Ills and Bravado: A Sherlock Holmes Story
Title: Ills and Bravado
Author: Azuhra (Daughter of Chaos on FF.net)
Fandom: ACD-verse Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 6076
Rating: PG13
Characters: Primarily Watson and Holmes with a smattering of Mrs. Hudson
Pairing(s): None. This is strictly a friendship fic :)
Disclaimer: They may now be in the public domain but I feel it only right to say that Holmes and Watson and the wonderful concept that drives them do not belong to me. Obviously, right?
Summary: A dark tempered Holmes sends Watson out to run his errands with out ever so much as considering the good doctor's own ill health. A chance meeting with a group of street roughs on the trip leaves Watson in a real state and Holmes recovering his humanity in a most jarring way.
Prompt: As given by mywittyuzername for watsons_woes September Cold-Related H/C Comment Meme.
“A Trip to The Shop
So, Sherlock/Holmes is being his grumpy self and though John/Watson has a cold he tells John/Watson that he run out to purchase some things that he insists he needs.
It is rainy, then snowy. John/Watson gets what Sherlock/Holmes needs and starts back home when he is mugged and severely beaten. No one pays attention to him for some time.
Finally, he is taken to the hospital. However, the outlook is grim. Very grim.
Guilt, shame and tender care from Sherlock/Holmes Any verse.”
A/N: I tried. Terrible way to start an author's note but there you have it. This is my first go-round with anything more than a drabble in any Sherlock Holmes universe. I'm not entirely certain I'm comfortable in Watson's voice yet and I know that my tendency toward verbosity might be a bit overpowering in such a short story. Ah well, I'll leave the final judgment to you lot and hope I'm just jumping at shadows on the matter. I love Watson whumping and this prompt gave me that opportunity AND a good guilt trip moment. I figured, what better way to get out of the kiddie end and really jump into the pool?
As for the prompt meme having been delivered in September and the story being delivered in October, well, better late than never, yes? I hope I managed to write out something close to what you were imagining for this, mywittyuzername
Beta'd by the-mind-who-works-on-a-far-more-logical-level-than-my-own, the very kind and generous med_cat. Thank you so much for sorting through my multiple comma missuses and abuses and assorted other issues :) Any mistakes still around and in the author's notes are all my own, of course.
Ills and Bravado
Early November and a two week spell of near constant cold and rain had left London soaked to the core and figuratively shivering right down to its timbers. This rather brought on a certain excess of poorly patients for all practitioners in the area and I found my own rounds to be no exception on the matter. Head colds abounded and it was clear that 'flu season was going to take a rather early grip of the city this year.
As much as any doctor may wish they were immune to the illnesses they treat, we all eventually find such is not the case. Truly it was with little surprise that I felt congestion beginning in my chest and a rasping cough burning through my throat by mid-afternoon some ten days into this cold and rainy spell. I had hoped it would have been staved off longer, but such was not the case this go 'round with the seasonal ills. It was with a wary hand that I dosed myself with cough syrup that night and slipped off to my bed some two hours earlier than usual for me.
This early retirement was not to be commented on, as I was the only one rambling about the sitting room that evening who cared to pay attention to his surroundings. Holmes had been suffering of a mixture of brown and black moods to match the weather. Apparently London's criminals dared not avail themselves to the icy deluge outside any more than the civilized of her inhabitants did. While most people would rejoice, this lack of criminal and interesting activity gnawed at Holmes. Lack of stimulation put him in the foulest of black moods most especially when he himself was trapped inside to do nothing about it. Thus my cleared throat and declared good night were met only with a puff of smoke from Holmes's most beloved pipe.
I rose the next morning feeling every bit my age and then some. My old war wounds gave pointed reminders of how they disliked the weather,
much as they had been for some days. That, coupled with my congested lungs and a certain sense of fatigue rather set me to feeling like a miserable wretch. Not so poorly as to not attend my rounds, certainly, but not well or overly cheerful either. With some effort I roused myself enough to sufficiently attend my toilette. The near ice-cold water on my stand went a long way toward rousing my sluggish mind.
