The man had locked the door, assuring himself privacy and an inability to reach him if he should faint in the shower.

"Sherlock!" I jiggled the door handle. "Are you all right?"
I heard the faintest gasp from the other side of the bathroom door. I ran to my desk, caught up a paperclip and had straightened it by the time I'd returned to the bathroom.

"Did I not specifically instruct you to not…" I stuffed the paperclip into the lock's mechanism. "…close…" I twisted the paperclip fervently.

"…The door?"

The door swung open and I was engulfed by a cloud of soapy-smelling steam. Waving my arms to clear it, I saw him, sprawled on the floor of the tub, one arm and one leg hooked over the side. The shower curtain had fallen with him and was now tangled around his body.

His eyes were shut tightly, his cheek resting against the edge of the tub. He'd managed to wash the dried blood from his skin, but fresh blood was blooming from his nostrils.

I turned off the water and knelt in front of him. "What hurts?"

He made a sound between a whimper and a sob.

"Did you hit your head?" I was already pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand while running the fingers of my other hand through his wet curls, looking for bumps and fresh blood. I sighed in relief when I found neither.

"Looks like your nose took the brunt of it," I said.

"Among other portions of my anatomy," he gritted out. "Speaking of which… could you hand me a towel?"

"Oh!" His nakedness hadn't occurred to me until that moment; I grabbed a bath towel and lay it gently across his hips. It molded to his skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, but at least it gave him a small sense of modesty.

I unwound the shower curtain from around him, muttering, "Sorry," when he moaned.

"Just a bit sore," he hissed. He lay back to straighten his spine, then struggled to sit up.

"Careful," I murmured, "Are you still light-headed?"

"No," he said, but I knew it was a lie and stepped into the tub behind him to help haul him to his feet. When he stood, the towel fell away and I could see the red, angry marks along his hip and bottom; he would have spectacular bruises by morning.

I took his bathrobe from the edge of the sink and wrapped it around his shoulders, then helped him step onto the dry floor. I had had to let go of his nose to help him upright, so the blood was once again coursing down his face, dripping from his chin. I pinched his nostrils shut and told him to sit down on the closed toilet.

He did so heavily, his eyes still closed. "Lean forward a bit," I encouraged. "If the blood goes down your throat, you'll throw up." He did so willingly, listing wearily against me. I rubbed his shoulder with my free hand and murmured soothing, nonsensical things as I waited for his blood to clot.

I was angry with myself for allowing him to shower without an escort, and in that uncanny way of his, he knew. "You feel guilty because I was walking without a gait when I entered the bathroom," he said, his voice nasally. "You thought I would feel more calm if I could wash the blood off, and that outweighed the risk of my falling shower."

"Yes," I agreed reluctantly.

"You thought I was fine," he said.

"But you weren't fine," I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.

"At first," he said. "I dropped the bottle of shampoo, and when I leaned over to pick it up, the vertigo set in."

"Are you better now?"

"I'm improving," he agreed.

"Good," I said. "But I'm afraid I'll have to call one of our physicians to pay you a visit."

He began to protest, and then closed his mouth abruptly. "Fine."

I was concerned he didn't make more of a fuss.

Fortunately, the bleeding stopped quickly, and as I mopped the blood from his face with a towel, he agreed to lie down. I suspected the invincible Sherlock Holmes was wearing out, and for that I was grateful.

I kept my arm around his thin waist as we walked to his bed and hovered until he had settled between the sheets, still wearing his damp terrycloth robe. Immediately, he screwed his eyes closed; I suspected the bed was spinning around him.

Wordlessly, I made him a cup of tea and set it on his bedside table. "I'm going to call the doctor," I said.

"Hurry," he whispered.

That frightened me most of all.