Sequel to #17. Imperiled
"Watson! Stay awake, Watson!"
His friend made no answer, slumping further against the railing as darkness took him, and Holmes grabbed Watson's uninjured shoulder before he could fall between the rails. Watson had been clutching his shoulder, but the doctor was too accustomed to the lingering pain of his old wounds to lose consciousness from that, and Holmes wondered if there was some other injury he could not see.
Gently turning his friend to lay safely on the walkway, he called Watson's name, trying to rouse him. His worry grew when the doctor remained still, silent, and he continued trying as he began looking for injuries.
"Mr. Holmes!"
Holmes tore his worried gaze away from his friend barely long enough to see Lestrade hurrying towards them, and Holmes cut off Lestrade's forming question. "Where is his medical bag?"
"In the police wagon," Lestrade answered. "Bennet!" A young constable spun away from the group of Yarders at the base of the gangway. "Get the doctor's bag from the wagon!"
The constable bolted away, headed for the nearest street, and Holmes felt Lestrade kneel next to him but didn't look up as he ran a careful hand over Watson's shoulder, searching for any sign of injury.
"What happened?" Lestrade asked, joining Holmes in checking Watson, though with rather less skill.
Holmes' gaze remained fixed on Watson's face, looking for any indication that his friend was rousing even as he searched for swelling, dislocation, and anything else that could have caused Watson such pain. "The imbecile tripped him after escaping you," he finally answered, referring to the smuggler they had caught on the ship's deck. He left it at that, not wanting to recall the absolute terror he had both seen on Watson's face and felt on his own when Watson went over the edge. If Holmes had not reached him in time…
He shoved the thought away, using Bennet's arrival to distract his active imagination from the what-ifs trying to plague him. Watson had not fallen, and he would not—not while Holmes was there. He needed to focus on what had happened, namely that Watson was injured and needed help.
He could find nothing wrong with the shoulder other than the deep bruise beginning to form, and he carefully checked for other injuries before beginning to immobilize the joint. His worry grew the longer Watson remained unconscious, and he hoped he had not missed another injury.
Watson still had not roused when he finished with the sling, and he checked again for other injuries but found nothing. A frown crossed his face. Why had Watson lost consciousness?
"What can I do?"
Lestrade's voice broke into his worried ruminations, and he glanced up. He had nearly forgotten the inspector was there. "Help me move him to that bench," he answered shortly, gesturing to the one nearest the gangway.
It took only a couple of minutes to lay the doctor on the bench with Holmes for a pillow, and he smothered another worried frown when Watson never moved, unwilling to show such a thing even to Lestrade.
"You caught him?" Holmes finally asked, refusing to voice the man's name. There were few things that could make him despise someone, but he had disliked the smuggler before he had injured Watson and saw no reason to grant the man a name now.
Lestrade did not answer immediately, but Holmes never looked up, more focused on his friend than the conversation. What had made Watson lose consciousness? Did he have another injury that Holmes had not found? His friend had been teaching him medicine for many years, but there was always a chance that he had missed something.
Watson needed to wake up, to tell him what was wrong so he would know how to help.
"He's dead."
No!
Holmes felt his breath catch in his throat, thinking for one horrible instant that Lestrade meant Watson.
Then his brain caught up, quickly noting that he had just asked about their smuggler and that Watson was still breathing evenly. He exhaled, finally remembering the splash he had faintly registered when trying to reach Watson.
"Drowned?" he confirmed shortly, still watching Watson breathe.
"Probably."
Holmes glanced up, barely refraining from voicing a cutting remark about the incompetency of the Yard if they could not determine that a man pulled from the river had drowned.
"He fell off the walkway to hit head first," Lestrade explained.
Holmes nodded sharply, understanding. Entering the water head first from such a height had probably broken the man's neck. Drowning would have been secondary.
"Do I need to call someone?" Lestrade asked when Holmes made no answer, his gaze again locked on Watson.
Holmes hesitated but shook his head. "He should wake in a few minutes, and Tim is still nearby should something change before you return with the niece. You plan to inform her here, correct?"
Lestrade nodded. "I think she will take it better here than at the station, and she does not yet know what he was truly smuggling."
"She will take it better seeing the evidence," Holmes agreed distractedly, still monitoring Watson. He said nothing more, and silence fell. He barely noticed when Lestrade left.
The minutes seemed intermittent, elongating into ages as he waited for Watson to wake. His worry increased every second Watson remained still, and he checked again for other injuries. Had Watson hit his head on the rail when he fell?
There was no knot, no sign of other injury, but Watson finally stirred at the touch. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back. Watson hated waking to find someone leaning over him, but Holmes could not force himself to move away completely, watching intently for the doctor to open his eyes.