I woke to the most intense pain I'd ever felt pounding in my head, and my ears were ringing so loudly I couldn't hear what Watson was saying. I blinked, looking around to try and remember what had happened. I was sitting on the ground, being held up by Watson. One of his hands was on my cheek, which was aching along with the rest of my head. His other hand was on my side, holding me upright, and I realized I couldn't feel my arm. That was certainly worrying, but not so much as the fact I was in so much pain I couldn't hardly think. Save for Watson, naturally, it was my brain I cared about when a situation turned dire. My ability to think and reason, that was all I needed to keep uninhibited. So long as I could reason, I would be alright, could deal with any other injury so long as Watson was still with me.
I remembered, then, how I'd gotten myself into this situation. Watson and I had been on the hunt of a Mr. Masterson, a former butler of the prosperous Lord Griffin, who had stolen a chest of gold coins and jewelry from his employer. It was a literal treasure, and Watson and I had taken on the task to retrieve it like some kind of land-dwelling pirate hunters. Our saving grace was that I had evidence to believe the end of our treasure hunt would find us not far from the scene of the original crime, despite the fact that everyone else, including the good Inspector Lestrade, seemed to think Masterson had fled as far away as possible. So, we'd been on a treasure hunt, but how had I ended up like this? I was struggling to remember.
I tried to look up at Watson to ask him, but the movement made my head spin and my synapses stopped attempting to retrieve memory, overwhelmed by pain. Seeing I was awake, though, Watson moved in front of me, still grasping me to keep me still and upright. I could barely hear him, but I could see his lips move, saying "I'm sorry." Whatever had happened to me, I was certain it was not Watson's fault, and so I assumed he meant it in the general sense. Then he said something that may have been "you are hurt," or "this may hurt," before reaching down and lifting me in his arms.
It was a feat of strength I didn't know he possessed, for despite my thin frame I am not a light man. The only time in my recall that Watson had ever lifted me to remove me from some danger had been on his shoulder. I seemed to recall even that had taken some effort on his part. Now, however, he carried me like a child and seemingly as easily. I didn't dwell on it for long, however, as I felt more nauseous with every movement and struggled to fight back the vile I could feel rising in my throat. I tried to speak, but I wasn't able to warn Watson before I lost the contents of my stomach all over him. He didn't say anything, at least not anything I could hear, just lay me down on something, turning my head and wiping my mouth.
I groaned miserably, unable to help myself. Suddenly, I felt someone's hands on me that weren't Watson's, and that wasn't right. It wasn't that I would have known, despite ample experience, what Watson's hands treating my wounds felt like compared to any other doctors, of course, but I did know Watson was still cleaning bile out of my mouth and that meant whoever was treating my arm was certainly not him. I pulled my thoughts back into order, trying to think. Watson never abandoned me when I had need of him; he wouldn't have handed me over to someone else. He knew I trusted him and didn't like other doctors treating me when he was around. So why would he let someone else give me medical attention? Was he also injured? That was the only explanation, wasn't it? I hated my brain for working so slowly at the moment. Normally I would have noticed immediately if something was wrong with my Watson despite my own injuries. I, like he, never abandoned him when he had need of me.
I tried even harder to focus; I had to know. Did he need me right now more than I needed him? I hoped not, for I wasn't sure I could do anything for him, but I forced my eyes open anyway and peered around me, pushing the pain away. I saw Watson, and despite my slowly firing synapses immediately knew why he wouldn't be treating me. He was paler then I felt, and he was trembling. He always has a slight tremor in his hand on his bad arm, but I'd never seen him shake like this. Of course, my own head was spinning as I surveyed him, and so perhaps I wasn't seeing correctly, but the naked concern in Watson's eyes told me I wasn't wrong in my reasoning. He had been hurt as well, but not badly. He was more shaken than injured, and I had a terrible feeling I was the reason why. How close had I just come to dying in his arms? I didn't want to know.
"Take care of him," I vaguely heard Watson say. I still didn't want anyone besides him treating me, but it was his decision to make and I was in no position to argue even if wanted to, which I would not have. I trusted Watson, and was sure his choice was the correct one. I closed my eyes, tired of trying so hard to focus. I felt the stranger's hands poke and prod at me, and I felt myself being lifted again as I lost consciousness once more.
