Prompt #12. Watson's Woes is an alliteration. Whump Watson woefully with an alliterative injury of any severity. A swift stabbing or a gooey gumdrop? It's up to you!
The cab dropped me in front of the flat, and I shoved the letter back into a pocket. A long morning of appointments and errands had left me aching, tired, and rather disappointed. I wanted nothing more than to get off my feet for a few hours. Perhaps Holmes would relay the details of the case he had received while I was out.
Or not. He did not always find the patience to repeat the facts for my benefit, and while I wanted to help—and enjoyed the work—I would not press. My hobby was his livelihood. If he wanted to work alone, I would not impose. His job did not include distracting me after a long morning.
A long week, for all that I would never admit it. Five different publishers had rejected me this week alone, and the letters grew more and more insulting. The idea that my writing was that horrible had me wondering if I should not take a break. Why write if no one wanted to read?
Because I wrote for myself. I knew that, but the knowledge did nothing after so many rejections. The most recent letter joined the others in an unused cabinet as the front door shut behind me. Was Holmes still here?
Yes, and small noises placed Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, though neither seemed to notice my arrival, of course. If Mrs. Hudson followed the timeframe she had mentioned this morning, luncheon would follow me upstairs soon enough, and she never wanted to talk in the last few minutes of cooking.
Just as Holmes rarely wanted to talk while pacing his thoughts across the room. Rhythmic footsteps traveled in front of the fireplace, over to the door, and back again, never pausing even when Mrs. Hudson dropped something in the kitchen. He would probably ignore anything I said.
No matter. My book made just a good distraction as did conversation. I could watch him work while I read, and the slow tapping of my cane provided a counterrhythm to Holmes' pacing as I climbed one step at a time. Some days, I wished London did not have so many stairs. Seventeen narrow, steep steps were far too many to travel between floors.
Not that I could do anything about it. I shoved the thought aside to consider the delicious smells drifting from the kitchen. Chicken with—was that rice?—might convince even Holmes to eat something. He loved rice cooked in chicken broth.
Which was probably why Mrs. Hudson made it so often during his busy months. She disliked his eating habits—or lack of them—almost as much as I did, but if lunch convinced him to eat, maybe a few pointed questions would start him talking about—
Glistening wood caught my eye a moment too late. Rambling thoughts fled as my foot slid out from beneath me, and my grip on the banister proved no match for a greasy stair. I hit the railing with a painful thump, barely remembering to relax completely before gravity returned me to the ground floor.
And directly onto my left shoulder. Pure agony shot through the scar, down my arm, and across my back, clouding my thoughts in a pain-filled haze. The impact had knocked the breath out of me, but every movement worsened the problem by strengthening the spasm rippling up and down my back and into my arm. I only faintly realized I had gone limp as I fought to stay awake. Mrs. Hudson would come with our tray soon. She did not need to find me in a heap at the base of the stairs.
"Watson!"
Nor did I need to interrupt Holmes' work, but two pairs of rapid footsteps cut into the steadily decreasing fog. We could hardly afford us both injured if that stair had been greased apurpose. I needed to warn him before he fell too.
Except I still could not speak, could barely keep myself conscious through the pain in my shoulder. He hurried down the stairs, taking them nearly at a run and skipping at least every other. I had just dared to hope he would skip the slick one when he let out a surprised yelp and sat down hard.
A muttered "ow" carried, but he stood up quickly, his gait now nearly a pained limp as he cleared the last few stairs to kneel next to me.
"Watson?"
Fine. I was fine, or I would be as soon as my shoulder quit screaming. I simply needed to make my lungs obey so I could tell him as much.
"Are you injured?"
I did not yet know. The fall had bruised my shoulder at least, but the pain in that joint overrode anything else I might be feeling. I focused on long, deep breaths and trying to move one finger. He would wait more patiently once I confirmed I could hear him.
Though he had apparently already decided I had lost consciousness. Giving me no chance to respond, gentle fingers checked my head and spine then cautiously rolled me off my shoulder.
And triggered another round of agony. A gasp caught in my throat as blinding pain washed my awareness.
"—son! Watson, breathe!"
Sheer panic permeated the broken order, pushing the pain away with a speed I could not accomplish alone. Breathe. Yes, I needed to breathe. I would never be able to answer him if I could not inhale.
I still needed a long moment to convince my lungs of that. Holmes' sigh brushed my ear when a shallow breath turned into two, then three.
"Are you awake?"
Of course I was. I would not react to pain if I had lost consciousness. He had to know that answer.
Unless he feared a spinal injury. Long fingers traced my spine again, focusing mostly on my neck. Mrs. Hudson finally spoke from the hall.
"Do I need to send for a doctor?"
No. They needed to be patient and stop moving me. Another attempt to open my eyes halted when Holmes lightly traced my shoulder.
