Holmes fic: Postscript
Title: Postscript
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,680
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: There was a small incident on the way to Meiringen that Watson left out of his official account.
A/N: Scenario inspired by the Granada version of The Final Problem, but also compatible with canon. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Watson, self surgery.
Bonus points: Angsty Holmes assisting. (I'm not sure if this quite qualifies as angsty!Holmes...)
Also written for my hc_bingo square " surgery"
Moriarty had escaped the net and someone was shooting near us as we traveled in the mountains. I did not think it a coincidence and neither did Holmes from the way his gaze scoured the surrounding terrain each time we heard the rifle being fired. While no bullet had strayed across Holmes' or my path just yet, the shots were close enough to be threatening.
Until now. This bullet stirred the branches just beyond where Holmes stood watching for our brazen pursuer and I went to urge him to seek cover. I had not yet opened my mouth when the sound of the next shot reached us at the same time there was a sudden pain in my side.
I pulled Holmes behind the shelter of some trees before the sound of the shot finished echoing off the mountaintops. Only once we were safe did I allow myself to look down at the tear in my coat and the blood slowly discoloring the fabric around it.
It was a lucky shot. Shifted slightly in one direction, it would have missed me entirely. Shifted slightly in the other direction, the bullet would likely have perforated an organ and I would be bleeding to death where I stood. Instead, I could feel the bullet lodged in the flesh just below the ribs on my right side. I tried but failed to push the bullet back along its trajectory.
I needed it removed surgically, but not here, not now. The stand of trees we sheltered behind was the only cover; our pursuer could easily find a new perch and finish us off if we remained in place much longer.
The mule carrying our baggage was grazing a few yards away, also behind the trees. I held my folded handkerchief over the wound to slow the bleeding while I awkwardly unfastened my medical bag from the animal one-handed. I thanked the force of habit that had me grab my bag when leaving home and carry it with me in the train carriage so it was not left behind when we changed trains to evade Moriarty.
Holmes joined me as I hastily wrapped a bandage around my torso. I felt his gaze upon me, no doubt discerning what had happened without a word of explanation, and I wondered what he would say.
"You are able to continue?" he asked as I returned the excess bandaging to my bag and refastened my clothing.
"Yes. It is not a serious wound."
Our continued trek was uninterrupted by gunshots even when we stopped for a mid-afternoon rest. I knew better than to think we had lost our pursuer, but perhaps we would pass the day without further harassment.
The path we followed was continually uphill and remained close to a small stream. The exertion was a strain on the wound; I could feel blood seeping through the bandage and into my shirt as we climbed. As the afternoon drew toward a close, I felt a touch light-headed, possibly from the altitude since I did not think I had lost quite that much blood.
By the time we stopped for the night, the wound felt raw and seemed to burn beneath my skin. While our guide built a cookfire I retrieved my bag and retreated to a boulder set against the base of a cliff. I withdrew what I needed from my bag, setting on the boulder my scalpel case, a bottle of antiseptic, a syringe and a vial of cocaine for use as a local anesthetic, my case with needle and surgical thread, and a pair of tweezers, all the while aware that the daylight was rapidly disappearing.
Holmes approached with a pan of water and an unlit lantern while I began removing the clothes from my upper body. I was grateful for my boulder-seat as I pulled the bloody fabric away from my skin, gritting my teeth against the pain. Even beneath the blood I could see the wound was inflamed and I wondered if I had made a grave miscalculation in delaying the removal of the bullet. Holmes watched as I removed my shirt and revealed the full extent of the bloody mess that was my side. I dipped the sleeve of my ruined shirt into the pan of water and cleaned away the blood immediately around the wound.
"You said it wasn't serious," he said reproachfully, crouching down so he could look more closely.
"It looks worse than it is." Mindful of the fast-approaching night, I tried to move more quickly but my hands were already shaking and all I succeeded in doing was dropping my scalpel case on the ground. Holmes retrieved it for me but didn't give it back; instead he folded back the case, took the antiseptic, and expertly cleaned the blades.