When I next woke, I was in Baker Street, and that gave me some relief. If Watson had allowed me to be admitted to a hospital, that would likely indicate his own injuries were also serious ones. I looked around for him, blinking in the low light of the room which had certainly been a deliberate choice to accommodate my aching head. My head was still pounding and my ear was still ringing, but the pain was not as bad as it had been. I struggled to sit up, finding that my right arm was in a sling. It was my right ear that was ringing, too, and I was insanely curious to know what had happened for I truly couldn't remember.
Raising my head, I saw that Watson was sitting on a chair by the end of my bed, his torso on the mattress and his head pillowed on his arms. Even in sleep he looked exhausted, and there was a cut near his eye that looked painful. Without quite knowing why, I felt guilt shoot through me at the sight. I laid back down, exhausted myself, and tried to stay still. I didn't want to wake Watson, uncomfortable though he looked. I doubted I could do anything for him, especially without waking him.
He woke anyway, though, as the bed shifted at my movement. In the next moment he was by my side, surveying me as if he was afraid I would softly and suddenly vanish away before his eyes. The look in his intelligible eyes was some mix of relief and sadness that I hoped I'd never have to see again.
"Holmes? Oh, thank God," he said, his voice soft. "Stay still and don't try to move. I'm going to help you sit up. You're going to feel lightheaded and dizzy, but I will be right here." He did so, and just as he said I felt a wave of dizziness crash over me. When I could focus again, I found that Watson was sitting close by my side, letting me lean on him and rubbing my back soothingly. He had a glass of water in his other hand, and I reached for it with my left hand, the one not in a sling, suddenly feeling how parched I was.
"Let me," Watson said, and so I did, not so self-centered as to think I wouldn't spill it all over myself in my present condition. I drank the water slowly, letting it soothe my throat. Watson didn't let me go when I was finished, still holding me steady. I didn't mind, not really, just hated how horrible I felt and that he felt he needed to.
"What happened?" I sighed.
"You were right, like always," Watson said, his voice low. "Masterson was hiding with the treasure right where you thought he'd be. What we didn't know was that he would attempt to open the chest using dynamite. You were caught near the explosion when it happened. Your entire right side caught the brunt of it, but you weren't badly burned, just a bit singed. Your right ear was damaged, and a few of the bones in your wrist were fractured. In addition. you were hit by shrapnel primarily on your right side and I believe you will be sore for some time. Speaking of, I'm going to give you a painkiller. It should help you be able to rest, and rest is what you need right now more than anything."
I didn't object, letting him feed me something foul-tasting followed by another glass of water. Something wasn't quite adding up, however, and it was nagging my brain, slow though my synapses were firing at the moment.
How much dynamite?" I asked, hoping Watson would figure out what I wanted to know.
"Far too much," Watson replied, realizing what I was getting at: there had been far too big of an explosion if Masterson had only wanted to get to the gold.
"I don't know if he underestimated the explosive force of dynamite or overestimated the strength of the chest, but I suspect it was both," Watson elaborated. "He destroyed an entire wall of the warehouse, the chest, and hurt you in the blast. Here, look, the treasure we sought." He presented me with a tiny chunk of gold that looked like it was two coins and half a bracelet melted together and then stepped on.
"Lord Griffin was not pleased, as you can imagine," Watson said tersely, and I had the feeling something had happened to make my friend angry with our client. I didn't ask, though, and just sighed, resting my head against him and closing my eyes.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"Griffin?"
"No, Masterson."
"Hasn't been caught yet. I did see him escaping, but making sure you were okay was obviously more important than chasing him. We'll get him later."
"Uh-huh," I murmured. "You?"
"What about me?"
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine. I was farther away from the blast when it happened."
"There's a cut on your face," I argued weakly. There was, I was certain, more to it than that, but I hadn't seen anything else yet.
"It's nothing. I'm fine, Holmes. I promise."
