Prompt: Blood on the doormat, from cjnwriter

I am not, as Holmes often says, gifted in the abilities of observation and deduction which he holds so dear. In time, of course, I came to be able to follow his deductions before he could explain them to any of our astonished clients, but to do so on my own was not one of my natural abilities.

Yet I was not so unobservant as he sometimes thinks. A doctor must have some deductive ability, some intuition allowing one to jump from observed symptoms to a diagnosis that sometimes might seem as outlandish as Holmes's proclamations of being able to tell a bookseller from the dust on his shoes. Each of us has our own field, after all, and the skills to succeed in it.

On the occasion of my return to Baker Street from my rounds one gray day in 1886, however, I felt at once that something was unusual. Holmes often says that intuition is the mind processing what it has not consciously realized, and so I searched our entryway, certain that I had missed something. Though I am not a natural observer, years of living with Holmes meant I often enjoyed attempting to use my skills, such as they are, to deduce my surroundings as he would.

Yet all in the entrance to 221 Baker Street seemed normal. I could hear the clang of pots from the kitchen that meant Mrs. Hudson was engaged in cooking our dinner. The pictures on the wall had not been moved, the plants Mrs. Hudson no longer allowed us to look after were as green as ever. I could not figure out what it was that gave me this feeling of foreboding until I looked down. Upon the doormat beneath my feet was a dark red spot that certainly had not been there this morning. It looked horribly like blood, and I did not need Holmes's hemoglobin test to determine that it must be human. We had no other creature living in the house. I looked up the stairs in trepidation. Holmes had told me many times that it was a mistake to theorize without facts, yet I could not stop myself from imagining all the horrible things that might have befallen him.

Then I forced myself to take a breath and remain calm. I carefully surveyed the floors heading into Mrs. Hudson's rooms, and found no further red spots. Feeling rather proud of myself for thinking of it, I could remove her from my list of reasons for the blood on the floor.

That, of course, left Holmes as the only possible source of the bloodstain. Or perhaps an unknown, third person. A client, in desperate need of immediate help, or an assailant who had come seeking vengeance for something Holmes had done? I could not determine that from a mere spot on the doormat, and I began to climb the stairs, taking care to be quiet so that if it was a criminal of some type, he might not know that I was here. It also gave me time to examine the stairs for bloodstains, and I was gratified to find none. If it was Holmes that was injured, at least he was not bleeding profusely. If it was a criminal looking to revenge themselves upon him, however, it might mean he was in more trouble than I had thought. I reached into my pocket and took out my old service revolver. Years of assisting on Holmes's cases meant that I rarely went anywhere without it loaded and ready for use. I held it tightly and threw open the door.

However, all that greeted me was our peaceful sitting room with its merrily crackling fire. I lowered my gun. Evidently there was no assailant. Another theory I might discard as false.

"Ah, Watson, there you are," Holmes said calmly from his chemistry table, as if it was entirely ordinary that I should come bursting into the room, gun at the ready. Though that was hardly the most unusual thing that had taken place in these rooms. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I saw blood on the doormat downstairs," I said. "I thought perhaps you had been injured, or that someone had gained entry and sought to harm you." I felt a flush creep up my face at how wrong I had been.

Holmes, however, smiled. "Watson, you are learning to observe after all! Your conclusions are entirely wrong, but that is no matter. I did have something of a run-in with that irritating shrub outside." He showed me his arm, which until now he had hidden from view, and I was astonished to see it red with blood.

"Holmes!" I cried, rushing towards him. "However did you do this?" I looked at the wound carefully. It had been cleaned, and then bandaged, though inexpertly, as the bandages were wrapped outside of his shirt. "I can hardly believe a shrub could do this!"

Holmes shrugged. "I was rather in a hurry, as I had just thought of a possible answer to the chemistry problem I have been working on, and was not paying attention to where I was going. Before I realized it, I had scraped against the shrub, which apparently has some very sharp thorns. Did you know that, Watson?" He said this as if remarking on a nice weather day instead of a bush that had caused him to have blood running down his arm.

"I did not," I said. "Perhaps it shall deter criminals from finding us. It certainly has done a good job on your arm. Whatever possessed you to wrap the bandages over your shirt?" As I sought to remove them, his shirt seemed stuck to the dried blood on his arm and required some slight force to remove. "I am sorry," I said. "But it would become infected if I did not fix it."

"I had to conduct the experiment while the thought was fresh. I meant to attend to it properly later," Holmes explained, gesturing to his bubbling chemicals, as if it was a perfectly logical thing to do to conduct an experiment in such a state.

I stared in horror. "Do you mean to tell me you have been mixing chemicals with an open wound?!" I all but seized him and dragged him to the armchair by the fire. "You have no idea what damage you could have done if you spilled those on yourself. Have you no care at all for your own safety?"

Holmes laughed in his silent way, which given the circumstances was rather infuriating. I sighed and opened my doctor's bag. "What are you doing?" Holmes asked.

"I doubt you would consent to go to a hospital," I said. "I am examining that cut and stitching it for you."

Holmes acquiesced to this much more cheerfully than I would have guessed, ignoring my mutterings about disregard for safety. When I had finished, I said, "There. It should heal in a few days, provided it does not become infected. I shall keep an eye on it for you." Since he would obviously not do so himself.

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes said. "I must say, I thought it would be beneficial to share rooms with a doctor in my line of work."

"Or if you get into a fight with a particularly angry piece of shrubbery," I said, causing Holmes to laugh even harder. "However, you must someday explain to me how the foremost observer of our time can also be so preoccupied that he does not notice running into a bush until his arm is cut to shreds."

"Ah, Watson, the mind works in mysterious ways," Holmes answered. "Particularly when ruminating over a problem, as mine is wont to do."

"I suppose it explains why you also frequently forget to eat," I said. Holmes was extraordinarily cavalier with his own health, though I did not think this would extend to not noticing that he had injured himself.

It seems I was still learning my fellow lodger's limits. At times I wondered if I would ever stop, even if I lived with Holmes for twenty more years.