I took the steps from my room to the sitting room with a slow caution that morning and a firm hand on the rail. It was certain that I would take my cane with me on rounds today as my leg was relentless in its complaints. The blue haze that greeted me as I opened the sitting room door spoke volumes of Holmes's activities of the evening and morning. The coughing fit this haze afflicted on me had the beginnings of becoming painful. I fairly dove into the room and for my black medical bag as it sat near my writing desk.
I quickly took the opportunity to dose myself once more with the cough medication and was aware that in those moments Holmes's gaze had yet to move from a fixed point just above and slightly to the left of the mantle, though he puffed steadily on his pipe. Re-securing my medical supplies and latching my bag I turned my eye on my friend. I cleared my throat and offered as congenially as I could, “Good morning, Holmes.”
There was something of a ritual in this when he was in a mood. I would attempt pleasantries, he would very nearly ignore them. Were it not for the haphazard grunt of response, I might have thought him a statue of a steamboat chimney. I did my best to be patient with him when he fell to such a state, but even the most patient of men might be tried by such things after some time.
With a sigh that very nearly brought on another cough I settled at the table to ring for breakfast and enjoy a steaming cup of coffee before venturing out for the day and seeing to my patients.
~/~
The evening out-of-doors was as wet as it had been in the morning with a dropping temperature that promised of a dirty London snow before the sun would rise again. Seasonal ills prevailed and after my morning rounds I saw fit to offer my services for locum work at a local surgery before lunching and taking to afternoon rounds. It was of some necessity that I did this, as I had a sneaking suspicion that by morning I may well be handing-off my own patients on others for a week or more and convalescing myself.
That would be necessary as well. My own ills I would work around, but what had started as merely cold symptoms the evening before had progressed further in my chest and now presented with something more of the overture of bronchitis. I was well aware of the contagious nature of this illness and would not put my already compromised patients at further risk.
I had given the last of my money to a young couple earlier in the evening so that they might purchase a few warmer blankets for their sick daughter. This left me with a somewhat, but not unreasonably so, long walk home. I gripped the handle of my medical bag tightly with one hand and leaned rather more heavily than I should like on the handle of my cane with the other. I found myself quite grateful that the cold drizzle had yet to begin icing the sidewalks, as I was not entirely sure I would be able to maintain my balance in such a circumstance.
Letting myself into 221B was something of a small delight. The gas lamps were bright with a cheery glow and the interior of our abode was considerably warmer and dryer than the outdoors had been. Mrs. Hudson met me in the hall with a gasp of dismay as I was stripping myself of my sodden hat and coat.
“Why Doctor Watson,” exclaimed she, “you look right peaked, sir! Hurry now and get yourself dressed in some dry clothes upstairs and I'll bring you some hot tea.”
I smiled warmly for our dear landlady. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be most kind of you.”
I intended to continue further and assure her of my relative well-being, when an attack of coughing overtook me and I was forced to pull my handkerchief and press it to my mouth for a few minutes until the episode passed. Our long-suffering and much maternal landlady gave me a long look before turning me around and giving me a gentle shove toward the stairs. “Something dry then, Doctor Watson, and I'll bring you a bowl of warm soup with your tea.”
I could not help smiling again at the dear woman's attentiveness to her often difficult lodgers as I braced my way up the stairs with much use of my walking stick. I found I had to stop twice to smother what were fast becoming painful coughing fits. I intended to take Mrs. Hudson's sound advice and find dry clothing and a warm dressing gown before enjoying a hot meal and retiring to bed. Preferably for several days, given the way I felt on the topic at just that moment.
I turned in the hallway of our flat toward the stairs to my own upstairs bedroom, intent on changing before greeting Holmes' bad mood in the sitting room. On this day it was not to be, however. I had taken no more than two steps toward the second flight of stairs when the sitting room door was opened and Holmes himself stepped out amid a cloud of smoke.
“Watson, I must admit I thought you had planned to dither all night in returning home. You have considerably shortened your time available to fetch my supplies before the shops close for the evening.”