"Okay," I murmured. There would be enough time to argue about it when I was feeling better. Watson had learned a long time ago that I wouldn't tolerate his lying to me about injuries he sustained during the course of an investigation, for either we were going to be partners and work together with no secrets between us or I would work alone. Watson had agreed, and the only time he ever lied to me now was when I had also been injured and he was insisting on helping me first. I still hadn't convinced him to tell me about non-case related injuries or when he was having a generally bad day related to his old wounds, but he didn't lie about when someone or something else hurt him.
Watson was still holding me upright, and I could tell he wanted to stay close but didn't know how to ask. I knew the feeling. There had been times when I'd thought an illness or an injury was going to claim Watson's life, and at those times all I'd wanted was physical reassurance he was alive. I was sure he was wanting the same thing now. A fact which Watson and I both have taken to heart is that life is fragile thing, especially in our line of work. I didn't usually like being close to people, and Watson was my only exception. To be fair, I didn't always want to be close, not even with Watson, but he far too often acted like he thought he was the same to me as everyone else, which was patently untrue.
"I'm tired," I murmured. I didn't necessarily know if I wanted him to be so near me right now, for my body was aching all over and every movement threatened to undo my hold on my focus, but I did know I had frightened him by being blown up like I was, and I wanted to reassure him. All of that meant I did want him close. I leaned more heavily against him, getting comfortable. I knew he would take it upon himself to stay with me and keep me safe, therefore letting us be close without him feeling like he was unwelcome, because he wasn't unwelcome. I simply only wanted to rest at the moment.
I surprised myself by actually being comfortable. I would have given up some comfort for Watson's sake, but I dropped off nearly immediately before I could divine if I was causing him any pain. When I woke, Watson was gone and Mrs. Hudson was in my room, busily folding blankets and humming to herself softly. She smiled when she saw I was awake and sat in Watson's chair near my bed.
"How are you, dear?" she asked, her voice low.
"Better," I murmured. I knew already without thinking exactly what was coming next and I was correct, for she immediately told me she had tea and soup for me and bustled off to get it. Mrs. Hudson's cure for anything was always good food and company. She had cured Watson that way; she had taken him at his lowest, having just returned from Afghanistan, and had bullied him into regaining the weight he'd lost from being so ill by her constant food and presence. I had no doubt that was her plan for me as well, though I doubted she'd stay too near. But where was Watson now? I asked Mrs. Hudson when she came back.
"He's gone with the Inspector, dear," she said, turning her back to me, presumably to get the soup off the tray. I could tell, however, that her real reason for turning her back was because she wasn't happy about Watson leaving and was trying not to let it show. I knew without needing to deduce it that Watson had been doing far too much for me without taking a break and he shouldn't have gone with Lestrade. I hoped he would be okay, it was all that I could do. A part of me wanted to go after him, but for the first time I could recall, I was completely helpless. I couldn't so much as sit up without nearly doubling over, and every movement sent the world spinning around me. The ringing in my ear was tolerable, but the dizziness was not, and when I spilled soup on myself Mrs. Hudson had to sit in front of me and feed me like I was a child. I would only be a burden to Watson if I went after him like this, but I would rest and wait until he got home. If he wasn't back in a few hours, well, I would have to hope a few hours rest would be enough.
I felt better after eating, although I didn't dare rise without help, else I knew I would likely become nauseous. I should have been embarrassed, I am sure, when Mrs. Hudson changed the soup-stained sheets around me and helped me into a new nightshirt, but she was as dear to me as family, as impersonal as any seasoned nurse and as motherly as any kind matron in her ministrations. I allowed her to manipulate my body whichever way she needed and so soon I was resting clean and dry once more. I found I couldn't stay awake for long, but I refused any more pain medication. I didn't want any more unless sleep proved impossible, which it didn't. As a matter of fact, I fell asleep far too quickly for my liking and woke up with a start.
I didn't quite know why I was so panicked, and my brain was far too sluggish, only supplying me with the answer after I'd surveyed the room. It was the absence of Watson that jogged my memory. I had meant to wait for him to return before falling asleep and I hadn't. That he wasn't with me now was worrying, especially when I remembered he was out with Inspector Lestrade.
