From cjnwriter: "Watson mends a broken leg."


"I'm sorry, Holmes, but you will need to remain off the leg for at least another six to eight weeks." With great effort, I kept the wince out of my voice. Holmes was many things, but patient with his own body's weakness was not one of them. "And that estimate is predicated on the idea that you follow my instructions."

Holmes snarled in disgust. "Six to eight weeks, Doctor? I will go entirely mad."

Privately, I thought that the madness had been to pursue Matthews into the alleys of London alone, but it would do no good to harp upon this point. With an effort, I forced from my mind the sound of breaking bone and Holmes' cry of pain, although I had at least arrived in time to prevent Matthews from then dashing out his brains. Whatever compunction I might have had at shooting a man had fled instantly at the sight of Holmes' milk white face.

"Six to eight weeks," I said ruthlessly. "Or forfeit full use of that leg."

Holmes' scowl shifted to a wry sort of grimace. "What a pair we would make then, eh, Watson?" he said, alluding to my still-persistent limp. He sighed heavily and flung an arm across his face. "Very well, I will remain here."

"And use the crutch if you must get up."

"And use the crutch," he agreed sullenly.


By the third day, I was contemplating taking that crutch and using it to beat out Holmes' brains. No jury in England would have convicted me; no doubt some would praise my restraint at waiting so long.

"Watson!"

I sighed. "Yes, Holmes?"

"Where is my blasted violin?"

Hidden in my room - Holmes' leg would prevent him from climbing the stairs - after the last three-hour solo of unconnected notes. "I haven't the faintest idea."

Holmes glared at me; he knew I was lying, just as he knew I must have placed the violin somewhere he could not reach. Neither bit of knowledge would do him any good. I sighed again and closed my book. Since I was responsible for the loss of Holmes' music, my conscience pricked me to at least try to provide a replacement.

"We could play cards, Holmes."

"Psh. That is your area of interest, Watson, not mine."

I racked my brains. "We could open that fine bottle of brandy you were given at the successful conclusion of the Moreau case."

"That bottle, Doctor, is earmarked for a celebration," my companion said peevishly, "And I find nothing to celebrate in our current circumstances."

Well, no, but my nerves would have appreciated the brandy. "In that case, we could—"

I was saved from trying to think of another option by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said brightly, ignoring Holmes' irritation with the ease of long practice. "A package from the other Mr. Holmes."

A spark of interest lit Holmes' face. "Whatever would brother Mycroft see fit to send?" I watched with mingled relief and trepidation as Holmes accepted the package and tore away the paper.

"Ah, binoculars!" Holmes raised them to his eyes and gazed out across the street. "Not something I usually require, but as I cannot go to observe in closer detail…"

I could only pray we would not have any irate neighbors knocking on our door by the time Holmes had recovered.


A/N: Rear Window, anyone?