Hello friends! I wanted to respond to everyone's reviews individually but I've fallen behind and now I've gotten sick, so I don't have the energy. So a HUGE heartfelt thank-you to everyone who has been following along. Thank you! I've been trying to keep up with reading all of yours as well. Can't believe we're already over halfway through December!
December 12: "Write me a hurt/comfort story where one of them is injured" (from Domina Temporis)
I hope this came out okay, I'm a little groggy still from being sick.
My readers may recall that in the matter of the strange business regarding Nathan Garrideb, I depicted a moment in which I was injured and Holmes expressed his fear and then anger at my injury. In that narrative, I describe it as being the "one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain". It never brought me satisfaction to depict my dearest friend in such a manner, but he made many enemies over the years, and after the events that I will soon describe, he made me swear to him that I would never publish nothing depicting our association in a way that might open me up to danger. We negotiated a compromise after the Great War, allowing for publication of the Garrideb events. But now my dearest friend has passed beyond my reach, and in these final days of my own, I find I am driven to pick up my pen once more to correct this depiction of his character before it is too late. The truth of the matter is this: I first understood the depth of friendship Sherlock Holmes held for me in the spring of 1883.
The case had been an ordinary one: the mysterious drowning of a dock worker, who was regular in his habits, a strong swimmer, and hadn't a drop of alcohol for years. His watch had stopped upon entering the water, and though the foolish constable who first arrived on the scene had managed to fix the watch, Holmes was able to work out the time of death based on what little the constable could recall of the placement of the hands when it was stopped. Based on this and some few other details overlooked by the official force, the killer was captured and brought into custody, and Holmes and I were home in time for supper.
It was foolish of me, in retrospect, to have published our true home address in my stories, but in those early days, I was trying to bring my friend more business, and never imagined any danger would come of it.
The memories of that night come back to me now in flashes: waking to the sound of unfamiliar footsteps, strong hands shoving me down when I rose with a gasp, the sweet smell of chloroform, the rough cloth smothering my face and the scream dying in my throat as I fought to remain conscious. When I came to myself again, I was aware first of the dryness of my throat and the ache of my old wound as I sat with my arms restrained behind me, my wrists sticking out of the loose sleeves of my night shirt and chaffing against the wooden chair and thick rope. The scent of fish and the tang of salt in the air told me I was near the docks. A blindfold prevented me from seeing anything of my surroundings. Only a dim, flickering light penetrated, telling me that either the room was windowless or the sun had not yet risen.
"He's awake now," I heard a man say.
"Good," another voice growled. "I want Sherlock Holmes' pet to be awake for this."
Pain assaulted my senses, colors exploding in my vision as a fist collided with my left cheekbone. I tasted blood.
What followed consisted of more of the same. I do not know how long the beating went on, but I took it in near silence. I am not the proudest of men, but I have known my share of suffering, and would not give these men the satisfaction of breaking me. But it seems that was never their intent, for after they had decided they were finished, my senses were again assaulted by chloroform.
When I was aware of myself once more, I opened a bleary eye (the one not swollen shut) to see a brick building coming slowly into focus: the back of building 221. I was in the garden, perhaps six feet from the kitchen door. I had never seen my home from this angle before, and stared up at the façade with some sense of hazy intrigue, though most of my mind was occupied with the growing awareness of pain. The sky was the dull gray of a cloudy early morning.
I made to sit up, a sharp pain in my abdomen causing me to hiss and lay back upon the hard earth. Bruised ribs, I thought, more than one, but I could not yet say how many. I rolled to my side, putting too much weight on a swollen wrist and collapsed on my face with a cry. Sprained wrist. I would use my left arm, then. I braced my forearm against the ground and pushed myself up to my knees, and made to stand, but my head spun and I quickly returned to all fours. I would have to crawl to avoid risking a fall.
It was not far to the kitchen door, but reaching up to the knob, I found it locked, and banged on it with my good arm for a couple of minutes before I heard Mrs. Hudson's shuffling footsteps and the click of the lock. The door swung inwards, and the moment the landlady looked down at me, she let out a horrified scream. She told me later that she did not recognize me in that first instant, so bloodied and bruised was I.
I heard my friend's footsteps rapidly descending the stairs and he dashed into the kitchen. I had never seen that look upon his face before.
"Holmes," I croaked, as he fell to his knees before me.
"My God, Watson," he whispered, raising a shaking hand to my face. Then he seemed to collect himself, a mask of calm falling over his features and he snapped, "Mrs. Hudson, call for a doctor at once!" The lady scurried from the room. The pain and exhaustion became too much, and I soon knew nothing more, save the vague impression of strong, lean arms supporting me as I collapsed.
I believe it would be of little interest to you, dear readers, to hear every little detail of my injuries and recovery, but Holmes was by my bedside day and night. I had been poorly when we met, and so I thought I had known how he would respond to my being waylaid by illness or injury, but I was wrong. I do not know if he slept at all the first few days, when I was all but bedridden. When he was not by my side, he was working with Mrs. Hudson to have the window latches and shutters reinforced and all the locks upon the doors replaced with the best models that Europe had to offer. Sometimes when he was at my bedside, he would not at first notice that I had awakened, and I would catch a glimpse of such an expression of shame and grief as I had never before imagined he was capable.
After five days, he was at last satisfied that I did not need constant surveillance and left me to the care of Mrs. Hudson. He was absent for long hours at a time. Sometimes I would hear the mournful strains of his violin in the middle of the night, but mostly he was away, and I heard nothing.
Two weeks later, I was at breakfast when he came home after having been gone some forty-eight hours. He was gaunt and haggard, with four days without a shave serving as part of his disguise. I made to ask him if he had any success, for I knew that he had only one aim: hunting down the men who had done this to me, but he only shook his head and wordlessly retreated to his room.
Another week passed in the same manner. Approaching a month now since my injury, I was nearly returned to my former state, aside from some scarring and my wrist sprain. Holmes had still barely been home, and when he was, he slept little and ate less.
"Holmes, you are working yourself to death," I cried, when he refused to hear my concerns. "As your doctor, I demand you take some food, and for the love of God, sleep."
My friend's face contorted in a scowl, and we stared at one another for a long moment, before my friend's face crumpled, and he collapsed into his chair. "I am sorry to try you this way, my dear fellow. But I can afford to waste no time. These men must be brought to justice for what they have done."
"I know, Holmes." I pushed my own chair closer to his, and sat down. Our knees nearly touched. "Please," I said at length, "take care of yourself."
"Give me two days," he replied thickly. "Then I will rest."
With that, he stood and without a second glance, swept from the room.
In two days, all four of the men involved in the beating were in police custody. I wish I could say he found peace after that, but it was some time before he seemed to return to normal, and I confess I am not sure he was ever the same. It was not the last time I would be injured during the course of his cases, but I was never again hurt as badly. I would see my friend vulnerable again, too, but never like this. When I recall those weeks, I must confess it haunts me, even to this day. Sherlock Holmes should never be known to the world as a brain without a heart.