From PowerOfPens: Holmes can sing surprisingly well.

The wound I received at the hands of 'Killer Evans' during that case I later titled The Adventure of the Three Garridebs was a little more serious than I let on to my readers when I wrote up the story for The Strand. My life was never in any danger, but the journey home proved difficult. I had, with Holmes's assistance and coat, fashioned a makeshift bandage to stem the blood flow, but it was painful going.

"We should have let Bradstreet call a surgeon," Holmes huffed, helping support the majority of my weight from the hansom cab to the front door of 221B. "It looks a lot of blood."

In truth I was starting to feel a little dizzy, but I knew I would be fine once I could lie down with a stiff drink.

"I can stitch it myself," I panted, using Holmes's shoulder to lever myself with a hop over our front step. "Just need to... get inside..."

We made it upstairs, after some time, and I collapsed shakily onto the sofa, pausing a moment to gather myself.

"Watson?" Holmes hovered nervously nearby, still looking as pale as he had in the moments after I had been shot. "Are you sure we hadn't best call another doctor?"

I shook my head. "Fetch me my bag Holmes."

He pursed his lips, but did as I instructed, dropping the bag by my side. I pulled out all the necessary equipment to stitch myself up, and asked him for a drink of something strong.

"And get something for yourself, too," I added sternly, spotting his trembling fingers as he handed me the glass.

He tutted. "Really Watson, I am not the one who was shot tonight!"

"Grazed," I corrected, clearing away the blood. It looked a sight, but would be easy enough to stitch. Although I did feel dreadfully tired...

"Why don't I do it, Watson? I have some experience you know, not so much as a medical man perhaps..."

I smiled wryly and set to disinfecting the wound with a wince. "I have seen your attempts at stitches Holmes. I shall manage well enough on my own."

He dropped into his armchair wringing his hands in agitation as he watched me begin.

"You don't want a painkiller?"

"Not yet," I murmured, concentrating on threading the needle. "I need my mind clear."

A few more moments of silence, as he watched me proceed. Then, "There must be something I can do to help!"

"Perhaps some music?"

"Music?" He looked nonplussed. "How will that help?"

"Your violin playing always relaxes me. Why not play something, one of my favourites?"

He looked aghast. "But my violin is being restrung, Watson!"

"It's alright Holmes," I told him gently. "It was only a suggestion. Really I am fine. I have had to do worse than this."

"It looks bad enough," he muttered, glancing over to the bloody graze on my thigh with a barely concealed wince. "Perhaps... Watson, I could sing something."

I had been about to insert the needle, but nearly dropped it at this suggestion.

"In my youth, I was an active member of the choir."

For a few moments I could do nothing but gape.

"Watson, you're bleeding..."

"Oh!" I cleared away the welling blood and disinfected the wound again. Despite the odd revelation, I knew I must concentrate if I wanted to finish this myself. "Look, Holmes, er... sing if you want to. But I must do this now or I shall fall asleep where I sit."

For the first few tugs of the thread, we sat in silence. And then, to my utter amazement, Holmes began to sing. He was halting, hesitant, and definitely no Nellie Melba - but he could certainly carry a tune!

"Good Lord," I whispered in amazement, eyes still on the stitches in my own thigh. I had intended not to interrupt, but Holmes was clearly listening for any signs of distress.

"Are you alright, Watson?"

"Yes, yes." I finished off the stitches, tying the thread off and laying back to rest for a moment. My head was swimming. "You are full of hidden talents."

"This one shall remain hidden." I would have jumped, for his voice was suddenly far closer than it had been before, but I was by this point very weary. I felt my legs being lifted onto the sofa and a blanket being settled over me. "It was my parents who forced me to sing in the choir, and I really had no interest."

I hmmed a drowsy reply. "Still, I am honoured to have heard you Holmes."

"Sleep, Watson." I felt a hand at my brow, perhaps checking for the fever that could come from infection. "Hopefully when you wake my violin will be back with us, and things can return to normal."