I took a deep breath and managed to draw a measure of cocaine into the syringe and administered it to several points around the wound and along the path I would need to open in pursuit of the bullet. The relief was almost immediate.
As soon as I took my hands away, Holmes gently daubed the area with the other sleeve of my shirt. From the burn as the cloth brushed my gaping skin, he'd wetted it with antiseptic.
"You should have tended this sooner," he said, sounding almost angry that I would neglect myself.
"We were too vulnerable. You would have been shot as well."
"If you had turned back, this would not have happened. I told you I would be a dangerous companion."
"I will gladly take a bullet in my side if I can know that you are safe," I told him as I prepared a needle for the stitches I would need when it was over.
Holmes humphed but said no more and busied himself with lighting the lantern. I chose a scalpel, took a deep breath, and began the incision.
It was a very awkward place to be cutting oneself open, but familiarity with my trade and being able to feel the bullet helped considerably.
The bullet was somewhat deeper than I had expected, certainly deeper than my shallow administration of the anesthetic, and by the time I exchanged scalpel for tweezers to remove it I was sweating from pain and effort despite the chill of early evening.
I somehow could not get hold of the bullet with the tweezers. I briefly considered using my fingers instead, but then the tweezers were plucked from my shaking grip and Holmes almost immediately held the bullet up for my inspection. "Would you like to keep it as a souvenir?" he asked dryly.
"I have no need for that sort of souvenir."
"Then I shall keep it and examine it in the morning," he said, pocketing it after rubbing it clean on my much-abused shirt.
I knew that I must now flush out the wound but, though I took several deep breaths to steel myself for the task, I could not make my hand reach out for the water or the antiseptic.
Holmes again came to my aid. "Should you lean back to spare your trousers?" he asked, lifting the pan of water.
"They are already stained." But I did lean back onto my left elbow, leaning slightly away from Holmes so the water could run easily into the wound.
He was gentle and careful, only pouring just enough and ensuring that the water landed on intact skin before flowing into and over the incision, but it was still exceedingly painful. Holmes was just as solicitous with the antiseptic, but the burn of it on my raw flesh was excruciating and I struggled for a moment to retain consciousness. I was breathing heavily when he finished and it took several minutes for me to be able to sit upright again.
Holmes held the lantern close so I could see as I slowly sewed my side back together with small, careful stitches. The little bit of anesthetic I had used had worn off long ago but if I stopped to administer more I wasn't sure I would be able to force myself to pick up the needle again.
When I finally finished, Holmes handed me the bandaging I would need, set the lantern on the ground beside me, and disappeared into the darkness. I'm afraid my bandage wasn't nearly as neat as my stitches, but the trembling in my hands had worsened. It served its purpose, anyway.
Holmes reappeared with a change of clothes. "You should dress before you catch a chill," he said casually, but I could hear the concern in his tone.
I held out my hand for the clothes, but Holmes did not immediately give them to me. "Shouldn't you take something for the pain first?" he said.
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Perhaps you have forgotten that we will be sleeping on the ground tonight," he countered.
Lying on the ground wasn't as much of a problem as getting back up was, but he had a point. I was already in considerable pain and that would not help. "All right," I said wearily. "But not much."
He crouched down beside my bag and rummaged in it for a moment, then withdrew the bottle of morphine and my syringe case. He carefully prepared a small dose and deftly administered it; no doctor could have done it better.
Now that my pain was addressed, Holmes handed me each item of clothing in turn, waiting patiently while I fumbled with the buttons on the shirt. I didn't bother buttoning the waistcoat or the jacket. He also brought clean trousers for me, but I didn't want to stand just yet. I put everything back into my bag, then reluctantly accepted Holmes' proffered hand.
Standing made my head swim. Holmes gripped my hand firmly and also grasped my arm to keep me from stumbling, but I do not think I would have fallen. My scarred leg was merely voicing its complaint about having to move again after growing stiff from the chill of the boulder.
Now that I wasn't focused on my wound, I was aware of how cold it had become compared to the previous night. I hadn't realized we had gained that much altitude. I shivered and Holmes draped my coat over my shoulders. He offered the trousers again, and as much as I did not want to expose any more skin to the chill air, the trousers I wore were damp and would make me feel colder if left on.
