From Spockologist: 3. Address

I awoke with a start at the sound of a fist hammering upon our front door. I had fallen asleep over a book in my armchair as I waited for my companion to return.

With a groan I picked my bag from off the floor inside the door and made my way downstairs as Mrs. Hudson answered the door.

McPherson hurried into the hall and gazed up at me as I reached the foot of the stairs.

"I am glad to find you still up Doctor," he said hurriedly. "It's Mr. Holmes; he's had a bad knock to his head. I found him wandering the street all bloody and confused... He couldn't remember where he lived."

Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand to her mouth with a little cry of shock and dismay.

"I am sure that Holmes will be all right," I soothed our housekeeper gently. "He has a strong constitution and head injuries are often more alarming in appearance than symptoms. Now, I suggest that you try to sleep for the time being; I may need your assistance when we return."

I myself feared for my companion terribly, but it would have done no good to have Mrs. Hudson in a state of hysterics.

As I knew that she would, our housekeeper quickly recovered herself and returned to her quarters at the top of the house.

"He looked awful," McPherson told me fearfully once we were underway. "His face was all pale and he was swaying around as if he'd just stepped off a ship. If it was anyone else, I might have thought he was drunk."

"Where is he now?" I asked, hoping that I was somehow resembling a calm and professional doctor.

"I took him to Inspector Lestrade's home. I thought that was probably for the best, since it was nearer than Baker Street."

"I think that that was very wise of you."

At least Holmes was not out in the cold, damp street. There was a sulfurous fog rolling in off the Thames - a pea-souper - and the temperature was sinking steadily lower.

I was prepared, I thought, for any eventuality. I was proven wrong, for the scene that awaited me was not one for which I was ready. When Holmes set eyes upon me, he flinched and backed away.

"I am your friend Holmes," I reminded him gently.

"You are nothing of the kind!" he responded in a state of near-panic. "You are a doctor!"

The word 'doctor' he spat at me as if it were the most dreadful word that ever existed. His manner did hurt, but I simply reminded myself that he was not in his right mind and set aside my bag.

"I am only a doctor when my services are required," I attempted to reassure him. "I am not in practice. I only want to help."

Holmes gripped Lestrade's arm tightly. "I don't like doctors! They are evil!"

Lestrade gestured for me to keep back and seated my friend upon his sofa. "Doctor Watson is a good man; he is not going to hurt you," he glanced in my direction for a moment. "Take a look at him - at the man, not the doctor - and draw your own conclusions."

I stood nervously while my companion analysed me carefully.

"You are an army doctor," he said eventually. "You were injured and sent home."

"Yes."

He gazed at me for a long moment and then grunted. "If I have to trust a doctor, I suppose that it should be you; you have an honest face."

I was upset that the fellow still did not know me, but it was a relief to be permitted to tend to him. I soon discovered that he had more than one injury.

"My God Holmes! Even your throat is bruised! Who did this to you?"

He shrugged and winced. "I am not sure whether I knew them or no, but I do recall seeing them off. At least two of them, anyway... there must have been a third because - ow!" he flinched as I cleaned some abrasions to his knuckles. "The third hit me from behind as his companions ran away."

"I wish I'd been passing at the time," McPherson muttered. Lestrade and I seconded his sentiment; we all three would very much have liked to get our hands on those ruffians.

Once I was convinced that my friend was well enough to travel McPherson found us a cab and Lestrade helped me in getting Holmes inside it.

"You'd best get yourself off home Constable," Lestrade said in a tone not lacking warmth. "Your shift finished more than two hours ago; your wife must be beside herself."

"Thank you sir, but I'm sure she'll understand when I explain. The missus is fond of Mr. Holmes sir."

I nodded and clapped him upon the shoulder before scrambling inside the cab and seating myself at my friend's side.

I would have liked to have rested a hand upon Holmes' shoulder or to hold his hand so as to reassure him, but the fellow was still disorientated and confused. He still did not know me.

When the cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street, it was clear that the house was no more familiar to him than I was.

"This cannot be my address!" he exclaimed with a whistle. "I could never afford it!"

"We share the rent," I informed him.

He gaped at me. "Do we really?"

The sitting room was unfamiliar to him, though his pipe rack and Persian slipper were not. His violin also brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes and he immediately began to play. At first the notes were jarring and discordant and obviously expressed his own emotions. This went on for some time and Lestrade left us in what he called peace. Then, quite unexpectedly, my companion played one of my favourite pieces followed by a rendition of his own which he has often performed for me while I have been too ill or in pain to manage to sleep.

As the final notes faded away, my friend blinked his grey eyes in a sleepy manner and then permitted them to meet my gaze.

He smiled. "Watson."

With a sigh of relief I approached him and wrapped an arm about his shoulders, being mindful of his many cuts and bruises. I was very glad to have my dear friend back.