Though that time I managed a groan. Painful contact vanished as he cupped my other hand.
"Watson?"
Wait. Just wait. Two fingers tightened on his to spark another sigh.
"Can you open your eyes?"
Not yet, but I no longer fought solely to stay awake. If he could be patient, I would look at him in a minute.
As he finally realized. He remained perfectly still until I blinked the ceiling into focus. Mrs. Hudson stood behind me somewhere, but Holmes leaned over me, stark worry creasing his forehead. I would be fine in a few minutes. Worry should not be creasing his forehead.
"I hate stairs."
Concern eased beneath a barked laugh.
"You have mentioned that before," he answered, studying me. "Did you lose consciousness?"
"No. What have I told you about moving someone with a possible spinal injury?"
Confusion quickly became realization, then renewed worry. "Do you have a spinal injury?"
I made no answer, gingerly moving one foot, then the other, then each hand. "I don't think so, but you had no way of knowing that."
And an injury of that sort could have killed or paralyzed me when he rolled me over. Between that and the obvious implications of having landed on my shoulder, he should have known better than to move me without either giving me time to respond or having a fully trained doctor available. Less than four years of second-hand lessons did not make Holmes "fully trained."
Regret flickered into view to prove he had followed the possible implications, which meant I did not need to take the chiding further. When a more thorough check found pain only in my shoulder, I pushed myself upright.
And immediately regretted it. The movement jarred the already protesting injury, and reaching to hold the joint steady birthed a different, shallower pain in my side. Warm wet trickled down my ribs.
Holmes' arm appeared behind me. "Where?"
Not important. "Probably where I hit the railing," I grunted. "Feels like a small cut atop a bruise. It can wait." A scowl escaped when trying to get my feet under me produced a warning spasm. This was going to hurt no matter how I addressed it. "Would you get a sling from my bag?"
I half expected him to question my evident desire to get off the floor, but his long stride quickly skipped the greased step first up, then back down. Perhaps knowing what would happen, Mrs. Hudson went to "rescue luncheon" the moment he knelt at my side again, sling already spread out to slip into place.
"Let me."
I had not tried to take the sling for a reason. "You will—" The reply cut off beneath yet another spasm. "Have to," I finished just before he would have said something. "Do it quickly."
He stilled as my meaning clicked, then shifted to work from behind me. The sling's light touch on my arm became my only warning before white-hot pain blazed through my shoulder.
"Watson, answer me."
One finger tapped my cheek, and I opened my eyes without remembering closing them. I was still in the entry, though now I leaned against Holmes. Concern bled into his every word.
"Bruised or broken?"
"Not sure," I admitted. "Think it's bruised, though. How long?"
"Long enough to check your side and contemplate calling Agar or Anstruther." His arm twitched in a way that suggested he still considered that. "Do you have any other injuries?"
"No, and you do not need to send for Agar. I need to get off the floor." Cautious maneuvering pulled me upright in time to note his frown at my wording, but I saw no reason to discuss Anstruther now. "Hand me my cane?"
He slipped my good arm over his shoulders instead, smoothly lifting me without allowing me to help, and he ignored my scowl all the way up the stairs. I had injured my shoulder, not my legs!
And he had fallen as well, I suddenly remembered. Was he still limping?
No. He might be sore from the hard sit, but he did not appear to be ignoring an injury. I waited for us to avoid the greased step before I voiced a question.
"Does Mrs. Hudson know about the stair?"
"Yes," he answered shortly, guilt leaking past the heavy breathing from carrying my weight, "though I will clean it in a moment. I did not realize I had spilled earlier."
I would need to address that self-reproach at some point, but for the moment, relief produced a faint sigh. I would much rather he had spilled than this be the beginning of an attack I would not be able to confront. Silence reigned until we reached the settee.
"Thank you."
He ignored me, as usual, dropping my bag within reach though he left for a moment to clean the stairs. By the time he returned, I had anchored a simple bandage over the cut and used several pillows to prop myself on my side, eyes closed.
"Watson?"
"Comfortable," I promised, easily hearing the underlying question, "not tired. I'm fine. Go back to your thinking."
Wood scraping the floor announced he dragged his chair closer instead.
"Holmes?"
No answer, though cracking an eye found him staring at me, apparently watching to ensure I had not hidden a problem. I could not restrain a sigh.
"Tell me about this morning's case, then. Did you accept it?"
"I did." He still studied me, but pointed questions gradually convinced him to share the facts of today's case, then his three other active ones. By the time Mrs. Hudson arrived with luncheon, the pain in my shoulder had faded behind my interest in his puzzle.
"That she had hidden her jewelry in the oven became obvious when she mentioned extensive study on the heat required to form the gems. She forgot to account for the gold."
Conversation provided a far better distraction than my book, especially when that conversation included a certain consulting detective.
If you didn't figure it out, the alliteration was "slippery stair". Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to review. Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)