Even before I recognized I would need to remove my shoes, Holmes dropped to his knees and unfastened them for me. "Holmes," I said in protest as he guided me through stepping out of them onto the cold ground.
"You will allow me this," he said in that commanding tone I could not disobey. But I insisted upon unfastening my trousers myself.
When I was fully dressed--Holmes again saw to my shoes--he took my medical bag and had me carry the lantern as we carefully picked our way over to the small fire.
The rest of the evening was a blur. I'm certain Holmes pressed me to eat something, but I don't think I ate much, thanks to the fatigue and the morphine. At some point Holmes helped me to my bedroll, or at least he must have, because I was in it when I woke briefly in the middle of the night. Holmes was still sitting by the dying fire, smoking his pipe. I went back to sleep watching the two threads of smoke rising up and mingling before dispersing against the star-studded sky.
When I woke again it was morning and I did not want to move. Moving would involve pain and cold and surely it was not worthwhile to stir. But Holmes and our guide were already moving about and preparing to continue on, so I gingerly sat up and pushed aside the blankets covering me.
My side itched and burned, but there was very little blood on the bandages so I left them in place. The pain as I stood was about what I would have expected, and I realized only once I was standing that I should have folded my blankets while I was still seated--bending over was not an option and my leg and the hip I'd been lying on were too stiff to want to bend again already.
Once again Holmes came to my aid, efficiently stowing away my bedding even as he tried to conceal that he'd given me his blanket as well as my own. "Did you sleep last night?" I asked. I knew he could withstand a certain amount of sleep deprivation with no ill effects, but there was no telling how long this cat-and-mouse game with Moriarty would continue.
"I thought it wise to keep watch. We will reach Meiringen today; I can sleep tonight," he assured me as the guide took over stowing the blankets on the mule. The guide was very particular that he was the only one to load the mule even though Holmes or I could have done it just as well.
"How far is it to Meiringen?" I buried my hands in my coat pockets and tried not to shiver as we ventured nearer the fire. The weak early sunlight had not yet done much to warm the air at this height.
"At yesterday's pace, the guide says we will reach it between teatime and dinner." Holmes poured a cup of coffee from the battered pot and handed it to me. I cupped my hands around it and made no move to drink it.
Yesterday's pace. Yesterday, when I was stumbling and lagging behind even when they slowed their steps. I would be no better today, I realized bitterly. "How quickly would you get there without me?" I asked without meaning to.
Holmes looked at me with surprise in his expression even as he weighed his words before answering. "My dear Watson," he said finally. "That is quite irrelevant, as you are here and I would not have it otherwise."
He would speak no more of the matter and I steeled myself for the day's pains. We set out after breakfast toward the promise of Meiringen and an actual bed for sleeping.
The day was just as exhausting as I expected, but I did not lag behind as badly as I had feared. Mostly that was thanks to Holmes roaming on ahead, then returning to where I was leaning rather heavily on my stout walking stick and strolling casually at my side, telling me about the landscape or something that the sights had caused to rise from his massive storehouses of random information. He was in a better mood than the circumstances seemed to warrant and that in turn buoyed my own spirits.
By lunchtime I thought I was becoming feverish, for I seemed to feel far warmer than I should have even with the exercise, but a quick check of my wound did not reveal the angry red of infection. A comment from Holmes soon after that about the rapid rise in temperature as we descended the mountains reassured me that I was not the only one perspiring freely.
When we prepared to start again after lunch and Holmes inquired after my welfare, I was able to answer truthfully that I was quite all right and ready to continue.
We arrived in Meiringen in time to wash up and sit down to dinner at the Englischer Hof. I retired early and slept late, rising much refreshed and quite willing to venture out again if Holmes wished it.
Our decision to set out toward Rosenlaui that afternoon and the events that followed have already been recorded elsewhere in my official account. Had I known . . . well, that is easy enough to say in hindsight. While I deemed the above details unnecessary in the official account, I will never forget his kind care of me in the last few days I spent in his company.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,680
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: There was a small incident on the way to Meiringen that Watson left out of his official account.
