Chapter 4

I sat in the sitting room, immersed in my news paper. Normally, I would be putting the finishing touches on my account of Holmes latest case, and getting ready to deliver it for publication. Of course, given the circumstances, I didn't think that it would be appropriate.

I was beginning to miss "normally." Normally, Holmes would be sawing at his violin, which now sat idly within its case on a stack of books in the corner. Normally, Holmes would be conducting some strange experiment at his chemistry table, now covered by a sheet to prevent the glassware getting dusty. Normally, Holmes would be reading over my shoulder (though he thought I didn't notice) as I put the finishing touches on my account of his latest case, secretly criticizing my portrayal of his beloved art of deduction, but being to polite to make those thoughts known.

But, there he was, shut away in his room. Sure, in his current condition, Holmes would not be able to do any of those old things anyway. But I missed having him around. I had grown quite fond of my flatmate over the years, and it was strange to think that he was so close, but so far away at the same time.

It was wrong.

I looked up at the sound of a door opening and closing, to see Mrs Hudson leaving Holmes' room with a full breakfast tray.

"Still nothing?" I asked. She shook her head and left.

For one so brilliant, it astounded me how utterly stupid that man could be. As if he had not problems enough, the man had refused food for the last two days. I had half a mind to go and confront him. But, I knew that that would only make things worse.

I folded up my paper with a bit more force than necessary, tossing the severely wrinkled mass of paper on the floor beside my chair. That stupid man and his stupid pride. On more than one occasion I had seen him brought near his demise because of it. Who was to say that this wouldn't be a similar case? I sighed in frustration, closing my eyes as if the answer were written on the backs of my eyelids.

Then I heard a loud sound from Holmes' room.

This time it wasn't just glass.

Only one possibility came to mind.

I got up as if galvanized, nearly tripping over my chair in the rush. Throwing the door open, I came across exactly what I expected, and exactly what I had hoped not to see.

Holmes half-lay, crumpled on the ground. Where he thought he was going I didn't know; probably going to lock the door in order to further isolate himself from the world. Either way, he had tripped on the way. Trying to gain support to keep from falling, he reached out to a small table within arm's reach. Unfortunately, he only caught the table cloth, pulling it, and the pitcher of water (the only nourishment he'd accepted in days) down with him. The glass pitcher proceeded to shatter, and Holmes hadn't seen where he was putting his hands until it was too late.

Any other day I would have been proud of my deduction skills, and would have surely received some show of approval from my friend. But not today.

Holmes moved in a way as to cradle his profusely bleeding left arm, as he fought back the sounds of pain that came out in nearly inaudible squeaks. He couldn't see the damage. Maybe that was a good thing.

I did not want to move him quite yet, so I put a hand on his shoulder, instructing him to, "Stay right there," before hastily clearing the glass away and going to get my black bag. Upon returning, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and ushered him back to sit on the side of his bed. I dug through my bag for the needed supplies, and had to carefully claim the arm from Holmes' grip. His shirt was becoming steadily soaked in blood from the damaged limb, but that would have to be taken care of later.

I went about mending what I could, pulling out shards of glass, cleansing the laceration, and carefully stitching it back together, telling Holmes exactly what I was doing with each step. Even if he could see what I was doing, he would want to know exactly what was being done to him.

When I finished, Holmes quickly pulled the arm back to its former place, braced against his chest. I then went on to begin disposing of the glass on the floor and cleaning up the mixture of water and blood.

As I contemplated how I would explain this to Mrs Hudson, I heard just the slightest of whispers from the figure seated behind me, "Watson... Will it... Will it be like this forever?"

I honestly didn't know. Flash burns were tricky. They could be just a day or two of visual impairment...or they could be permanent blindness. I had planned on checking his progress the day before; one could usually make an estimation about these things after two or three days. But, Homes had refused me access to him, and so I had been unable to.

I could have checked right then and there, but if the news was bad.... Holmes current mental state was not ideal if I had to tell him that he would remain blind for the rest of his natural born life.

"I...I don't know right now, old boy. But, tomorrow I can check to see how your eyes are healing."

I turned to see him nod in agreement.