Prompt at the end (because spoilers)


"Complete silence, Watson." Mr. Holmes' order carried easily through the floorboards. "A man's life depends on the results of this experiment."

The doctor made no answer, of course, and she could not resist shaking her head. As if Doctor Watson would ever interrupt one of Mr. Holmes' experiments. The detective ought to know better by now.

Though, she supposed John had shown an interest over the years. The comment could simply be a way of preventing questions on the process. The doctor knew almost as much about chemistry as did the detective.

Whatever the case, that promised her at least ten minutes of silence, and she quickly swept the growing pile of dirt into a corner for later before digging out the word puzzle she had been working. She had wanted to finish this in time for the new one last week, but word puzzles were irritatingly difficult to solve when her lodgers insisted on talking all night. Where had she left off?

There. "Such and nothing more." Four letters.

Mere, she decided. That fit "reverie" going vertical and made the next answer "moral." What about "an aromatic plant"?

None of the typical flowers fit. "Lavender" was too long, and "aloe" did not match the "evening" of another clue she doubted was wrong, nor did any other medicinal plant she knew. Could it be a foreign word?

Perhaps. Or an ancient one. Nothing said these had to use modern terminology. She chose another side of the puzzle.

"To govern." Four letters.

Rule, which made that answer "sales" and the one below "receipt." What was—

"Holmes, move!"

Two heavy steps thumped the floor above her, then came the louder impact of a hasty tackle just before an explosion rattled the flat. The puzzle slapped the table as she hurried for the door.

"Mr. Holmes, you better not have set something on fire again."

No answer, and she picked up her pace. An explosion like that could have caused any number of injuries.

"Mr. Holmes? Doctor?"

Still nothing. Long steps skipped every other stair to find a smoky haze in the upstairs sitting room. When a headache stabbed to life at barely a whiff, she backtracked to Mr. Holmes' bedroom to open that window before entering on the other side of the room. A faint breeze slowly cleared the smoke and prompted a faint groan.

"Mr. Holmes? Doctor? Can you hear me?"

Another groan cut in half but led her toward the charred chemistry table. Her lodgers lay in front of the nearby bookshelf, John on top and bleeding from three different places. Mr. Holmes stirred as she opened the window, looking first at her then at the unmoving form still pinning him to the floor. Confused pain immediately became memory mixed with fear.

"Watson!"

No answer. John did not even open his eyes, and she dragged the medical bag across the rug to kneel on Mr. Holmes' left. The air was cleaner near the ground.

"He has several cuts on his back," she said at his questioning glance. "They are bleeding, but not heavily, and I see nothing on his head. What happened?"

"My chemicals were mislabeled." He shifted slightly to reach John's wrist. "He pulled me out of range and took the brunt of the explosion himself. Are any of those cuts near his spine?"

"No, and—"

John twitched, then flinched away from her voice only to wince and relax again. Relief bloomed.

"Doctor?" She kept her words soft as a wave prevented Mr. Holmes from trying. John's ear remained against Mr. Holmes' chest. Anything the detective said would worsen the headache. "Doctor, are you awake?"

His brow furrowed in a yes. One hand twitched, then the other, followed by each foot in a clear injury check. Finding nothing, he falteringly pushed himself off his friend's other side.

And squarely onto his left shoulder. He abruptly stiffened then just as quickly went limp.

"Watson?!" Any hope of keeping Mr. Holmes quiet vanished, and she held the doctor steady as Mr. Holmes almost frantically slid the rest of the way free. "Watson, answer me!"

"No."

The faint murmur barely reached audible, but she resisted the urge to laugh as Mr. Holmes' tension dissolved in a sigh. That single word had contained a healthy dose of humor, an entire lecture for being too loud, and an order to wait, all rolled up in a grumbling tone that said volumes about Mr. Holmes' impatience—none of it flattering. Even injured, John knew how to deal with his friend.

Though that would not stop Mr. Holmes from checking the cuts she had noted. The doctor finally opened his eyes just before Mr. Holmes started debating the best way to move his dressing gown aside.

"What—" The murmur cut off behind another flinch. "Ow."

