Prompt: Therapy, from Hades Lord of the Dead
A/N: No one's ever quite pinned down when and where exactly Watson was wounded, and so I based this on the theory that his shoulder wound dates from Afghanistan and his leg wound came later, most likely on a particularly dangerous case. I figured if Doyle couldn't be bothered to be consistent I get to play around with his inconsistencies. I may actually expand this into a full story someday, because more ideas for it kept popping into my head until I had to cut huge chunks out of it.
If anyone is interested, the Chartered Society of Physiotherapists is the oldest professional society for physical therapists in the UK and was founded in 1894.
I have never given the study of medicine much thought; indeed, I have never had to, for I have spent much of the past ten years living with a doctor who can certainly tell me anything I wish to know. I am fortunate enough besides to have an iron constitution and rarely have to worry about my own health (which Watson has always done for me).
I have had ample cause of late to give medicine more than only a passing thought. My profession is a dangerous one, and I have had more near misses than most would believe by reading those luridly exaggerated stories Watson writes. But I have always been content to take such risks on myself. Though perhaps it is more accurate to say that I have always intended it to be such, and that is very rarely has been. Whenever I have told Watson that I engaged on a case far too dangerous for him to accompany me, he has always responded that if it is too dangerous for him to come, it is surely too dangerous for me to go alone. Well, I certainly could not argue with that - Watson possesses his own brand of logic that I occasionally find difficult to argue with. But this case was supposed to be simple. A gang of opium smugglers who needed to be caught in the act so that they could be arrested. It was an easy thing. Watson and I were to dress up as sailors meeting with their contacts in the smuggling ring, thus leading them directly to Inspector Bradstreet and his men. How the deuce was I to know that one of the smugglers had positioned himself among the crates, and that when he realized who we were, was perfectly in position to stab Watson directly in his leg? We were fortunate to escape with our lives.
Though, it turned out, not fortunate enough. The case was, at that point, over quickly enough, but the wait in the hospital felt interminable, with doctors telling me about the Achilles tendon and saying phrases such as "permanent injury" and "will not walk unaided again."
I did not believe them. Watson has survived so much, and his shoulder wound hardly pains him anymore. It seemed unbelievable to me that he would not simply recover from this as he has all else. I immediately threw myself into reading Watson's medical textbooks,searching for a better answer, sure that I could unravel this as I would a case. l I do believe I could draw an accurate diagram of the ankle and calf and explain exactly what it is the Achilles tendon connects to. Though in the end, I only came to the same conclusion: a permanent injury to the Achilles tendon prevents someone from walking without assistance for the rest of their life. In some cases, it prevents walking entirely. I have ample evidence to support this. Watson has been sleeping in my bedroom these past three weeks, as it was difficult enough for us to climb the first flight of stairs when he was discharged from the hospital and he surely could not make the second. I have been relegated to the settee, though I have slept little since then. We have hardly left Baker Street since that terrible day. Watson has not left at all, and I have only finished those cases I was already engaged upon, refusing all new ones until such time as Watson can join me again.
I heard the now-distinct step of Watson's pronounced limp and heavy walking stick, and after a few moments (quite a long time, actually, he is undoubtedly in a great deal of pain) he appeared at the sitting room door. I did not need much observation to deduce that he did not sleep, for it was obvious by his haggard expression, though he still gave me a tired smile. "I shall consider it a victory that I managed to dress myself today," he said.
So that was what had taken him so long. Well, it is indeed a victory, for he has required a steady hand to do so until now. "Though I think I may have pushed myself a trifle hard," he admitted, wincing as he stretched his leg.
"Do not exert yourself, Watson," I murmured. Offering comfort or sympathy is not my strongest point, and I have hardly an idea how to proceed. I remember well what it was like when Watson returned from Afghanistan, though compared to now, he almost seemed better then. He was not so trapped in our shared rooms then, and I saw him gaze wistfully out the window. "Mrs. Hudson is due to bring breakfast up soon," I said. "You should probably eat something, dear fellow."
"I know now how you have always felt when I urge you to eat," Watson said. "Still, breakfast does sound like a decent idea." He grasped his walking stick, but stopped before attempting to stand. "I am afraid I shall require your assistance, Holmes," he said, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
"Of course," I said, extending a hand to help him up. He grasped it tightly, and held onto my arm so that we could maneuver around the settee to the table. "You are welcome to my seat, Watson," I said. I ordinarily sat facing the window, with Watson across from me facing the fire, but it seemed too far a distance.
But Watson steeled himself. "I have already taken your bedroom, Holmes," he said, though he was breathing hard with the exertion. "I shall sit at my own place at the table."
"As you wish," I said. He sat down heavily, and after a moment seemed to recover his breath.
"Thank you," he said.
"Think nothing of it, Watson," I said.
"I should probably move back upstairs soon," he said.
"Watson, my bedroom is yours for as long as you require it," I said. "Please do not think you need to leave."