My response to this announcement was less than eloquent. “My time to what?”
Holmes was never a man who liked to repeat himself, this became even worse when he was already in short temper. “To purchase the goods I need, Doctor. I've written a list for expedience. Quickly, Watson, for the shops will be closing soon. Of considerably more importance, I require the sodium nitrate within the hour or my current experiment will be naught but waste!”
I sighed and gently set my Gladstone bag on the floor of our hallway. The hand freed of the bag handles I turned to gently massage at my lower ribcage and the ache there-in. “Holmes, dear chap, I really do not think that now would be the best of times for me to...”
“Watson,” this came as a growl of impatience from my friend as he gripped my right arm and pressed a list and the required money into my left hand and began none too gently directing me back toward the flight of stairs to the exit, “This is not a request. The matter requires haste and if you leave now you may yet make it. Don't dawdle!”
With this final point he pushed me back to the stairs and I obediently began my trek back down them to do as he commanded. Holmes is a most masterful man when he is in the mood to give orders and I find the soldier in me responds without question nearly every time he turns the tone on my person. I am certain Holmes knows this fact and has used it to his own satisfaction on more than one occasion. Though to be fair, I am usually feeling in better health and spirits when completing such chores for the consulting detective.
All the same, if this is what Holmes wanted of me, then by all means I would fulfill it for him.
Upon reaching the bottom of the stair once more without incident, I staggered back to the coat rack and began working the sodden overcoat and hat back onto my person. I had safely pocketed the money and my list in an inner jacket pocket when Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner with a tray bearing a wonderful smelling soup and a steaming kettle.
“Doctor Watson! What on earth do you think you're doing?”
This she blurted with no little shock and dismay. I offered her a wan smile this time. “Holmes has errands for me.”
Apparently realizing that I would complete these errands no matter personal cost at this point, the good woman set down her tray on the hall table and poured a cup of steaming tea which she pressed into my cold hands. The inevitability of what was happening did not deter her from soundly berating me, however. “I should think a man of your profession would know better, Doctor than to venture back out into that mess when he is ill. And do not try to tell me you are not sir, as I could well hear you coughing all the way up the stairs. Drink the tea at least; let it warm your middle.”
I could not repress a weak chuckle at the reprimand. “Indeed, Mrs. Hudson. I would remonstrate with any patient of mine attempting such a foolish deed. Holmes insists of the urgency of his cause, however. I find I have little choice in the matter.”
Our landlady scowled but reached behind me to pull a scarf from the rack and wrap it tightly about my neck in a most motherly fashion. “In that case, at least bundle up,” she took up my cane from where I had rested it against the wall and passed it to me with all earnestness, “Do take care, Doctor. I'll keep the soup warm for you.”
I thanked her again for her kindness and set off on my way. Holmes had been most correct in the time available to reach the three shops I needed to complete his list being quite limited. The situation was not improved by the dreary wet mess of an evening turning to a wet and sloppy snow that was already beginning to accumulate on the ground beneath the light of the lit street lamps. My unsteady gate and unremitting fatigue had provided several close calls as to my near acquaintance with the cobblestones. Still I hurried as I departed the last of the shops and watched the keeper close and lock his door behind me. Holmes required his chemical to complete a reaction and I had just a quarter of an hour to get it to him.
I was sliding and staggering just a few blocks from Baker Street when a dark shadow presented itself before me on the sidewalk and just beyond the reach of the nearest gas lamp. The streets were not quite deserted, but they were not busy with this abysmal weather. Instincts born of wartime and honed by several cases spent in Holmes' company were roused to suspicion by the hulking shadow. I was further alerted to danger when the first was joined by three others straggling from the dark alley. I rearranged my balance, transferring my purchases to my sore left side and gripping my cane tightly in my right hand.
I was not wrong in my mistrust.
“And what have we here, gents? A right sorry bloke this, out in the snow without so much as a soul to keep him company.”
This statement was made by the larger shadow as he progressed slowly in my direction and brought about a chorus of rough laughter from his three friends. I ignored the pain in my shoulder and leg in favor of stiffening my back and raising my chin in a confident manner.