A/N: Scenario inspired by the Granada version of The Final Problem, but also compatible with canon. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Watson, self surgery.
Bonus points: Angsty Holmes assisting. (I'm not sure if this quite qualifies as angsty!Holmes...)
Also written for my hc_bingo square " surgery"
Moriarty had escaped the net and someone was shooting near us as we traveled in the mountains. I did not think it a coincidence and neither did Holmes from the way his gaze scoured the surrounding terrain each time we heard the rifle being fired. While no bullet had strayed across Holmes' or my path just yet, the shots were close enough to be threatening.
Until now. This bullet stirred the branches just beyond where Holmes stood watching for our brazen pursuer and I went to urge him to seek cover. I had not yet opened my mouth when the sound of the next shot reached us at the same time there was a sudden pain in my side.
I pulled Holmes behind the shelter of some trees before the sound of the shot finished echoing off the mountaintops. Only once we were safe did I allow myself to look down at the tear in my coat and the blood slowly discoloring the fabric around it.
It was a lucky shot. Shifted slightly in one direction, it would have missed me entirely. Shifted slightly in the other direction, the bullet would likely have perforated an organ and I would be bleeding to death where I stood. Instead, I could feel the bullet lodged in the flesh just below the ribs on my right side. I tried but failed to push the bullet back along its trajectory.
I needed it removed surgically, but not here, not now. The stand of trees we sheltered behind was the only cover; our pursuer could easily find a new perch and finish us off if we remained in place much longer.
The mule carrying our baggage was grazing a few yards away, also behind the trees. I held my folded handkerchief over the wound to slow the bleeding while I awkwardly unfastened my medical bag from the animal one-handed. I thanked the force of habit that had me grab my bag when leaving home and carry it with me in the train carriage so it was not left behind when we changed trains to evade Moriarty.
Holmes joined me as I hastily wrapped a bandage around my torso. I felt his gaze upon me, no doubt discerning what had happened without a word of explanation, and I wondered what he would say.
"You are able to continue?" he asked as I returned the excess bandaging to my bag and refastened my clothing.
"Yes. It is not a serious wound."
Our continued trek was uninterrupted by gunshots even when we stopped for a mid-afternoon rest. I knew better than to think we had lost our pursuer, but perhaps we would pass the day without further harassment.
The path we followed was continually uphill and remained close to a small stream. The exertion was a strain on the wound; I could feel blood seeping through the bandage and into my shirt as we climbed. As the afternoon drew toward a close, I felt a touch light-headed, possibly from the altitude since I did not think I had lost quite that much blood.
By the time we stopped for the night, the wound felt raw and seemed to burn beneath my skin. While our guide built a cookfire I retrieved my bag and retreated to a boulder set against the base of a cliff. I withdrew what I needed from my bag, setting on the boulder my scalpel case, a bottle of antiseptic, a syringe and a vial of cocaine for use as a local anesthetic, my case with needle and surgical thread, and a pair of tweezers, all the while aware that the daylight was rapidly disappearing.
Holmes approached with a pan of water and an unlit lantern while I began removing the clothes from my upper body. I was grateful for my boulder-seat as I pulled the bloody fabric away from my skin, gritting my teeth against the pain. Even beneath the blood I could see the wound was inflamed and I wondered if I had made a grave miscalculation in delaying the removal of the bullet. Holmes watched as I removed my shirt and revealed the full extent of the bloody mess that was my side. I dipped the sleeve of my ruined shirt into the pan of water and cleaned away the blood immediately around the wound.
"You said it wasn't serious," he said reproachfully, crouching down so he could look more closely.
"It looks worse than it is." Mindful of the fast-approaching night, I tried to move more quickly but my hands were already shaking and all I succeeded in doing was dropping my scalpel case on the ground. Holmes retrieved it for me but didn't give it back; instead he folded back the case, took the antiseptic, and expertly cleaned the blades.
