Prompt at the end

"Blasted..."

The mutter trailed away, and I pulled my attention from yesterday's paper. Holmes stood at his chemistry set, grumbling something about old chemicals and dishonest shopkeepers. His most recent experiment dumped into the waste pitcher in the windowsill.

Which he then took to the washroom. I returned to the written word.

"Where is…"

Though he would not let me concentrate. Mumbling in the way he occasionally did when irritated, he poured the diluted solution down the drain and stomped his way back to his chemistry set. The clinking of glass finally sparked a question.

"Holmes?"

That he pretended not to hear, naturally. I rolled my eyes and refocused on an interesting article.

Only for an oath to sound in conjunction with breaking glass. My paper landed on the nearest table, though his lack of movement kept me from getting up—yet.

"Alright, Holmes?"

He tried to wave the question away, but with one hand holding a clean rag to a cut on the other palm, the motion looked more like a half-shrug. Another moment passed before he managed to speak without swearing.

"Beaker had a hair-line fracture. I noticed it too late."

Probably due to that rapidly exothermic reaction last week, though I did not say as much. When he made no move to do anything but hold pressure, I finally retrieved my bag and joined him at the table.

"Let me see."

A grimace announced he would have preferred I leave him be, but he did not try to argue. Ginger movements slowly revealed a long, shallow gash across the heel of his palm.

Shallow enough he would not need stitches, thankfully. A disinfectant traced the edges before I wrapped a bandage securely enough to stem the bleeding. A bit of forethought put the knot on the back of his hand. He nodded his thanks but ignored my silent hint to leave the glassware for another day. By the time I returned my bag to its place, he had already started another experiment.

I could only shake my head. He ought to know better than to continue experimenting after a broken beaker followed a failed experiment, but I knew he would ignore a verbal remonstration as he had my silent one. I dragged my chair closer and to one side instead. Better overly cautious than underprepared.

Nothing happened, however. He cleaned up the broken glass, washed the remaining dirtied equipment, and chose two chemicals to start another round. I leaned back against the cushion.

Two chemicals became three, then a catalyst. A small dish held one drop of a liquid, then a stirrer transferred part to the main solution. The liquid turned a dusky blue.

I kept watching.

Dusky blue gained a precipitate that layered the bottom of the beaker and slowly lightened the remaining liquid to more of a sky blue. Ghostly flames seemed to dance over the surface, then two drops of something red dulled the heat to a strange orange, which eventually morphed to an uncommon green. A fine powder turned green back to a flickering orange, but stirring the mixture stabilized the reaction. Holmes looked away to scribble something in his notebook.

At which point, orange flashed to a dangerous, dark red to make me lunge from my chair.

"Get down!"

He made to dive to one side as a firm grip jerked him away from the table, and I barely managed to land atop him before a putrid scent flipped the room upside down.

"—me, Watson."

A low voice intruded on dreamless sleep, nudging, pleading, tugging me to wherever it was. I tried to ignore the noise. I was comfortable.

"Come, Watson. Open your eyes."

Why? I did not want to. I wanted to stay here, where nothing hurt.

Well, almost nothing. As if birthed by the thought, pain lanced through my head. I fought to push it away.

Only for a lesser ache to wander down my back, each arm, and come to rest in my leg. Throbbing discomfort slowly, grudgingly pulled me from the pleasant darkness. The voice took advantage of the assistance.

"Watson?"

Providing a name in the process. Why did Holmes want me to wake?

"I know you can hear me. Open your eyes."

And why did his voice sound so thin?

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Fine." The short reply undoubtedly waved the question away in favor of studying me. "How long?"

"Nice try. Sit." Slight rustling announced only a token struggle, then familiar fingers wrapped around my wrist as she continued, "I was in the front room. Do you have a headache? Are you lightheaded?"

Headache. Lightheaded. Weak. His voice suggested a more generalized pain. What matched those symptoms?

Chemistry set. Reactants. Problem. Memories flooded back to spark worry, fear, then pain. I had caught the brunt of the explosion—first explosion?—but Holmes had been pinned between me and the floor. How badly was he injured?

Badly enough, if my own pain was any indication. Radiating discomfort varied from a dull ache to a spiking throb, and despite wanting to confirm my friend whole, I rather wished he had let me sleep longer. Mrs. Hudson could see to him.

But only if he let me sleep. A hand tried to shake my shoulder and sparked more pain in the process. I failed to smother a groan.

"You need to wake up."

No, he wanted me to wake up. I did not have to wake up. The fumes had knocked us both out, not the explosion. I doubted either of us had a concussion.

One finger poked me instead, then tapped my cheek. I finally, reluctantly cracked one eye against the light to find him frowning at me from where he leaned against the table leg.

"Ow."

Concern became huffed amusement, though he did not stop staring at me. I made no effort to sit up.

"Alright?"

"I am fine," he promised a touch too quickly. "Where are you injured?"

"Liar." The grumbled accusation flared his ears bright red. "Aches, headache, 'n twisted my leg. You get th' same?" He nodded. Once. "Good. Maybe this'll teach you not to mess wi' the rule o' threes. Shoulda…" I swallowed, trying to control my tongue to avoid scaring him in a minute. Fatigue slurred my speech more than the ache shooting through my back and neck, but I would not be able to convince him of that any more than he would give into the fatigue dragging him down. "Should…have…stopped when your beaker cut you. Don't touch that."

Mrs. Hudson froze, one hand inches away from picking up what remained of Holmes' experiment. Understanding replaced confusion when the next moment registered the heat. I had seen that reaction only once before, but I remembered that she would need thick gloves to pick up the debris without burning herself, at least for a while.

"Watson."

And that an awkward landing combined with a fume-induced headache would make me want to sleep through the worst of the pain. I forced my eyes back open at his prod.

"Hmm?"

"Stay awake."

An attempted snort emerged closer to another hum. "No concussion. Fumes are clear'ng, 'n I'm comfortable. You can have th' settee. Don' bother with a pain reliev'r. Won't work."

"How do you know?"

Something about the gas he had produced. I did not try to voice that, however. Blatancy colored my words instead.

"Tried it last time. Now let me go back to sleep. Should wake up in a—" A yawn broke the promise. "Couple h'rs," I finished. A moment shifted to take my weight off my already tender shoulder, and a patch of rug served as a pillow. I barely made out something about "lifting" before I drifted away once more.

I woke to find myself on the settee, a certain stubborn detective snoring in the armchair pulled within reach. As I saw no sign of Mrs. Hudson, they must have accepted the lack of danger, and I gave a quiet sigh of relief as I draped a blanket over my friend and relaxed back into the pillow. I much preferred a few hours' doze over staring through a book.

Prompt: The Rule of Threes. Things happen in threes. What grouped itself this time?

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Thanks to MHC1987 for your review on the last chapter :)