A/N: This chapter was, for some reason, a particular beast. I had the majority of it written when I made my last post, but the flow was a complete mess and didn't want to work. I had to get out the scissors again. Hopefully the next won't be as long of a wait since I have about 75 percent of that one written and there isn't the same flow problem with it! :) I desperately want to get this done (you have no idea) so a bazillion thanks to you all for sticking with me this long! It's been well over a year since I started posting and I never thought I'd hit 100K, but thanks to everyone's (undeservedly kind) support, we're past that and climbing towards the end. :)
The wagon rolled into a panicked scene at the dockyard. Up to three thousand men worked the sprawling expanse of the London Docks in Wapping at peak periods, though this was not one of them; but that did not count the men on the ships, the worried families who had descended upon the area to try to find their husbands and sons, the guards trying to protect the cargo from looters, and the river police and local constables trying to keep an eye on the brazen gawkers.
The din from the voices alone was staggering: cries of women, both joyous and despairing; moans from dozens of wounded, with more tottering over on the shoulders of their comrades; directions shouted back and forth between those battling the blaze; malicious blame and conjecture from the dock master, workers and civil servants alike. All of this was punctuated by horses whinnying, unsettled by the madness (though at least they were not screaming in agony as they often did in battle) and the occasional shrill bosun's pipe calling between watermen constables. Buckets hit the surface of the cold seawater in the basin; the water hissed moments later as it evaporated from the heat of the flames. Underlying all of this was the still-vigorous thunder of the flames. The constant deep rumble of it made John feel half-deaf.
Tragedy or battle, it mattered little to John. He had long since learned to put all distractions aside. It did not even occur to him that he left his cane in the wagon as he needed both hands for his case of borrowed surgeon's tools and his pack of clean sheeting. He waded into the field of wounded with a sense of purpose and two wide-eyed medical students clinging to his tails. He assessed the situation with quick eyes, blinking away the smoke and ash. An assortment of medical professionals had already arrived, trying to make an orderly situation out of the chaos – three surgeons besides John and Stamford, at least one military from the tone of his commands, two midwives who experienced no panic at the sight of so much blood and pain, and assorted soldiers and sailors who had learned to tourniquet out of necessity. Several other men and women had made themselves useful, doling out fresh water, staunching blood flow, and otherwise making the wounded comfortable.
The first men John saw had been injured either falling from upper parts of the building from the force of the blast or by flying debris. John set and splinted two legs broken from a fall from a first storey landing, immobilized one arm with torn strips of sheeting to treat a broken clavicle, and closed two sets of eyes.
Later patients were burned or barely able to breathe for the coughs wracking their chests. There was little John could do for burned lungs beyond administering a soothing dose of tincture of opium; it would take both time and fresh air to heal. One man was in particular agony with a vicious combination of smoke inhalation and broken ribs from one of the great hogsheads of goods shifting into him. John supported the man for many grueling minutes until the cough weakened and John could verify that the ribs had not punctured either lung. While the man breathed shallowly, John instructed his medical students in the art of binding ribs. He checked when they'd finished, making sure the bandages were taut but not too tight to enable the man to draw a proper breath. He had, meanwhile, moved on to the next.
After the flames began to retreat – the Royal Exchange Assurance fire brigade had already been on site with a hose and pump to supplement the bucket line when the wagon from Bart's rolled in – John began to see the more horrific injuries as the last living men were evacuated from inside the building. Burns and crush injuries could be quickly fatal if one were lucky, or lingering torment if one were not. Still, he could only take each patient as they came and do what could be done.
As expected, the medical students were generally overwhelmed by the chaos that met them that afternoon in Wapping. John's two partners, Talbot and Harris, proved able enough to focus on simple and direct orders, though, so John utilized them as dressers, showing them how to stitch and bind after him, and using their combined strength to set bones or suppress mobility when needed. They also carried those most severely injured, the extensive burns and one amputation, directly to the wagons to be transported to a hospital, wrapped in wet sheeting or fatty burn salve. Even if those men survived the trip, however, infection would likely take them in a matter of days.
