Holmes:
"Easy, Watson, easy. I'm right here." I held Watson down by main force as Barrymore ran to see what had crashed to the floor in the kitchen and after a long moment the words seemed to reach him. The pain had my poor biographer drifting near the edge of consciousness, but the stubborn fool wasn't going to let himself faint, that was clear enough. I looked to Mortimer. "Have you no morphine left at all?"
"I used what was in my bag already," Mortimer grunted, as he tried to repair the damage that Watson had done with his sudden panic. "Perkins... no, blast it, you've got to help with Sir Henry. Can Mrs. Barrymore go to my surgery and fetch fresh supplies?"
"I'll have to put the pony in his traces for her," Perkins said.
"That will take time." I fumbled through the mud in my pockets until I found what I was looking for. "Here, try this." I handed the half-empty vial to Mortimer carefully, not wanting to drop mud onto the areas he'd already cleaned.
"I'm all right, Holmes," Watson mumbled insistently.
"Of course you are, old fellow," I told him, but I took hold of his shoulder again. "But I think Sir Henry would prefer it if we arranged for you to stop dripping blood on his furniture."
Mortimer wiped the vial clean with a rag and pulled free the cork, sniffing at it with a frown and then touching a bit of the liquid to his tongue. "Cocaine?"
"A mild solution -- only seven percent. But better than nothing at all, I should think."
"Dreadful stuff," Watson grumbled.
"It has its uses."