Blood and Grief
The world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.
1886
There are some days that feel like a gift. The sky is blue and there are no clouds. The breeze is soft and cool. It seems as though on those rare and perfect days that nothing unfortunate could ever come to pass.
That is a fantasy. People suffer whether the sun is shining or it is not. Children die of starvation in our streets while the wealthy feed their table scraps to their spoiled little dogs. The world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.
As I walked I focused my thoughts on the beautiful weather. I was determined not to waste my thoughts on Sherlock Holmes.
It is not uncommon for us to disagree, but usually we can do so in a more civilised manner than what transpired over breakfast. The blame is my own as I am fully aware that Holmes was simply doing what he always does and I can not blame him for being himself. It is I who acted out of character.
The situation was this; Holmes had draped his news paper clippings all over my arm chair and drank all but a tiny leftover of tea. It was nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before. It was nothing I had taken exceptional issue with in the past. However, I'd already had a bad night and very little sleep. I'd made my way downstairs with certain expectations. I expected to have a chair to sit in and a cup of tea to drink, really, is that too much to ask?
I endure a lot of strange behaviours with no complaint. Apparently there is a limit.
"Ah Watson, I have an errand for you to run." He held up yet another clipping. "It is of the utmost importance that you verify the contents of a certain safe deposit box. You must first contact Miss Charlotte Reacher and obtain the key. I have already written a note and she will be expecting you this afternoon. You will have to leave soon to catch the train."
"I have other plans today, Holmes." I attempted to explain.
He waved his hand dismissively. "You could not possibly be doing something more important than this."
"Then perhaps you should consider doing it yourself." I replied.
He laughed. "I am much too busy today. My time is much better spent occupied with more significant matters."
At least I knew at what level of import he considered my agenda. "I have had these plans set for over a week now and I am not willing to rearrange them. Perhaps I could help you tomorrow?"
"It is imperative that this task be done today." He retorted. "You will simply have to send your regrets and reschedule your lunch date."
"No, I will not." I gathered up the clippings on my chair and unceremoniously dropped them on the floor at his feet.
"Watson?"
"This is my chair." I pointed at the chair as though it weren't obvious what I was talking about. I sat down.
Little else was said the remainder of the morning. There was no more mention of the errand Holmes had wished me to undertake.
An hour later I set out for the veterans legion to meet my friend, and we spent a fine afternoon reminiscing on the early days we'd served together. It was an afternoon filled with friendship and laughter, and I am content to say that my thoughts strayed to Holmes only rarely.
It was on my home from that visit that I return to the beginning of this account. I remember thinking the weather could not have been more perfect, and I considered taking an extra detour to walk around the park before venturing back home and having to contend with my contentious roommate once again.
I had just passed a small mending shop, I remember thinking I must bring my jacket in to get the inner pocket repaired. A couple walked ahead of me, the woman's hand gently resting upon the elbow of the man beside her. He bent slightly towards her to say something.
But as I mentioned, the world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.
The sudden onslaught of sound was deafening, and a wave of intense heat washed over me just as a great force pushed me backwards.
...
There was smoke and noise. There was a distinctive and terrible smell in the air. Blood and gunpowder.
I pushed back the inner replay of dark times… This was not a battlefield. I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on this moment only. Was I injured? No. My head ached from where it struck the ground and my face and right side felt hot, what damage was done to my person was negligible.
Others were not so fortunate.
I turned my head slightly as I heard a popping sound down the street. It wasn't close at hand, I ignored it.
Think. What happened?
Someone was screaming. Someone was crying and calling for help.
I did not have to think about what to do. I'd been trained in conditions like this. Different circumstances, certainly, as this time I did not have to worry about being added to the slaughter while doing my job. The aftermath of disaster was familiar enough though.
With a quick survey of the scene around me, I made several harsh judgements. It was necessity. Anyone who had been within the building was, without a doubt, beyond help already. I needed to focus on those still within my reach.