"Well, Holmes, I have to say, walls adorned with the portraits of famous criminals hardly provide the best atmosphere for recovery," he said, and I could not help a smile. My Watson has not lost his pawky sense of humor. "But it is not fair. You have not moved into my bedroom. You are still on the settee."
I shrugged. "That hardly matters. I often spent nights on the settee in any case." I did not say that I remained in the sitting room in case he should need something. He seemed to have forgotten that he could hardly get out of bed the first few nights and needed someone to bring him anything he required. Even now, I can sometimes hear him whimpering in pain in the night, and I considered that it was a good idea for me to remain within easy reach. Mrs. Hudson says she could hardly have imagined me showing such concern for anyone, though I do not know what possessed her to confess this to me. I suspect we have all been thrown into uproar thanks to Watson's injury.
Though it would seem she is wrong, for I then said what was exactly the wrong thing to say. "You cannot make the stairs in your condition, Watson. Surely you see that," I said. Watson is no perfect reasoning machine, but he has his own logic, and I thought he would see the rationality behind this.
It would appear not, for Watson threw me a dark look. "Am I to remain in your bedroom indefinitely? Expect you to turn your life upside down for me?" he said angrily. "I do not want you, of all people, to coddle me, Holmes!"
I stared at him in some amazement. I could not begin to untangle the utter illogic of such statements. My life turned upside down for him? I am well aware of my faults, both as a fellow-lodger and as a friend, and I am convinced no one other than Watson could be both to me. It is his life that has been turned upside down by his association with me. He has not practiced his profession in years, instead assisting me on cases full time. He has put up with my chemical experiments, my violin solos and my indoor gunfire, and now he has been grievously, permanently injured in my service. I can do nothing else but reciprocate where I can. Coddle him? Why, he spent years patiently coaxing me out of my dependence on cocaine, something no other doctor would, or even could, have done. In my view, we are evenly matched in what we owe each other and it never occurred to me that he would see it differently.
All this I turned over in my head without saying a word of it out loud, while Watson continued to glare at me, before he seemed to lose all his energy and slumped down in his chair. "Forgive me, Holmes. I do not know where that outburst came from," he said.
"It is forgotten," I said. "I should have remembered from your return from Afghanistan, that pity is unwelcome." It was easier then, perhaps because I did not know him so well then. Perhaps because his injuries were not my fault then.
Watson smiled. "But truly, I was unfair to you. You have not shown me pity. You've barely shown me sympathy."
This was not at all what I expected him to say, and I looked up indignantly. Sympathy does not come naturally to me but I thought I had done my best to not appear completely heartless in the face of my dearest friend's permanent injury. To my surprise, Watson laughed out loud. "That is not what I meant. Effusive sympathy would be unusual for you. From you, Holmes, I should have known it was false. What you've shown me, in your way, is care."
I was suddenly seized with the urge to take back every disparaging statement I have ever made about Watson's observational abilities. It is true he cannot tell a banker from a sailor but he is most adept at observing me. "It is only fair, Watson," I said quietly. "It is due to me you are injured. Had I observed that smuggler, I should have given you enough warning."
"I have always known there was danger in accompanying you," Watson answered. "Though I doubt I shall have the chance again." He threw a dark look at his walking stick. "You would not want someone who can hardly walk slowing you down anyway."
Actually, perhaps Watson is a poor an observer as I have always said. How he could ever think I shall not want him at my side is quite beyond my ability to understand. "I do not want to hear you say that again," I said imperiously, causing Watson to look up in some shock.
"But, Holmes, even with such recovery as I was promised, I will not walk unaided again," he said.
"So you shall accompany me on those cases which do not require running," I said. "Which pose little danger until you are better able to keep up. You see, I have not been idle while you have been laid up, old boy." I had done much research, and I retrieved a pamphlet from the floor.
"The Chartered Society of Physiotherapy," he read aloud. "I have heard of this."
"I have been reading about it," I said. "They specialize in exercises, massages, techniques which are said to help those with injuries like yours regain their mobility. Perhaps not all of it, but more than you could regain on your own, certainly."
Watson looked through the pamphlet, and I was relieved to see some interest in his expression. I had been afraid he would simply give up (I should have known my Watson better). Moreover, I wanted a doctor to look over what they were advertising. I knew only that it sounded like the miracle he needed, but it would take a medical man to know if it was indeed true.
"I have read of their successes," Watson said. "Perhaps it would not give me the ability to walk freely, but it might at least help me learn to maneuver without leaning on you constantly." He did look slightly more hopeful, and therefore much more like himself, I was gratified to notice. "It says here that it takes much time, with practice done at home," Watson said, and he turned to me much as he would have turned to the family of an injured patient. "Are you prepared for that, Holmes? You would have to assist me."
"You have assisted me often enough, Watson," I said. "It is only fair that I do in return."
Watson smiled - at last, a true smile. "I have nothing to lose by trying this physiotherapy. It might help, and if it does not, well, I will hardly be worse off than I am now. I must confess I was hoping this injury did not mean the end of my assisting you on your cases. I would miss it very much."
"As would I, Watson," I said. "You know I am lost without my Boswell, after all."