I took a deep breath and managed to draw a measure of cocaine into the syringe and administered it to several points around the wound and along the path I would need to open in pursuit of the bullet. The relief was almost immediate.
As soon as I took my hands away, Holmes gently daubed the area with the other sleeve of my shirt. From the burn as the cloth brushed my gaping skin, he'd wetted it with antiseptic.
"You should have tended this sooner," he said, sounding almost angry that I would neglect myself.
"We were too vulnerable. You would have been shot as well."
"If you had turned back, this would not have happened. I told you I would be a dangerous companion."
"I will gladly take a bullet in my side if I can know that you are safe," I told him as I prepared a needle for the stitches I would need when it was over.
Holmes humphed but said no more and busied himself with lighting the lantern. I chose a scalpel, took a deep breath, and began the incision.
It was a very awkward place to be cutting oneself open, but familiarity with my trade and being able to feel the bullet helped considerably.
The bullet was somewhat deeper than I had expected, certainly deeper than my shallow administration of the anesthetic, and by the time I exchanged scalpel for tweezers to remove it I was sweating from pain and effort despite the chill of early evening.
I somehow could not get hold of the bullet with the tweezers. I briefly considered using my fingers instead, but then the tweezers were plucked from my shaking grip and Holmes almost immediately held the bullet up for my inspection. "Would you like to keep it as a souvenir?" he asked dryly.
"I have no need for that sort of souvenir."
"Then I shall keep it and examine it in the morning," he said, pocketing it after rubbing it clean on my much-abused shirt.
I knew that I must now flush out the wound but, though I took several deep breaths to steel myself for the task, I could not make my hand reach out for the water or the antiseptic.
Holmes again came to my aid. "Should you lean back to spare your trousers?" he asked, lifting the pan of water.
"They are already stained." But I did lean back onto my left elbow, leaning slightly away from Holmes so the water could run easily into the wound.
He was gentle and careful, only pouring just enough and ensuring that the water landed on intact skin before flowing into and over the incision, but it was still exceedingly painful. Holmes was just as solicitous with the antiseptic, but the burn of it on my raw flesh was excruciating and I struggled for a moment to retain consciousness. I was breathing heavily when he finished and it took several minutes for me to be able to sit upright again.
Holmes held the lantern close so I could see as I slowly sewed my side back together with small, careful stitches. The little bit of anesthetic I had used had worn off long ago but if I stopped to administer more I wasn't sure I would be able to force myself to pick up the needle again.
When I finally finished, Holmes handed me the bandaging I would need, set the lantern on the ground beside me, and disappeared into the darkness. I'm afraid my bandage wasn't nearly as neat as my stitches, but the trembling in my hands had worsened. It served its purpose, anyway.
Holmes reappeared with a change of clothes. "You should dress before you catch a chill," he said casually, but I could hear the concern in his tone.
I held out my hand for the clothes, but Holmes did not immediately give them to me. "Shouldn't you take something for the pain first?" he said.
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Perhaps you have forgotten that we will be sleeping on the ground tonight," he countered.
Lying on the ground wasn't as much of a problem as getting back up was, but he had a point. I was already in considerable pain and that would not help. "All right," I said wearily. "But not much."
He crouched down beside my bag and rummaged in it for a moment, then withdrew the bottle of morphine and my syringe case. He carefully prepared a small dose and deftly administered it; no doctor could have done it better.
Now that my pain was addressed, Holmes handed me each item of clothing in turn, waiting patiently while I fumbled with the buttons on the shirt. I didn't bother buttoning the waistcoat or the jacket. He also brought clean trousers for me, but I didn't want to stand just yet. I put everything back into my bag, then reluctantly accepted Holmes' proffered hand.
Standing made my head swim. Holmes gripped my hand firmly and also grasped my arm to keep me from stumbling, but I do not think I would have fallen. My scarred leg was merely voicing its complaint about having to move again after growing stiff from the chill of the boulder.
Now that I wasn't focused on my wound, I was aware of how cold it had become compared to the previous night. I hadn't realized we had gained that much altitude. I shivered and Holmes draped my coat over my shoulders. He offered the trousers again, and as much as I did not want to expose any more skin to the chill air, the trousers I wore were damp and would make me feel colder if left on.
