Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Panic" by The Smiths.
May 18th, 1891
For fifty-two hours, the woman slept. Her breathing grew steady, and although she was flushed with fever, it exited her system swiftly. Sometimes though, her eyes flicked open as if she was ready to rise. Moments later they would shut again, blocking out the world. With her being conveniently unconscious most of the time, Watson found that it was easy enough to wrap and bind her broken limbs properly. And Holmes' daily activities resumed within twenty-four hours, but he was careful to clomp over to the doctor's abandoned lodgings and close the partition just in case.
Watson, once again over to perform his rudimentary check on her, thought she was on the mend.
"Perhaps she's going to come out on top," he said, listening to her lungs with his stethoscope.
"Yes, Madeline hasn't rejected the blood and could very well recover," Holmes stated discreetly, poking a stack of papers repeatedly with his boot. John squinted, too curious to let it pass.
"How do you know her name, pray tell?"
Without looking at his companion, Sherlock pulled a twisted bit of paper from his pocket.
"She was carrying a note inscribed to a Madeline in the purse that was strung around her waist. Logically one would conclude that she is Madeline."
Watson was slack-jawed for a second. "You went through her clothes, Holmes?"
"My dear friend, what choice did I have? It was imperative to know who she is. No doubt there are people out there who are going to report a missing woman of her height, looks and so on, and it would be better to have them know she is alive and…if not well, then on the way there," the other man rationalized. "Besides, not knowing the name that went with the physical attributes was maddening."
The doctor rolled his eyes, and muttered, "That's not the point; I am speaking on the principle of the matter."
"And what if she had died? We would've needed to put a name to the body. Hardly fair to turn in the poor creature we worked so hard to save without a name, eh?" Holmes continued as though his friend had not spoken. Clearing his throat, he began to read from the slip, "'Dearest Madeline, I implore you to come visit me. I have missed you so-'"
John jumped in, "Holmes, that's rather presumptive of you to read a private letter."
"You know, the address on this envelope is for a house down the road. This explains why she was on Baker Street; she was originally on her way to a visit, and then the trip became a quest for asylum from the mad coachman," the detective speculated. Watson found himself nodding at the logic, and then shaking his head irritably.
"You're not listening to me!"
Quirking an eyebrow at the abrupt change in subject, Holmes remarked, "Quite right, my good fellow. I applaud you for distinguishing the difference between 'hearing' and 'listening'."
As the two became fully occupied with their bickering, they failed to notice the stirring in the bed. Madeline blinked once, twice, three times and tried to focus on her surroundings. She remembered the carriage, the intense pain, and two pairs of eyes staring at her, but not much else. Her left arm and right leg were immovable, and she felt the pull of her stitches when she twitched her other arm. Letting loose a hiss, she felt something other than the oppression of cracked ribs constricting her breath.
Panic.
'Where am I? How am I still alive? Who is it that's got me strapped down so?' she wondered, her eyes darting about the ceiling. Turning her head to the side, she witnessed a clump of cloth sitting on the ground. 'And why is my dress on the floor?'
Pulling a blanket over her underclothing-clad body with her good hand, she then spotted two men engaging in an argument. One was a bit taller than the other, his bright blue eyes glittering in exasperation. The other was darker in coloring, his hair almost black and his eyes spying her suddenly. She knew those eyes well…every time she woke they hovered above her. Gulping, she felt more fear flood through her frayed veins.
"Doctor Watson, it appears that our patient has woken finally," the darker man murmured. Blue Eyes, or Watson she supposed was his name, whipped his head fully around and shot her a reassuring smile. With a few short strides, he was by her side and at the job of examination again.
"How are you feeling, Miss…?" he asked, trying to draw her full name out of her. She didn't disappoint.
"Madeline St. James. Where-?" she began, attempting to sit up and nearly screaming as the broken ribs flashed with new pain. The doctor requested she lie back, informing her of the extent of her injuries. Her mouth flopped open unbecomingly at the news.
"I daresay you might want to close your mouth, young lady. As the saying goes, you could end up catching flies if you leave it like that," Dark Hair cut in, smirking slightly. Immediately she snapped her jaw shut, wincing when her teeth clacked together.