I couldn't quite tell why there was a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat, but I'd learned long ago that there were some things the science of deduction couldn't account for. My instinct told me Watson was in trouble and so to Watson I would go. I rose very slowly, holding onto anything I could grasp. I didn't feel like spending the energy I had dressing, and so I pulled trousers on, tucking my nightgown into them and covering my sloppiness with my long inverness. It was extremely painful to get my arm in the sleeve of my coat, and I abandoned my sling, not willing to take the time to arrange it back on over my coat. I didn't so much as bother with socks or my normal shoes, slipping my feet into Watson's large, sturdy leather hunting boots and letting my trousers fall over them. They were a bit big for my foot, but stayed on well enough. I armed myself with my heavy sword cane, not trusting myself to hold a gun let alone aim one. I knew I looked a fright, but I was in too much pain to care. Normally, I would have never gone out like this save for if it was some kind of ludicrous disguise, but I didn't really have a choice.
I was nearly successful in sneaking out, but as I was closing the door, Mrs. Hudson stepped into the doorway. She had been clearly been crying, and I let go of the door handle to fold her into my arms, awkward though that was with one held stiff with plaster.
"Where?" I asked, knowing her anxiety must be for Watson.
"Wherever the explosion happened," she murmured. "The Inspector came back a half hour ago saying the trap they'd set was ready, but the doctor had already left without him. I'm afraid."
"I'm going after him," I said determinedly.
"I know you are, and I won't stop you, terrible idea though I know it will turn out to be. Be careful."
I let her go with a promise: "I'm coming back with him."
I would or die trying, I swore that to myself even as I endured an agonizing cab ride towards the warehouse I'd previously been blown up in. Every bump was like agony, and when we finally stopped I literally fell out of the cab, landing on my "good" arm and retching on the sidewalk. I was so pathetic, apparently, that the cab driver didn't even stick around for payment, for he was gone when I once again focused. I came back to myself slowly, leaning against a wall as I rose. A block away, the warehouse was roped off, one of its walls destroyed. I vaguely remembered, then, having been just outside of that wall before being knocked down. I'd likely been hit by bricks as well as other debris, and it was no wonder Watson had been so panicked for me. I made the painful journey to a side door, pushing it open as quietly as I could. I had no idea what I'd find, but Watson in handcuffs certainly wasn't it.
"Holmes!" he exclaimed far too loudly when he saw me. "What are you doing here?"
"To rescue you," I said, my voice weaker than I meant for it to be.
"How did you know what happened?" Lestrade asked. "I just arrested him."
I hadn't so much as cared to focus on anything else besides Watson to the point I'd not even noticed Lestrade… or the dead body on the ground. So much for my amazing powers of observation. Were a crime to be committed right in front of me at that moment, I'd be thrown out of the queen's court as an unreliable witness and be laughed out of the country as a fraud.
"Lestrade, listen to me," Watson said. "I didn't kill him. Let me take Holmes home and then I'll come turn myself in and I can prove I didn't kill him. Please, take these off." He held his cuffed hands up.
Lestrade seemed to hesitate, and I sped things up by "collapsing" tiredly and sitting on a crate.
"Now!" Watson cried, and Lestrade did, fumbling with his keys to free my friend. Immediately Watson was by my side, his arms around me to steady me.
"I'm fine," I murmured low enough Lestrade couldn't hear. It was a lie, for I was not fine, but I really hadn't meant to frighten Watson into thinking I was worse then I was.
"I wanted Lestrade to let you go," I elaborated. "Did you kill him?" I hoped Watson knew he was safe with me, could tell me the truth either way. If he had killed Masterson, he would, I was absolutely certain, have a justification.
"No," Watson murmured back. "But I did fight him. I didn't mean for him to die, but he fell on his own knife."
"You're hurt."
"Not badly, Holmes. I promise."
"Well?" Lestrade demanded.
"Well?" I demanded right back, feigning a strength I didn't feel and letting loose an indignation that I did. "Why would you arrest Watson? You can clearly see by the direction the dead man's toes are pointed and from the tracks on the ground that he was the aggressor."
