This story contains some characters and situations alluded to in another story, "That Which is Done out of Love," but feel free to read them separately.
Sherlock Holmes had always thought of surgery as a precise, methodical sort of thing. After all, there aren't several ways to do something like remove an appendix or amputate an arm. The procedure itself may be messy, but certainly the method was not. Surely, Holmes figured surgeons are not able to be creative; there is no such thing as putting a personal flair on a pair of stitches.
If he'd ever cared to imagine it, Holmes would have thought of Watson performing surgery as precise: his every move would be measured, his demeanor would be completely calm and composed and professional. But since he didn't like to make assumptions, Holmes hadn't imagined it, not really. He had never seen Watson perform a surgery and indeed had never even known him when he was an active surgeon. He didn't even like to think about Watson's army days, and it was irrelevant anyway since it was all in the past.
After being injured in Afghanistan, Watson had been barred from performing surgeries again, another doctor declaring him physically unfit. The wound to his shoulder had resulted in his hand shaking in a way that was sometimes nearly nonexistent at times, sometimes so bad he couldn't hold a cup of tea, but always out of his control. For that reason, he couldn't be permitted to perform delicate operations anymore, lest his hand shake at the wrong time.
Naturally, Watson had been upset when he'd received the medical board's verdict, but in the end he'd understood. What had made him angry was when he'd been legally classified as a cripple, but in the end he'd had to accept that, too. Some days, he felt like it, but mostly he resented the classification.
No, Holmes had never known Watson to treat anything more nefarious than a stab wound. He'd treated Holmes more than once, and Holmes was grateful to him. Despite what was on paper, Holmes would have trusted him more than any surgeon on earth and was fully confident in his friend's capabilities. He didn't care that he'd never seen him at work: he didn't need to in order to trust him. And, truthfully, he thought he never would. That was until the capture of a particularly vicious gang had gone wrong.
Holmes didn't even realize immediately that Watson was gone from his side, so fast did the doctor react to the sight of a constable injured on the ground, felled by a lucky shot from a desperate criminal who knew he must either escape or face the hangman's noose. It had been raining hard the night before, and he found Watson kneeling in a mix of the mud and the constable's blood.
What Holmes saw then was not precise or methodical at all. There was blood everywhere: the ground, the constable's hands, the constable's clothes, Watson's hands, Watson's clothes, and splashed on Watson's face. As Watson worked, more blood splashed up onto him, but he didn't seem to notice. Watson had sliced the constable's shirt open to expose the wound, a single bullet to his stomach. The contents of his medical bag were scattered; Watson had thrown down his coat to keep them off the mud, but they were filthy anyway from his grabbing them with bloody hands. It looked like he's cleaned his hands and the wound site, but blood still covered them.
Watson had also commanded a nearby constable to hold the other down. The man who had been shot was screaming in pain as Watson worked, but the doctor seemed undaunted in his task. Holmes watched with fascination and horror as his friend dealt with the wound, carelessly dropping a bullet on the ground after extracting it and pressing applying pressure as help arrived. After ensuring the criminals were safely in darbies, Inspector Lestrade had come beside him to watch as well. In fact, by the time an ambulance arrived they had drawn quite a crowd.
Watson shouted information to the two medics who loaded the injured man onto a fabric stretcher. When they were gone, Watson was left kneeling in the mud and blood. Holmes watched with horror as Watson sat down next to a dirty puddle and washed the blood off of his face with it. Beside him, Lestrade cringed, too.
Holmes fumbled for this handkerchief, but he was beaten to it. The constable who had been helping Watson sat down next to him and offered him his own handkerchief. Watson accepted it, wiping his face with it.
"Thank you," the constable said.
"Hmm?"
"He's a good friend," the constable said, looking toward the retreating ambulance, "and a good man. He's got two little ones at home and a lovely woman who loves him. I… I suppose I'll have to go see her now, tell her what happened. But even if he doesn't survive this, at least he didn't die on the street, gunned down like a dog. He doesn't deserve that, and I can tell her that honestly. I appreciate it. So thank you."
"What's your name?" Watson asked.
"Murdoch sir. Beeker, he's who was shot, sir, is my partner. We work the beat together, and he's a bloody good mate."
"Murdoch? Pleasure to meet you, I'm doctor Watson. Try not to be too discouraged. I've pulled soldiers back from worse, and that was in much worse conditions than the hospital he's headed to. He may pull through."
"Do you really think so, sir?"
"Yes, I do. It won't be easy for him, but don't count him out just yet. I got to him quickly, and he's not lost too much blood. Here, do what you want with that," he said, picking the bullet out of the mud and dropping it in the man's hand.