A man only five feet ahead of me lay twisted, blood spurted rhythmically and voluminously from the gaping wound in his upper thigh while his breath came in horrible rapid gasps. I stepped around him. A woman lay at his side, her eyes open but glassy with pain, pitiful moans coming from her mouth. Her arm was twisted, her sleeve stained red, and she lay face down in the dirt. Her breath shuddered as she breathed and I turned her as gently as possible to ease her respiration. There were burns along her face from her eye down to her chin. I pulled off my jacket and tore strips to make hasty bandages. I wrapped one of the lengths around her arm to reduce the blood loss from a nasty gash. I could not ease the suffering around me, the best I could hope for was to preserve the lives of those I could long enough for help to arrive.
A crowd began to form. They stood on the periphery watching and I was only vaguely aware of their existence, an audience was not my concern. There was shouting and crying and I remember thinking, this was the difference between a civilian disaster and a military one. At least in the military there are no gawking bystanders.
I knelt beside another man and I took off my jacket and folded it under his head. "You are doing well, help will come soon." I knew already that at best he would lose his leg at the knee.
I don't remember much more about the specific injuries I attempted to treat, these things blend in my mind with past experience and it is difficult to sort out one from another in the aftermath.
Eventually a hand grasped the fabric of my shirt at my shoulder and demanded my attention.
"Are you injured?" The man asked.
It was a medical student from the hospital. I vaguely recognised him from several lectures I'd attended, but not well enough to place a name.
"No." I sat back. This man had a medical bag and proper bandages. As the relief at no longer being alone washed over me I was aware of my hands beginning to shake. "I'm fine." I insisted.
He nodded and moved on. He was not the only medical student on the street that I recognised. Reinforcements had arrived. For the first time I allowed myself the luxury of time to look around see the bigger picture of what had happened. Everything seemed covered in a dark dust, obliterating colour. The entire front of the bank had exploded outwards. Smoke continued to billow from the gaping hole in the building.
As I stood up I could see there were bodies inside. It was nothing I hadn't seen before.
My eyes drifted back to the man I had seen first, the one I neglected to treat. He lay twisted on the ground with a great puddle of blood surrounding him, he was no longer struggling for breath. Was there something I could have done to save him? He was not the only victim I had stepped around. I should have done more.
The tremor in my hands spread to the rest of my body until I was wracked with with full body trembling. Now that there were others taking over the care of the wounded I took several steps back to keep out of the way.
"Dr Watson?"
I jumped at the voice unexpectedly close to my ear, but recognised the young man who sometimes worked alongside Lestrade. Constable Plinker.
"Do you need to go to the hospital, sir? I can help you over to the wagon just over there."
"I'm fine, thank you."
The sky was growing darker. I wanted to go home.
"Sir. If you pardon me saying so, it wouldn't be right of me to allow you to walk the streets looking as you do. Can I take you somewhere?"
He was right. I would cause quite the fright looking as I did. My hands were covered with blood, my jacket was gone and my shirt looked worse than a butcher's apron. "Yes, of course." There was no where to properly rinse and so I found myself crouched at the side of the road dipping my hands into a puddle.
The constable averted his gaze, a look of revulsion clear on his face, and I noticed too late that there was a small group of onlookers standing only feet away. Yes, it was a revolting thing to do, but yet again, it was nothing I hadn't been forced to do before. None of these people had ever been forced to strip the jacket off a dead body to use it to staunch the bleeding of another. None of these people would ever be forced to carry out barbaric and horrifying indignities on young men in a battlefield of chaos and confusion only to…
This wasn't the same. It was no fault of theirs that I so easily reverted to such abhorrent behaviour.
"I'm sorry." I doubt anyone heard me. I straightened and wiped my hands on my already soiled pant legs.
I followed him to his wagon. "Baker street." I said softly.
The tremors only grew worse and my mind raced with images from long ago that blended with the horror I'd just witnessed. I should not have gone straight home in the condition I was in, but I could not imagine going anywhere else.
The constable dropped me off at the door. I thanked him and bid him a hasty return to the scene. There were others who would need his assistance.