Had Lestrade been a smart man, he would have seen immediately that I was spewing nonsense, but as it happened, I had a reputation for usually being correct in my deductions. Furthermore, I knew Lestrade had a fondness for Watson and didn't really believe him capable of murder in cold blood just like I didn't. The good inspector wasn't really wanting to charge him with anything; if he was, he would have left the cuffs on. I continued talking, hardly knowing what I was saying, but making sure to sprinkle some real deductions in with my made up ones. After all, Watson had said he didn't kill him and that was that. I trusted he was speaking truthfully, and therefore the truth would line up with my deductions even if half were based on nonsense. I ended my ramblings by groaning, putting my hand to my head, and leaning heavily on Watson. It was only partially acting on my part, and it did its job: Lestrade grumbled that he'd get Watson's statement later and we were free to go.
"Alright?" Watson asked.
"No," I grumbled. "Let's go home."
In my own agony I'd forgotten Watson was hurt, too, until I heard his breathing hitch as he helped me stand.
"Watson?"
"Let's go home," he said, giving me no time dwell on it.
Lestrade finally gave up on his pride and came to help us, making sure we were safely in a carriage and on our way home. Thankfully, I had Watson to lean on this time, and clung to him like a lifeline to keep myself in place. The only thing worse than falling out of a carriage twice in one day would be falling in front of Watson. I knew he already felt bad enough that I'd come after him in the condition I was in, and I didn't mean to make him feel worse. Nevertheless, I didn't regret it. He would never be able to see things from my point of view, but I knew I would have come for him even if I had felt worse.
I thought I was keeping myself right by anchoring myself with Watson, but I must have been in worse shape then I thought for the next thing I knew I was back in my bed and Watson was beside me once more.
"Holmes, please!" I heard him call. I struggled to wake up, and saw him visibly relax when he saw my eyes were open.
"Don't do that to me again," he chastised me.
"Sorry," I murmured, even though I didn't quite know what he was referring to. As a matter of fact, I didn't know what had happened for a moment until it came back to me. I relaxed, knowing it was over and that we were both safe in Baker Street.
"Watson," I mumbled, reaching out and touching his arm. He took my hand in his, and perhaps I was imagining it, but I could feel he was trembling. "Are you alright?" I asked, his trembling reminding me I'd seen that he'd been injured.
"Don't worry about me," he replied, slowly helping me sit up.
"Don' lie to me," I slurred when I could catch my breath, the weak delivery of my words not fully conveying how much I meant them. I wasn't in a position to help him at the moment, but that didn't mean I didn't want to know what had happened to him.
"I'm not lying, Holmes," he said as he raised a glass of water to my lips and helped me drink. "I'll be fine. I took a few hard knocks when I was fighting, but I'm alright. You, on the other hand, scared me there for a minute. You lost consciousness and I couldn't rouse you. How are you feeling now?"
"Terrible," I groaned, "But the dizziness is better. I feel lightheaded and nauseous, but the ringing in my ear has become faint."
"Good. Don't think that means I'll let you up anytime soon, though. You've overdone it, and as your doctor I'm confining you to bed rest for at least a few days."
I grumbled a bit at that, but in reality I knew it wouldn't be much of an issue, not this time. My body was aching, and all I wanted was to rest. Watson knew it, too, especially when it took me only a half hour or so to drop back off to sleep. I wasn't worried, however, not so long as Watson was alright. I was, I knew, in very good hands.
Epilogue: a few days later.
A sharp pain shot through my arm as I reached for my pipe, and I cursed aloud for it was the third time in as many minutes that I'd forgotten I was temporarily left-handed. I grumbled aloud, shifting position in order to get it. I set it in my lap, fumbling with my left hand to pinch in some tobacco. I dropped my pouch, however, and I threw the pipe in frustration. Where was Watson? Why wasn't he here helping me?
Of course, my timing was horrible and I was grumbling at his expense as he entered. I looked over when I heard the living room door open and saw him raise his eyebrow at me before turning to leave again.
"Watson, wait!" I called, rising quickly. For all my frustration and grumbling, there was hardly ever a time when Watson was not welcome in my presence and now was certainly not one of them. I dearly wanted his companionship at the moment. I had forgotten, however, that rising quickly was a bad idea in my present condition.