By the look Murdoch gave him, one would have thought that Watson had saved his life, too, instead of just his friends. He stood, dropping the bloody metal bullet in his pocket and extending his hand to Watson. The doctor took it and let the young man hoist him to his feet.
"Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. I'm sure the good Inspector here will allow you to go speak with his wife."
"Yes, of course," said Lestrade. "Consider yourself off-duty for the rest of the week, constable. I'll come visit you and Beeker soon."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Murdoch said to Inspector Lestrade. Then, he wrung Watson's hand. "Thank you, sir. If there's anything I can do for you…"
"I'm a doctor, there's no need for thanks," Watson said warmly. "Oh, and one more thing; do you live close?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go home and change first, then."
Murdoch looked down at himself. "Oh," he said, spying the blood on his shirt as if for the first time. "Thank you, sir."
Watson nodded as the younger man sheepishly left the scene. By then, most of the crowd had dispersed. Watson looked around and found his friend.
"Holmes?" he said, and reached out. Holmes understood, coming to stand next to his friend and discreetly support him. His bad leg, Holmes knew, must be aching from the exertion: another reason he'd been barred from surgery. Some operations took hours to complete, and there was doubt about whether Watson could stand static for that long although Holmes didn't doubt it for a minute. He's seen Watson do the seemingly impossible during the course of one of his cases. it was only after the case was finished that he would collapse, not unlike Holmes himself.
"Did you get them?" Watson asked.
"Yes," Holmes confirmed. "All of them are in custody now. No one else is hurt."
"Did you mean what you said?" Lestrade asked Watson. "Will Beeker live?"
"It's possible," Watson said cryptically in the frustrating way doctors tended to use when they didn't want to give false hope. "He's not in a good way, but there's a chance."
"Thank you, doctor," Lestrade said sincerely, and he, too, shook Watson's hand.
"Home?" Sherlock Holmes asked his friend.
"Home," Watson agreed.
When Watson was washed and changed and comfortable by the fire, Holmes finally brought up his observations.
"Is surgery always so… chaotic?" he asked.
"Hmm? What is it you mean, Holmes?" Watson asked with a cocked eyebrow. "It is surgery. By necessity, it is sanitary, but it's not always... clean."
Holmes considered that. "I suppose so. I have always thought of surgery as more of a methodical thing, I suppose. After all, there can only be so many ways to open a person up and sew them back together."
"It depends on the injury," Watson said with a small shrug. "I have seen wounds that are catastrophic and some that are simple. In the same way, some surgeries are simple and some complex. And the human body itself is infinitely fascinating! If I could look forward into the future, even fifty years from now, I am sure I would see things being done much more efficiently and differently even then we're doing it now. And, compared to fifty years ago, the way we do things now is much more civilized."
Holmes nodded. "Like the art of detection," he said. "A hundred years ago, I'd be burned as a witch. A hundred years from now I will be mocked as an amateur."
"Never," Watson protested vehemently.
Holmes smiled fondly. "Good old Watson, my staunchest defender. And I, I assure you, are yours."
"I know. Thank you," Watson said, returning his fond smile.
Holmes poured them each a brandy, and they sat contentedly before the fire.
"You look done in," Holmes said after some time. Watson had been trying and failing to focus on a novel while Holmes plucked at his violin, mentally filing away everything he'd learned about Watson and surgery that day.
"I'm afraid I am," his friend replied sleepily. "Do me a favor?"
"Hmm? Of course I will, my dear fellow. Name it."
"Make sure I wake early tomorrow? I want to go check on Constable Beeker."
"I'll do better," Holmes promised, moving his fingers over the violin in what would have been a flourish had he actually been playing. "I'll go myself and save you the hours of rest. If things look grim, I'll wake you and you can go see him. As it is, however, he's no longer your patient, and his wife is with him, I'm sure. And that other constable, Murdoch, will probably be with her."
"I suppose you're right. Very well, thank you."
"Of course. I shall see you in the morning, then, Watson."
"Sleep well, Holmes," Watson said softly, and Holmes frowned once he'd left, suspecting his friend would not, not after the day's events.
In the morning, he kept his promise and found Constable Beeker not only alive but also semi-conscious. Murdoch shared that he was going to live, and sang Watson's praises which Holmes heartily agreed with. Beeker did indeed live, but resigned from the force. Murdoch made sergeant, and became Watson's staunchest supporter in Scotland Yard.
Neither Watson nor Murdoch could have known it, but the future would see them entwined together again...
Author's Note:
Feel free to consider this a teaser for an upcoming story I've been drafting.
To everyone who takes the time to review my stories, I thank you :)
My dear Faithful Reader: Reading a story you don't like just because you trust me to write well? That is faithful indeed! (Not to mention pressure on me, haha). As always, you praise me too highly (I loved reading your review to "Temptation"). Thank you. I hope you enjoyed :)