"Talbot," John shouted, his voice a bit hoarse from the smoke, "Find some lanterns. Take whatever you find in the superintendent's office. We passed it on the way in." Talbot bobbed his head and dashed off, thin and light of foot. John struggled on, trying to see as the weak afternoon light that wasn't obscured by smoke and fog faded. Talbot returned several minutes later with two blocky iron lanterns hanging by their handles off an elbow, three small wood and glass candle lanterns threaded like tankards on his opposite hand, and balancing a rather delicate India shade surrounding a tall candle, likely off someone's desk. John allowed himself a momentary chuckle before taking one of the iron lanterns for himself.
The marine police started to appear with lanterns of their own, and a few of the ships which did not have to catch the next tide volunteered sailors with heavy bottomed whale oil lamps. Little spheres of light dotted the quay, holding the darkness in abeyance, but did nothing to combat the creeping cold. Breath steamed in the air; bloody wounds did as well.
John wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, no doubt leaving a sooty smudge behind. Despite the bitter breeze crossing the expanse of the Thames and the dying of the flames in the large warehouse nearby, John had abandoned his greatcoat to one of the wounded to use as a blanket and was considering using his jacket as protection between his knees and the cruelly hard ground as he tended to one man after another. He hadn't spared a moment's thought over the impropriety of the act – tending to the public in only his shirt sleeves – but did consider he had a long way to travel home and it might be unpleasant to freeze to death in a carriage. The greatcoat, he had no hesitation in stripping off for someone in more dire need – many of these men, these hard-working men, were dressed in little better than rags. Matthews, a model of modern stewardship, could be trusted to find him more outerwear without even a word as he had done for him and Sherlock several times already in their short marriage. John may not see this greatcoat again, but he would never miss it. And if the recipient sold the garment in order to finance his grueling recovery, John would not begrudge him that.
Perhaps in that manner, the coat would wend its way back to Baker Street after all.
An hour later, John's other medical student, Harris, fetched his cane from the newly-returned wagon. One of the other surgeons was milling around, taking stock of which men still required help and of what sort. John directed Talbot to finish wrapping the arm of the man in front of him and Harris helped him to his feet. Once upright, John limped over to the navy surgeon, much more grizzled and experienced, and introduced himself.
"Doctor John Watson, formerly Captain Watson, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusilers."
"Doctor Watson, eh? Well, good work, son. Saw you on the wagon from Bart's. You working there?"
"No, sir. Just visiting a friend and heard about what happened."
"Can never quite stay away from the battlefield, eh? I'm Avery, by the way." He gestured towards the nearest ship. "Of the Calliope."
As John chatted with the ship's surgeon, he kept close eyes on his two medical students, who were now taking the time to stitch and bandage those with less severe wounds. The terrorized air had begun to dissipate and, with it, the crowd. Plenty of people remained, but the crying and shouting had become more muted, the sound of spraying water overwhelmed the roar of the flames, and those who could walk away had done so. Others had already been carted off towards St. Thomas' on the other side of the Thames. Some would be headed to St. Bart's. The dead had been lain out in a neat row.
Stamford saw John and called him back to the wagon. John excused himself from Mr. Avery and carefully made his way over.
"As soon as the last one is loaded, we're headed back to St. Bart's for the night." He must have seen John's hesitation. "We did what we came to do, Watson. We can let others take over, now."
"Honestly, I expected to be here until morning," John said after a few indecisive minutes. Stamford clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.
"You know, if you hadn't married so well, I would be offering you a job."
"I may consider it regardless."
In the end, there were fewer than a hundred men within the warehouse when the explosion (the source of which had not been determined as the warehouse was used primarily for spices and fabrics) occurred. When the final count had been taken, there were eleven immediate deaths, five men with serious burn and crush injuries who would likely not make it through the night, two amputees who would, nine broken bones and nearly fifty injuries requiring more than ten stitches from flying debris. Men with minor injuries still worked to combat the flames or assist where they could; some of them wouldn't even notice their burns until the sweat and grime were washed away.