My head swam and the world tilted in odd ways. I felt Watson's arms wrap around me, felt my back impact something hard that wasn't the floor. His thigh, I assumed, but my formidable mind was otherwise occupied and I wasn't certain of anything besides the fact that Watson had once again saved me from a hard fall. My arm screamed with pain as Watson lifted me, placing me on the couch.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt your arm. Can you hear me?"
I nodded, but that was a bad idea, and I groaned.
He sighed. "You were doing so well this morning," he murmured. "I should have known you'd overdo it once I let you up. Just don't move for a minute, you ridiculous man. Why you got up like that I'll never know."
"Your fault," I murmured.
"My fault?" he demanded without really being offended.
"You're too good. I get used to having you around."
"How's the ringing?" he asked, peering at my ear as if he could somehow see if it had healed yet.
"Tolerable," I sighed. "Just got up too fast. The problem is I keep getting distracted. I have told you before, Watson, that when I am on a case my own bodily comforts such as eating and sleeping become secondary. Injuries, also, can be pushed to the side. I was, in my brain attic, solving the murder we saw in the newspaper this morning. I forgot I was only here in in the room because I can't hardly stand yet."
Watson shook his head at me in a way I wasn't sure was exasperated or fond. "You're ridiculous," he said. "Only you, Sherlock Holmes, could nearly get blown to bits and forget about it when there's a murder to solve."
I almost insisted that it wasn't so bad as all that, but bit back my retort. I had, in fact, been far too close for comfort to dying. It was infuriating, really, to be so immobile like I was at the moment, but at least I was alive. Watson had been kind and attentive, and I wouldn't throw his compassion back in his face by trivializing what dangers he'd saved me from or the mental anguish he must have gone through thinking that I was dying in front of him. For real this time, not like when I'd deceived him into thinking I was gone.
"How did it go with Lestrade?" I said instead, distracting us both.
Watson shrugged one shoulder. "He believes me. Seeing me standing over Masterson's dead body was hard to ignore, but now that he is gone all the blame can fall on him. Lord Griffin, especially, was not pleased that his treasure was destroyed and was making a fuss of it to the chief superintendent, who in turn was on Lestrade's arse about it. I don't blame the Inspector for being reactionary; he needed someone to answer for what had happened. Masterson, for better or worse, can't defend himself now and my version of events likely wouldn't be questioned even if I was lying, which I'm not. You... you believe me, don't you, Holmes? I mean, I wasn't quite thinking fond thoughts towards him, but I didn't want him dead."
He sat down beside me and I leaned against him, closing my eyes tiredly. "Of course I believe you, Watson. Even if I didn't, I would." I knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that my statement didn't quite make sense, but I hoped Watson would pick up my meaning regardless. He was good at that, at hearing what I wasn't saying.
"Lestrade's an idiot for attempting to arrest you," I continued, spouting nonsense like I always did while under the influence of any kind of pain or painkiller alike. "Arresting you as if I wouldn't have broken you out. Ridiculous."
"You mean posted my bail, right?"
"If that's the way you want to think of it."
He chuckled. "It is. Rest, Holmes. You'll be out of the woods soon so long as you don't do anything stupid."
"I never do," I murmured.
"Right," Watson said. "You never do. I just keep forgetting it every time you do something stupid."
I chuckled, too. "You know," I sighed, "we got off easily, all things considered. For having been blown up, I mean."
"We did," Watson agreed. "But let's not get into the habit of it."
"I think, Watson, on that I can wholeheartedly agree."
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed. If you take the time to leave feedback on this or any of my stories, thank you.
To my dear Faithful Reader: Is it weird of me to say it's good to read reviews from you again? I hope not, because it is :) If you ever get an email account, you should create a fanfiction account so we can message (if you'd want to, of course). I hope you're doing well out there! (also, did you mean to leave reviews for every chapter of my Christmas stories besides 31? That one was one of my favorites to write, and I'd like to know what you think even if you disliked it. It's always a joy to know someone else likes what I write, but all feedback is helpful, not just the positive stuff).