I could just see him now as he entered to circle of light I stood beneath. The man was tall and broad with dirty blonde hair and a smile with more gaps than teeth. It seemed my assessment from earlier in the week that all of the criminals had retreated in the face of the weather had not quite been accurate. Gap-tooth grinned at me in a most greasy way as he stood with in feet of my person now. “Wot'chu say to a little companionship then, gov'nor?”
I flexed my grip on my cane handle and returned a tight smile to the villain “Very kind of you, I'm sure. However I will find more than enough companionship when I am restored to my home. If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
Gap-tooth tisked to himself and I was aware of his friends circling me. I wondered how well I might do in warding off the four of them or at least stir up enough ruckus to attract attention from houses on the street. “That's no way to treat such an offer, gov'nor. No way at all. Why, some blokes may take offense. We just want some healthy companionship and maybe a bit of sport between mates is all. That and your wallet will do nicely I'd say.”
“I'm afraid I'm not in the best of moods for sport tonight, gentlemen. And I would quite like to retain my wallet.”
With this declaration I swung out hard with the butt of my walking stick and heard it crack loudly against Gap-Tooth's jaw. My best hope of removing myself from the situation was a quick attack with the benefit of surprise. The rules of the gentleman’s fight be damned in this case. I pulled the stick back sharply and whipped it about me in a moment to give a smart crack across the right knee of the would-be-mugger behind me. I had just drawn it back to launch an attack on the third man of the group when the man on my left reached out with more strength than I expected and stopped my thrust where it was. The man on the right made short work of gripping my right arm and the leader of the group with an ugly swelling already beginning on his jaw delivered a meaty fist to my unprotected middle.
The air left my abused lungs in a mighty whoosh and the resulting inhalation set about a coughing fit that I was unable to do anything to stop. My attacker had no found pity for my suffering. With a look of utter rage on his features, he continued to deliver blow after blow to my abdomen, heedless of the street lamp or of anyone who might view these proceedings. The raining blows only came to a halt when I heard and felt even above my coughing a most audible snap and crunch of bone breaking. I knew it to be the lower two of my left ribs even as I gagged and gasped for air. It quickly became apparent that it was also several of my assailant's knuckles that had given on impacting said ribs.
Gap-tooth had pulled back from his attack with an uttered oath and cradled his right hand to his chest. “My bleedin' hand! That's enough with this bloke anyhow. One of you grab his wallet and bags. I'll take that nice walking stick for me own. Dump him back in the alley gents. It's time we went for a drink.”
For all of his taunting of me earlier, the leader made no further attempt at conversation. His two upright ruffians took him literally and dragged me some fifty yards down a particularly rank alley for this side of town. I made an attempt to struggle but merely roused my coughing again. I was dropped in a pile of filth and left bereft but for the clothing I wore as the group marched off, one of them helping the fellow with his injured knee as they went.
The scent of rotting filth and animal feces wafted up from the unfortunate bundle I had landed on and assured I had no chance to master the coughing fit that had overtaken me again. My broken ribs and much abused abdomen protested this action loudly and I found myself curling into a ball of agony and coughing until I choked.
It was in this position I must have passed out for I was roused some undetermined time later by the sensation of small yet sharp claws of a rat skittering up and over my legs. I uncurled far enough to flick the little beast off and to consider my position. While the alley was narrow, the roof tops above me were not so close together as to prevent the snowfall from drifting down about me. I realized I was unimaginably cold but still shivering, which the medical man in me described as a good sign so far, assuming I was able to fetch myself some kind of help in a timely manner.
Pressing a thinly gloved hand to the filthy ground beneath me, I made the effort to push myself into a sitting position. Snow that had begun to stick to the coolest places of my coat flaked off with the movement. The action, however, was more painful than I anticipated, as my bruised stomach muscles were not pleased to be set to work in holding my person upright and my ribs were not thrilled at moving at all. My groan was low and heartfelt.