John had given his name and address to those who hobbled away, told them to send for him if it became urgent, though the distance across London made it unlikely they would. He gave them directions, sometimes many times over, on how to dress and clean the wounds, the signs of blood poisoning, to watch for fever and seepage.
And while he ached now, toes to the tips of his hair, it was a good ache, one reminiscent of a job well done.
"Watson, come along. Wapping can take care of her own."
John reluctantly agreed and hopped up next to his friend, legs dangling off the back and cane across his knees. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind. He was still worrying over each of the men he'd treated, hoping one concussion didn't develop into something worse, wishing there was more he could do to prevent infection, wondering if they would all have a warm place to sleep and enough food to eat while they recovered (and knowing they probably would not). Other thoughts wormed their way into his brain as well: had he taken enough pocket money for a carriage tonight (he felt a hundred miles from home); would his leg hold out until he arrived there; would Sherlock still be bilious? Was he, John, still embittered about their moment of disharmony this afternoon? At least many hours had passed since John had last dwelt on his husband's truculence, easing the hurt of it.
Stamford was always a good one to break a dark mood though. "One of my students just sat down and cried when he saw white matter," Stamford informed him in a somewhat jolly tone as the wagon jolted away from the dockyard. "I told him if he wasn't going to be of any assistance, he may as well get out of the way." John couldn't see them, but he imagined the glances the other medical students behind them were sharing. Clearly the subject of Stamford's comment was not returning to Bart's with them.
"Are you going to send him down, then?"
Stamford shrugged. "Might be suited to be an apothecary. He is intelligent enough for the work. I am not certain what he expected from doctoring – perhaps to simply poke and prod and stroke his beard. He ought not be in the surgeon's course if that is the case."
"Don't forget we were all green once, Stamford. There is still time for improvement."
"I should say so. I suppose I shall have to converse with him about a realistic plan for his future."
They rode in silence a while. The city streets seemed bereft of sound despite the clopping of horses' hooves, the chatter of the pedestrians they passed and the raucousness spilling forth from a public house,. Their ears had become accustomed to the fierce crackle of thirty foot flames, the moans and screams of men, the accumulated din of a thousand voices. The city streets offered no comparison.
"I've a spare room where you can spend the night if you wish, Watson. Give you a chance to meet my wife and enjoy a relaxing supper. It's been too long a day for a trek across London."
It was enough of a sojourn from Wapping to West Smithfield where the hospital and Stamford's small house were located; it was several miles yet across the city to John's home.
"As much as I appreciate the offer, I would rather make my way home." He wasn't looking forward crossing the entirety of London. If he hadn't Sherlock to think of, he would have accepted his friend's offer to spend the night. Truthfully, though, it was funny how quickly Baker Street felt like home, and John really wanted to be home right now. "Besides, I am hardly in a fit state to be presented to your lady wife."
Stamford took the refusal with grace and a grin. "I do understand, Watson. You are newly married, after all. How is Mr. Holmes treating you?"
"Never a dull moment." It was a trite saying, but ever so true.
When the wagon pulled up to St. Bart's, John and Stamford alighted, letting the hospital orderlies come and remove the last of the patients into the hospital. John said his goodnights and made his way down to the morgue to check for Sherlock. He was quite certain his husband had left long before, but there remained the possibility that Sherlock was still pouring over the bodies and their cipher.
The morgue was empty except for a disheveled orderly and an attendant John had not yet met. He enquired after Sherlock and the attendant informed him that Mr. Holmes must have been gone for some hours as he had not been present when he came on duty, thank goodness. John gave the attendant a more polite thank you than he deserved and retreated to street level. He found a hack willing to take him to Baker Street for the coins left in his purse. As he fell onto the seat, he finally let the weariness overtake him. Today had felt like a week.
He hoped Sherlock was home. He also hoped for the less likely scenario that Sherlock was home and inclined to wrap his long limbs around John while he slept for about a day. After a bath. All the smoke and blood had left John with an unpleasantly acrid aroma. He was tired enough to doze in the carriage, despite all the jolts from the carriage wheels on cobblestones. He pulled his jacket collar up around his neck and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.