Even before I recognized I would need to remove my shoes, Holmes dropped to his knees and unfastened them for me. "Holmes," I said in protest as he guided me through stepping out of them onto the cold ground.
"You will allow me this," he said in that commanding tone I could not disobey. But I insisted upon unfastening my trousers myself.
When I was fully dressed--Holmes again saw to my shoes--he took my medical bag and had me carry the lantern as we carefully picked our way over to the small fire.
The rest of the evening was a blur. I'm certain Holmes pressed me to eat something, but I don't think I ate much, thanks to the fatigue and the morphine. At some point Holmes helped me to my bedroll, or at least he must have, because I was in it when I woke briefly in the middle of the night. Holmes was still sitting by the dying fire, smoking his pipe. I went back to sleep watching the two threads of smoke rising up and mingling before dispersing against the star-studded sky.
When I woke again it was morning and I did not want to move. Moving would involve pain and cold and surely it was not worthwhile to stir. But Holmes and our guide were already moving about and preparing to continue on, so I gingerly sat up and pushed aside the blankets covering me.
My side itched and burned, but there was very little blood on the bandages so I left them in place. The pain as I stood was about what I would have expected, and I realized only once I was standing that I should have folded my blankets while I was still seated--bending over was not an option and my leg and the hip I'd been lying on were too stiff to want to bend again already.
Once again Holmes came to my aid, efficiently stowing away my bedding even as he tried to conceal that he'd given me his blanket as well as my own. "Did you sleep last night?" I asked. I knew he could withstand a certain amount of sleep deprivation with no ill effects, but there was no telling how long this cat-and-mouse game with Moriarty would continue.
"I thought it wise to keep watch. We will reach Meiringen today; I can sleep tonight," he assured me as the guide took over stowing the blankets on the mule. The guide was very particular that he was the only one to load the mule even though Holmes or I could have done it just as well.
"How far is it to Meiringen?" I buried my hands in my coat pockets and tried not to shiver as we ventured nearer the fire. The weak early sunlight had not yet done much to warm the air at this height.
"At yesterday's pace, the guide says we will reach it between teatime and dinner." Holmes poured a cup of coffee from the battered pot and handed it to me. I cupped my hands around it and made no move to drink it.
Yesterday's pace. Yesterday, when I was stumbling and lagging behind even when they slowed their steps. I would be no better today, I realized bitterly. "How quickly would you get there without me?" I asked without meaning to.
Holmes looked at me with surprise in his expression even as he weighed his words before answering. "My dear Watson," he said finally. "That is quite irrelevant, as you are here and I would not have it otherwise."
He would speak no more of the matter and I steeled myself for the day's pains. We set out after breakfast toward the promise of Meiringen and an actual bed for sleeping.
The day was just as exhausting as I expected, but I did not lag behind as badly as I had feared. Mostly that was thanks to Holmes roaming on ahead, then returning to where I was leaning rather heavily on my stout walking stick and strolling casually at my side, telling me about the landscape or something that the sights had caused to rise from his massive storehouses of random information. He was in a better mood than the circumstances seemed to warrant and that in turn buoyed my own spirits.
By lunchtime I thought I was becoming feverish, for I seemed to feel far warmer than I should have even with the exercise, but a quick check of my wound did not reveal the angry red of infection. A comment from Holmes soon after that about the rapid rise in temperature as we descended the mountains reassured me that I was not the only one perspiring freely.
When we prepared to start again after lunch and Holmes inquired after my welfare, I was able to answer truthfully that I was quite all right and ready to continue.
We arrived in Meiringen in time to wash up and sit down to dinner at the Englischer Hof. I retired early and slept late, rising much refreshed and quite willing to venture out again if Holmes wished it.
Our decision to set out toward Rosenlaui that afternoon and the events that followed have already been recorded elsewhere in my official account. Had I known . . . well, that is easy enough to say in hindsight. While I deemed the above details unnecessary in the official account, I will never forget his kind care of me in the last few days I spent in his company.