"We brought you in straight away, and you're in Mr. Holmes' rooms at 221B Baker Street," the doctor said, half glaring at his compatriot to shut him up. "I will not lie to you, Miss St. James-"
"Missus," she and Mr. Holmes said at the same time. Blinking, she looked at him in confusion.
"Her ring finger has two lighter bands of skin where the engagement and wedding rings once sat," the detective explained. "But they're no longer there…widow?"
Clearing her throat, Madeline affirmed, "Yes, right on that count. My husband passed away three years ago."
"Hence why your dress wasn't the customary black, but still is a darker color to reflect the end of your mourning and still having reverence for your husband's memory."
She glanced at Watson. "How does he do that?"
He just shrugged. "It's his job, Mrs. St. James. Anyway, back to what I wanted to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted…"
"Dreadfully sorry, old chap," Holmes replied cheerfully.
"Like I was saying, I cannot lie to you, Madeline, in that we did all we could to make sure you'd survive. We undertook a great risk to make sure you'd come around."
Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and she wondered, "What was the risk?"
"We had to perform an emergency blood transfusion," John confessed, watching her face pale rapidly. Quickly he continued, "I know it's a nasty business, but it's what saved your life."
"I see," she mumbled, her eyes darting everywhere. The mention of blood made her incredibly sick to her stomach, and the fact that she'd apparently lost so much that she needed somebody else's made her want to vomit. Taking in massive gulps of air, Madeline struggled to get out, "Who…who gave me their blood?"
She then watched as Mr. Holmes wordlessly unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled up the sleeve, revealing a thick wad of bandages identical to the one on her right arm. The sickness in her subsided for a moment, allowing her to absorb the great kindness the man had done for her. He did that, for a stranger, no less! A trembling smile graced her lips, but still she pointed to the nearest waste-bin and motioned for it to be brought to her. The urge to vomit overcame her pain, and somehow she managed to sit up and take the bin when Holmes handed it over. Both the men had the decency to look away as she dry-heaved into it.
"I apologize," she weakly murmured after she was finished, glad her stomach had been empty for the past few days. "Really, I am sorry for this."
The duo gave her assurances that they'd seen worse, that it was nothing they couldn't forgive. Dr. Watson then decided to inform her that given the state she was in, it would be the right thing to keep her on bed-rest for awhile.
"We still have yet to see how well you'll react to the treatment, but I have confidence that you could very well be up and about soon," he said, straightening his cravat and beaming in relief.
Madeline wanted to get to the point. "What exactly does 'soon' mean, doctor?"
"Until the majority of your wounds heal, you may be here possibly for four to six weeks."
"WHAT?!" she and Holmes crowed unanimously yet again.
Soldiering on, she sputtered, "But, but, but I can't be here for four weeks, let alone six! I need to go home!"
"Really, Watson?! That much time?! She needs to be moved to the hospital!" Holmes groaned aloud, his face creasing with bemusement and fury. The doctor let them rabble on to the individual reasons why she couldn't reside at the Baker Street residence, which were mostly about Holmes and his "habits" being the deterrent to the idea, until the pair had finally run out of steam.
"If you're both quite finished, I will tell you why she must stay here. Madeline, you are in a delicate condition. Moving you out of this house before you are healed or fully adjusted to the blood could have dire consequences," he pointed out sharply. Turning to his friend, he said, "And I am aware of the fact that that coachman wanted her dead. You know, as well as I, Holmes, that she'd be a sitting duck for another attack were she to leave."
The detective deflated, crossing his arms. "I concede the point."
"There you go. Find out whose hunting her down, and in the meantime she can recover from the trauma she's endured," Watson said smugly. "Wonderful, a non-society case to take up."
Holmes bit his lip, knowing he could've taken that moment to be completely ungrateful and ungracious. However, he managed to keep his comments locked in his brain and only grunted noncommittally. The doctor, assured of his victory, called up the landlady and informed her of the situation, pleading with her to bring the two some food while he stepped out for the night.
"Doctor, please, I would rather not impose," Madeline tried once again, her appeal falling on deaf ears.
"Nonsense. You can't move without incredible pain, and so I won't move you," Watson said, crossing his fingers behind his back as he tailed on the lie, "The time will fly by, I promise. Now just rest up, and I will be back tomorrow, along with my wife Mary."