Like the effect of dominoes on a board this series of actions lead to one inevitable conclusion; I was set upon by another round of coughing. The sound was wet to my ears but the agony this brought from both deep within my lungs and from jostling the broken ribs was indescribable. This stretched on for some minutes, although it certainly felt like hours. The fruit of this labor was the sensation of having coughed up something with the texture of thick phlegm and the light coppery tang of blood. I shivered again as I wiped this sticky substance from my lips. It was far too dark in the alley to determine the color of the stuff. My medical instincts prevented me from instantly fearing the worst in tasting blood. It was far more likely that my persistent coughing had broken a blood vessel than that a mobile rib had punctured a lung or that consumption had set upon me overnight .
All the same, my situation was fast declining and I well knew it. I needed help and medical attention and to achieve those things I needed to remove myself from that horrid little alley. I made a Herculean struggle to get to my feet and managed to stagger some several steps toward the street beyond. I held myself in a pitiable hunched state with one arm wrapped around my aching belly and the other pressed hard to my equally pained chest.
The cold had other effects on my person than dropping body temperature and irritating already troubled bronchi. My old war wounds have never agreed with the cold and as such I had no right to be as surprised as I was when the never-well-healed Achilles tendon of my right leg spasmed uncontrollably mid-step and sent me toppling forward. My chilled and pained body was not capable of usual reaction times and as such I landed without grace full on my face and already broken ribs. Blackness rushed in to steal my consciousness nearly instantly.
I recall being roused again somewhere during the course of that long night by cold, rough, and small hands dragging me over onto my back. I had not the ability to come back fully to my senses, but I made a weak struggle of it when the old vagabond those hands belonged to began stripping me of my overcoat and scarf. The old woman swatted away my feeble attempts with a wicked gleam in her eyes and laughed at me in a nearly unrecognizable accent. “Here now Gov, by look o' yous you wont be needin' this here coat much longer anyway. Leave over already!”
I must have slipped again into unconsciousness after this, as the next thing I recall there was early daylight in the air and a grubby little face looking down on me. I could not seem to recall where I was and felt warm all over. Unreasonably warm, considering that I realized I was coated in a light dusting of snow. Somewhere in the back of my clogged mind,my medical knowledge was flying red flags of warning and pointing out loudly that not only was I no longer shivering but that I should not begin divesting myself of clothing right here in the out-of-doors, no matter how warm I thought I was.
That small grubby face was still there, dark locks tucked under threadbare hat and brown eyes wide with fright. “Cor, Doctor, you alive?”
Sluggishly, my mind made the connection between what I was seeing and memory on the topic. One of our Irregulars, this. “Charlie.”
It came out as more of a breathy gasp than a word. More medical red flags were going up though I was struggling through processing them. The gurgling in my throat and the rapid, laboured breathing issuing from my lungs were not good signs. Even as I made that connection, I also realized that this labored breathing hurt immensely.
The little irregular heaved a little sigh of relief. “Yeah Doctor. You don' look so good. There's a couple o' Bobbies just up the way. I'm gonna go get 'em.”
With that the child offered what was likely intended to be a comforting pat to my shoulder and darted away. I remember thinking hazily as I looked up at a cloudy sky brightening with daylight that I had never gotten the shopping to Holmes. His experiment had been wasted on account of myself. I hoped dearly he might eventually forgive me the lapse.
~/~
When next I awoke it was a slow process. I felt warm and snug. Blankets. My head felt stuffed with wool from ear to ear. There was pain, now that my mind had time to register it, but it was muffled. It stood to reason there had been morphine involved in this.
“Watson? Old friend, are you awake?”
That voice, that ever so welcome voice. Holmes. I had no real desire to rouse myself just yet, but there was something so foreign in Holmes' tone that I could not avoid it. Somehow he sounded quite... tremulous. I wished to relieve him of whatever worry might have caused that change in tone. I opened my eyes with a struggle, and even then only managed half-mast, I fear. “Holmes?”
What came out was a rough imitation of my voice at best, followed by a series of wet-sounding drawn breaths of air. I was reminded of my previous state of illness in that moment. The consulting detective stood nervously beside my bed, looking nearly as pale as the white walls and blankets of the hospital room I found myself in. His shoulders sagged in some relief as I had addressed him. “Yes, dear chap. You are on your game this morning.”
