "Awfully good of you,"
"My pleasure," Hound replied, which set the pair off laughing as they remembered their case with the Bengal pirates- the case when they first met.
"That was…" the doctor began.
"Yes, it was." The sleuth agreed, eyes sparkling with a warmth Watson hadn't seen in their short acquaintance. "I am glad you are alright, my friend." Hound continued- before he froze in horror at what had just transpired. Had he really just said that? He and Watson had not known each other for long! How could he be so foolish so as to say such a thing?
"Oh, Hound, did you return the crown to Lestrade?" Watson queried, looking puzzled, but thankfully changing the subject to save Hound any further embarrassment. "I'm afraid I was..."
"Unconscious, I am aware, old boy... Actually, one of his men has it. Lestrade is...well, let us say that Lestrade's medical condition became compromised during his pursuit of Moriarty." The sleuth admitted, remembering Lestrade being lifted into an ambulance back at the Sampson Estate after another failed pursuit for their enemy, Professor Moriarty.
"Is he alright?" Watson asked worriedly.
Hound shrugged. "It might be a while before we see him at Scotland Yard. He was in a lot of pain when I last saw him." He admitted, though he refused to elaborate.
"I see," Said Watson thoughtfully. "Oh dear, poor Lestrade- I'll go to the hospital tomorrow and see how he is. Perhaps I can assist him."
'This man is very selfless indeed' Hound observed, with a fond smile on his muzzle.
He knew few men who would still be concerned about others even though he was injured, but Watson fit that bill perfectly- granted that Watson was less injured than the inspector, but even so, it was clear Watson was a selfless man, and thus the greatest doctor on Earth.
"Where are we, Hound?" The Scottish terrier asked suddenly, interrupting his friend's thoughts.
"Well, my dear fellow, we are in Mrs Hudson's living room. She did not wish for me or you to get injured on a hike up those stairs in your state." The detective replied.
Watson nodded, and yawned, allowing his eyes to lower sleepily.
"Tut, Watson, you mustn't fall asleep. I must check you for a concussion first, dear boy." Hound chided him, cursing himself for not checking as soon as Watson had woken. He examined Watson carefully, and found that the doctor did indeed have a mild concussion- but he had dealt with them before- Mrs Hudson, for one, and his brother, Mycroft Hound, in another, much rarer, instance.
"Well, you're mildly concussed, but you'll be alright, Watson." Hound assured, once more putting a hand on the good doctor's shoulder and patting it comfortingly. "I do hope that what I said about us being friends... He trailed off, his ears drooping. "I did not mean to assume such sentiments, old chap, especially so early in our partnership…"
But the doctor's kind and contrary-not to mention schoolboy-ish- grin told the detective everything even before Watson himself could.
"I will be honoured if you consider me a friend, Hound." He answered. "I only hope you feel the same about me, my friend."
"Your sentiments are reciprocated, Doctor." Hound beamed, offering one paw to his partner, his flatmate- his friend.
Their fingers interlocked, and the singular, succeeding handshake secured many, many years of case solving, danger, disaster, laughter, tears, comfort and security that an intimate friendship brings.
...
This is my first Sherlock Hound story, so I hope it went well. I do apologise for any OOC-ness in this story, and I hope you enjoyed it, regardless. Hope to see you again soon!
W.W.221