Glimpsing Sherlock's sour face at the mention of Mrs. Watson, she almost missed that Mary would be coming by to aid her in the ways he couldn't by biting down a giggle. Taking that to mean bathing and dressing, she grinned mirthlessly and agreed to the terms, putting him at ease.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said, signaling that he was able to leave things where they were. Once the fellow was out the door and on his way, she let out a slow breath. "And here we are."
Holmes snorted, "What a place we are at."
Pivoting her head in his direction, she was about to counter what he said, but considering the truth of his words, she just sighed again and shrugged. Running her hand through her hair, her eyes widened in shock when her fingers got caught against the matted blood.
"Mr. Holmes, if I could ask you to do me a favor, would you do it for me?" Madeline spouted in a dull monotone.
Coming out of his sullen leaning against the far wall, he responded, "I suppose so."
Flashing him her most pitiful look, she whispered, "Could you cut my hair?"
xXxXxXx
An hour later, Sherlock marveled at the fact that he had complied with the request. It took a lot of effort just to get her to be sitting comfortably, and then a good while was spent on filching Mrs. Hudson's sewing scissors just to do the deed. He insisted they eat first, and she readily complied by wolfing her meal down so fast that he'd hardly gotten halfway through before she held out the cutting utensils expectantly. But there he was, snipping away many inches of Madeline's hair, and not very well, either. At least he was certain now that he would never be able to be a barber if he ever retired from his detective duties.
Her honey-brown strands, caked with blood, slipped away easily when chopped off. He was painstakingly slow at the job, causing her to shift occasionally in boredom. Each move, though, cost him an accurate cut, and her soreness was renewed.
"Stop that," he demanded lightly, "I don't want to accidentally cut you."
She became as rigid as a block of wood, eager to come out of the event unscathed. Having new pain compacting the old was not relished.
"I'm sorry," she replied softly. Taking a moment to brush the snipped hairs off her back, Sherlock shook his head despite her not being able to see him.
"No apologies, just stay still."
"Sorry."
"What did I just say?"
"Sor-" she cut herself off, clamping her jaw tight. A grimace pulled down the corners of her mouth, and Holmes took it as his cue to continue. Eventually, he finished with cutting and started sweeping the hair into the vomit-bin. Madeline's hair was now barely half the length of her neck, alarmingly shorter than before. Tugging on the strands, she couldn't stem her desire to see herself. Requesting a mirror, she observed Sherlock glimpsing his work and blinking deliberately.
"You really don't want to see it. You've had a poor excuse of a barber trim it off," he said, pushing the bin away. It went without saying that she most likely wouldn't want to see the bruises that had sprung up on her left eye and chin. She chuckled, her ribs aching as she did so.
"Even so…" she trailed off, catching her reflection in the window glass three feet away. "…Oh my…"
They both just stared at the image in the glass, one wearing a look of chagrin and the other a look of detached interest. She'd never imagined her hair being that short in her life, nor that she'd have purple blotches on her face. Seeing her hair hacked away and face pummeled was astounding. Minutes passed, and when nothing came from her lips Holmes felt the heaviness of ennui descend upon his mind.
'Time for the needle,' chanted the addicted part, and as he turned to resume his habits in the empty room, he became aware that his new flatmate had said something to him.
"Come again?" he queried, stopping in his tracks.
Madeline, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears, swallowed before saying, "I said thank you, Mr. Holmes…for helping me."
There was no missing the double meaning. Cutting her hair was nothing; giving her his blood was everything. The utterance of the words was simple, but the heartfelt quality to them made the sentence profound. It was all she had to give him in return for the work he'd done for her, but to hear it coming from her living lips was enough.
"It was no trouble, Mrs. St. James," he heavily pronounced, giving her a slight bow before departing. He took up the needle once he was away, and she examined her living space until she was ready for sleep.
As they both reclined in their separate sleeping quarters, Madeline and Sherlock had the same thought: just what would the next four-to-six weeks be like?
Author's note: Guesstimating on the recovery time, but I felt that four to six weeks would be understandable. Personally, I love writing the squabbles between Watson and Holmes. It's so much fun…and I am on a roll, updating twice in a week. Well, it gives me something to do while I'm on Spring Break. And yes, Madeline has a name, hurrah! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the update. Please review, and I'll see you all for the next chapter.