“Holmes. I don't understand...”
At this point my roughened throat rebelled against my speaking and I was set upon with a bout of coughing so hard I was nearly doubled over on the bed. Holmes was half sitting on the bed with me in an instant, his handkerchief pressed to my lips and his other arm wrapped in support around my back as great wet-sounding coughs worked through my chest. This stirred the previously muffled pain in my ribs and abdomen and both added their complaints to my fit.
“Easy Watson, easy,” Holmes commanded. “You are still quite ill, my friend, and must not overexert yourself. Water?”
I nodded assent, with tears in the corners of my eyes brought on by the struggle for breath. I could just see before Holmes folded the cloth the thick and sticky greenish phlegm smeared on his handkerchief. No blood this time. Why did I remember blood? My friend brought me a glass of cool water which I was more than pleased to indulge in. Slowly, I was instructed, as it had been some two days since I had last ingested any amount on my own.
“What happened?” I gasped softly, as Holmes retreated with the glass. I touched a trembling hand to my congested chest and queried, “Pneumonia?”
“I'm afraid so, Watson. What do you recall?”
Holmes stepped back to the bed on asking this. I imagined he would deposit himself in the armchair pulled up nearby. The talk of two days without intake of food or substantial water and the dark bags beneath Holmes' eyes bespoke of a long vigil spent in that chair. It was with some surprise then that Holmes hitched a hip onto my bed to sit directly beside my shaking form. “I was... to run errands for you, was I not?”
I knew myself to still be feeling the left over effects of morphine and with the presence of pneumonia in my system I was likely to be running at least a low grade fever. With these truths in mind, I found myself somewhat unsure as to my sensory perception, for I was nearly certain a hue of blush crossed my friend's otherwise pale features. “Yes. I had sent you out to retrieve a list of supplies that evening. Do you recall what happened then?”
“I fear I'm rather fuzzy...”
Holmes patted my right shoulder gently from his position beside me on the bed. “A condition for which you are not to blame, my dear Watson. I was hoping you might fill me in on specifics, but it is not important. I have drawn accurate conclusions of the events of your evening from the facts at hand.”
My companion shifted uneasily beside me for a moment before continuing. “I have much to apologize for, Watson. I instructed you to go out to fetch my supplies Thursday evening ignoring all evidence of your being in no condition to do so. You, for obedient is my Watson, endeavored to complete the task. When you had not returned by ten that night, Mrs. Hudson was quite beside herself with worry. I made a most grievous error in assuming that I had offended you with my black mood and commands and that you had simply chosen to stay someplace else for the night. I should know my Watson better, of course. If I ask something of you, you follow through no matter your own feelings on the subject.
“Mrs. Hudson, bless her intuition and sound mind, took matters into her own hands and contrived to have a few of our Irregulars set about looking for you. It seems they have a soft spot for the kindness that both you and our dear landlady show to them and would happily work for either of your causes without my presence. I digress. Our irregulars spent a better portion of the evening on the task, but one was successful in the early hours of Friday morning.”
“Charlie,” I acknowledged, for I had a vague memory of the boy's dirty face and wide fearful eyes.
Holmes offered me a nod of approval before continuing on. “Indeed. He fetched two of our local constables who, in turn, sent you on to a hospital. Charlie then ran back to our flat to tell Mrs. Hudson of your location. The good woman had the presence of mind to storm up the stairs and inform me that she was going to Charring Cross to check on Doctor Watson and suggested that if I did not want to make a complete blackguard of myself that I had better join her.”
Despite the shivers coursing through my body and the pain burning through my chest and abdomen, I could not but offer a small smile at the image this conjured. I would have to be sure to find a means of thanking both Mrs. Hudson and young Charlie for their involvement in the affair.