"Easy." Mr. Holmes left off inspecting the longest cut to move where the doctor could see him. Worry increased when he realized John had squeezed his eyes shut. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Che—mistry," was the pained answer. "Made 'n—explosive. Fumes." He slowly rolled to his stomach, where his left hand found a belt loop, but he did not continue the motion. Just before Mr. Holmes would have ensured his friend had not lost consciousness again, John swayed into a half-sitting position against the side of the bookcase. Pain-filled eyes tried to scan his friend. "Are you—alright?"

"I am not injured," Mr. Holmes promised, evidently not considering his own headache an injury. She would call him on it later if necessary. "Do you have anything wrong aside from a headache and the cuts on your back?"

A substantial amount of pain, but John shook his head after only a moment's thought.

"Then why are you not moving your arm?"

"Bruises—don't count." Rhythmic winces indicated a pulsing headache as he used the table leg to lean forward. "Bleeding?"

Do not let me bleed on the books, that said. Mr. Holmes' mouth twitched with the smile she hid by digging through the doctor's bag. John needed to get his priorities straight.

"Some," Mr. Holmes answered, though she could see the tomes were far from danger. "Can you walk?"

No, based on the answering grimace. He let his eyes close again, likely because of the pain in his head. "'T twisted—under me," he murmured between throbs. "Our weight—on m' shoulder. Why d's—my head hurt?"

"Probably the fumes, Doctor." Surprise cracked an eye to look at her. He must have forgotten she was there. "My own eased when I opened the windows. Yours should as well, as the room clears, or we could help you to the bedroom."

That would relieve Mr. Holmes' as well, but the doctor could not yet look through his own pain to see what his friend silenced. Broken sentences insisted he preferred the settee despite its distance from the window.

And uneven steps tried to send him back to the floor. He more hopped than limped the few feet to the settee, though he did not relax as quickly as she had expected him to.

"Sit."

Because something in his friend's gait had revealed Mr. Holmes' pain. Her smile escaped as one hand tugged Mr. Holmes to the cushion next to him, to the detective's confusion. John smirked without ever opening his eyes.

"Your head—hurts, too," he grumbled, keeping two fingers on his friend's sleeve though he leaned into a pillow. "St'p 'gnoring it."

"It is not that bad." Mr. Holmes directed a scowl at her amusement. "Yours might come from the explosion more than the fumes."

A quiet hum revealed consideration. "Maybe," he acknowledged. "Still—ah, sit." He tugged his friend back to the cushion. "Still b'tter—to move sl'wly. Sit. 'Xplosions cause—lot o' problems."

"What kind of problems?" With them both showing symptoms, she would need to watch for a while, but while Mr. Holmes waved the question away, the doctor apparently did not hear. She knelt in front of the settee. "Doctor? Do we need to keep you awake?"

"No." His voice still did not rise above a barely audible mutter. She would need to ensure the low tones went away with the headache. "Not—concussion. Us'lly. Just—aches. Sore. Worse if don'—hold still. Rest today..."

"Or be confined to bed tomorrow," she finished when the warning faded behind another wince. "Mr. Holmes will take it easy today." She would make sure of it—if only so that the doctor would allow himself to rest.

A harrumph from a certain detective announced he had read her intentions. He did not comment, however, his focus still on his friend.

"You are probably bleeding on the pillows."

John shifted one way, then the other, and shook his head. "Don'—think so. Need t'—clean them, though. Glass. Chemicals. Infection." An attempt to sit up sparked another flinch. "Can you reach them?"

Without me moving, he left unsaid. Mr. Holmes heard it anyway, though the doctor's hand on his sleeve prevented him from standing.

"Hand me the pitcher and basin, would you Mrs. Hudson?"

She found the pitcher on the mantle and the empty basin near the far desk. A rag retrieved from the middle of the floor gently started wiping each injury, but she did not stay to watch. They could handle this themselves. She would set some water to boil for a pot of tea, then bring cold cuts and her puzzle upstairs. Maybe by the time Mr. Holmes' headache faded, she could find the four lettered "aromatic plant."

Or not. Judging by the slow, rather one-sided bickering audible through the floor, her ten minutes of silence had ended in an explosion. The puzzle would have to wait for another day.


Prompt #283. Back to the Beginning. Your prompt for today is the very first prompt from the very first JWP in 2011: Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.

Poor Watson. No good deed goes unpunished. Don't forget to drop your thoughts below, and thank you to those who did last chapter! :)