December 30
From Winter Winks 221: Old Wounds
"I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.
"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"
It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."
~ The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Watson sat at his desk. The fire glowed and banished the cold wintery atmosphere of London from the room. It was quiet. Holmes had departed on one of his mysterious escapades. Mrs Hudson was out visiting friends. A distant chime tolled in the distance and rumbled faintly through the parlour.
The doctor rubbed his leg. A scar still bore testimony to his encounter with Winter's bullet. It was a superficial wound in the end. No shattered femur. Thankfully, no infection had complicated his recovery and he had only an occasional twinge at the site now. It was such a different story from another wound.
Watson imagined it was a lifetime ago. No comforting friend caught him when that bullet shattered his shoulder. He barely recalled how'd he had been dragged half-conscious to safety under the shower of assault. There was no comfort when the bullet was extracted, cleansed, and bandaged. He was alone in his fever when infection set into shoulder.
He recalled his friend's tender comfort in his convalescence after Winter's bullet. His memories were tender and soft. Mrs Hudson had brought him tea and his favourite pastries. Holmes had soothed his restless night with harmonies upon his violin. Even the Inspector brought him stories from The Yard when he needed a distraction.
Although time had dulled the sharp edges, Watson still felt the daggers of darkness when he recalled his time in Afghanistan and his helplessness upon his hospital cot. The nurses had been kind and took cared for his physical needs. His mental suffering turned out to be far greater.
Old wounds. Wounds shrouded in memories, steeped in emotion, purged with time. The scars remained. Watson thought about his shoulder. It still ached on cold nights. He spent years healing. His leg merely had a scar. Only a twinge reminded him of his friend's utter loyalty and love. His wounds were stories. His friends redefined his mind's narrative. Love was stronger than any injury.
A/N: I couldn't resist a favourite quote from 3GAR.