Holmes laced both arms about himself as though he too were suffering from a chill and slouched against the headboard. “I was... not expecting that. And I fear all the completely unjustified anger I might have felt toward your person the night before left me in such a rush I might have collapsed to the floor were Mrs. Hudson not suddenly there to fold me back into a chair. To hear that you were in the hospital suffering of exposure and untold injuries... Ah, but my dear Watson I am falling into your habits of romanticizing the unimportant.
“Mrs. Hudson and I of course were here as fast as humanly possible only to be told we had to wait to visit with you. You were yet in surgery when we got here. It seems you had been mugged and beaten before being left out in the cold. You had suffered from to broken ribs and one brutal blow had set you to bleed into your abdomen. You were in surgery for the internal bleeding.
“When we were allowed to visit you the doctors made it very clear the condition you were in. Which was not at all good, my dear Watson. They had stopped the internal bleeding and bound your ribs, but what had begun as likely just a chest cold had become pneumonia brought on by weakness and exposure. Between that and hypothermia, they were concerned you would not survive the night.”
At this, Holmes drew his hands from around his middle to scrub at his eyes and run them through his already untidy hair. The unmitigated pain I saw cross his features prompted me to say with a tiny smile and a little humor, “It would appear that I survived the ordeal, Holmes.”
My friend released a sharp bark of laughter at this. “Yes it would.”
I laughed as well, and realized I should restrain that desire in the near future as I found myself in the throes of another round of coughing. Once again Holmes offered his physical support through the course of the fit. Upon being plied with more water and given a few moments to catch my breath I settled back into the fluffy pillows and felt the pull of exhaustion on my awareness. I was aware, however, that Holmes did not seem to be done. He repositioned himself to be seated on the bed beside me and squirmed in a way most unnatural to my stoic friend for some moments.
“You have been sitting here keeping vigil since?” I prompted.
He did flush this time, I clearly saw it was no fluke of my imagination. “Yet one more thing I must offer apologies for in this horrid mess.”
I could not but reprimand him for this over-abundance of guilt in one who claimed to me emotionless. “Holmes, really...”
“No Watson, you must let me finish. I fear I allowed my emotions to rule my judgment when I was told you were unlikely to survive. I was angry with the situation, with those who had attacked you, and most decidedly with myself. And I was afra... well. I am truly lost without my Boswell. Instead of staying by your side for that trying day and night I left Mrs. Hudson to attend you and set about to have my way with those who had injured you and left you so.
“It was no great feat of detecting on my part to find the men responsible. The leader of the group had kept your most distinctive walking stick and foolishly attempted to pawn all of your shopping at one place. It took few inquiries to track him and his friends down. I must say, my friend, I am impressed with the damage you inflicted on that lot before they brought you down. They will be spending some time in jail, thanks to our friends at Scotland Yard. I retrieved your stick, Watson, but I don't know what they might have done with your coat.”
I recalled the old woman in the depths of the night as she stripped me of the coat and scarf in question. “They did not take it,” I noted Holmes tightening of the shoulders and gave a small shake of my head, “It is of no importance who did Holmes. I imagine she may have more need of it than I in the coming winter. And you are not at fault for this, you do realize?”
“It was I who sent you into this dreadful predicament.”
“Did you force illness on me?” I questioned pointedly. “Did you beat me, or leave me out in the elements?”
“I might as well have, Watson, for as little help I have been to you in the matter! And it was at my prompting that you were out in that evening snow to be caught up in such antics.”
“Holmes...”
“No Watson. There is nothing for it. The guilt is my own and I will not allow you to try to unburden it from me. However, if there is anything I might do for you in the mean time...”
I sighed carefully, fearful of the uneasily resting dragon in my painful chest. I suspected it would take time and patience for this reminder of humanity in Holmes to recover as much as it would take time and rest for my body to recover. We would both eventually be well. I sagged with fatigue into my pillows allow my eyes to droop closed for a moment before a thought struck me. A grin crossed my features and I opened my eyes to focus on my friend's dour form. “I say Holmes, there is one thing you might do.”
“Anything, old chap.”
“If in the future you find yourself on a tight schedule with your chemical projects, perhaps you could run out and fetch your own sodium nitrate, there's a good chap?”
~Finis