"Will you be fine from here, Dr Watson?" He asked.
"Yes. Thanks you." I watched him leave.
I hoped to refresh myself in solitude. I hoped Holmes had left for the day. I needed time to step back and rebuild my defences. I often felt that he could see right through me and all my faults and defects laid bare before him. My shattered nerves were one thing I desperately wanted to keep to myself.
There was no hiding anything around Holmes even when his intention wasn't to pry all the secrets out of me.
Mrs Hudson, thankfully, had left for the day to visit an elderly aunt and so I did not need to worry about meeting her in the hall. As I climbed the stairs I took a deep breathe of the scent of Holmes strong pipe tobacco. I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment, willing the familiar aroma to vanquish the battleground smell that seemed to be lingering within me.
I wanted to continue straight to my own room to change clothes and clean properly, but the next moment the sitting room door was flung open and Holmes stood pulling me forward. He would be interested to hear about the explosion, but there was not much that I could tell him. I knew he'd be disappointed at my lack of observational skills; an ex-army surgeon should be more aware of his surroundings in an emergency.
A glass of brandy was pushed into my hands.
"There's been an explosion on Groening Street, I offered my services." My voice was steadier than I'd anticipated. Holmes took my hand and guided me towards the couch. With one arm he swept the entirety of his days work of clippings onto the floor as he helped me sit down.
"Groening street." He repeated after me. "The bank?"
I nodded. "I was nearby."
I emptied my glass and Holmes refilled it and then poured a glass of his own. He rubbed lightly on his bottom lip for a moment. "How nearby were you?"
I thought about the man and the woman walking just in front of me. I thought about the man with blood pooled around him in the street and I shuddered.
"Watson. You are injured." Holmes said.
I looked down at my shirt. "It's not my blood."
"Some of it is." He insisted and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "May I?"
I did not stop him as he undid the buttons and carefully eased the garment from my shoulders and arms. His expression remained absolutely neutral as he examined the extent of my injuries. Explosions are always messy . There are burns, there is metal and wood and shards of glass projected through the air. I've never seen Holmes affected by the wounds left on the corpses of victims we have examined with the Yard at crime scenes. But his eyes are by far the most expressive of his features, and he was not unaffected seeing blood on me.
"I'm okay. I've had worse."
"I know." I felt the slightest brush of his fingertips across the scar on my shoulder. He assessed the wounds thoroughly and collected the supplies he needed. A basin of water and a clean cloth, bandages and salve. I did not bother to coach him. Over the years we have tended to each others wounds many times and I trust his ability more than many of my colleagues. He paused for a moment and apologised when I flinched involuntarily. Meticulously, the wounds were cleaned and bandaged.
I took a deep breath. I'd been so focused on the sensation of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his touch that when he drew away I felt suddenly untethered. The sitting room seemed to swim and fill with dark fog, and the next thing I knew Holmes had his arm around my torso as I leaned heavily into his chest with my head resting on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
He carefully eased me sideways so that I was laying down and then he sat on the floor beside the couch, close to where I lay my head. "I am relieved you are well." He said.
"Thank you." I stared at his face until I realised what I was doing and then closed my eyes.
I felt a hand ghost over over my hair so lightly that I may have imagined it. It was that touch I felt as I drifted off to sleep.
If I have ever found peace in sleep, it certainly was not that afternoon.
The pressure of a hand on my chest was what brought me up to waking and rescued me from the depths of memory I'd fallen into. Holmes chair was pulled up close to the couch where I lay. I reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist even as I berated my weakness.
With his other hand he passed me a handkerchief and I wiped my face. If I allowed myself to, I could fall apart completely. Instead I let him go. "It's been a long day." I explained poorly.
He glanced over at the fireplace, it was lit and the room was warm, Holmes stood up and picked up his violin, he played softly, something I didn't recognize but it was slow, repetitive, and peaceful. The music washed over me like gentle waves and slowly I sank into a more restful sleep.