A Christmas Carol
I have written a little something for Christmas! Hope you like it
Title: A Christmas Carol
Author: Wirral Bagpuss
Rating: PG 13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Character(s): Holmes, Watson
Summary: Watson is hurt in a mugging on Christmas Eve.
Warnings: Plenty of Watson whumpage and fluff!
Word Count: 3163
A Christmas Carol
Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
Victor Hugo
Chapter One
The winter snow was relentless. Snowflakes were twirling down, already covering the snowy tracks left by patients coming and going from the Kensington practice that Dr Watson was locking up for the final time. It was almost dark and Christmas Eve. Dr Watson was looking forward to the scrumptious meal that he observed Mrs Hudson had been making that morning. Dr Watson pulled at the door one more time and was satisfied everything was secure and began to negotiate his way down the steps and into the streets. It was icy and Watson held onto the package he had secured under his arm. A Christmas present for Sherlock Holmes. Watson smiled fondly remembering his decision to buy the present in question. He did not quite believe it himself when he decided to buy it for his friend, but Holmes was his friend and he could not bear to see Holmes bereft of his most valued possession. It had happened several weeks ago whilst Holmes was on a case involving blackmail and murder. Two dangerous criminals had entered Baker Street and attacked Holmes and in the process destroyed his Stradivarius. Holmes had been injured but recovered but Watson knew that Holmes longed for his music and the loss of his violin had hurt him far more deeply than his physical injuries. He hoped his Christmas present for Holmes would help finally heal a broken musician’s heart.
Tiredly Watson walked tentatively into the snowy street. It was late and with the harsh winter snow Watson realised with some mortification that many of the hansom cabs and the horses that pulled them had retreated into the warmth of the stables. He sighed and pulled up the collars of his coat. He knew that if he at least walked to Paddington Station he would be able to get a cab back to Baker Street from there. It would be a ten minute walk away from where he was now. Nothing like a good walk to clear away the cobwebs and I will have plenty of room for Mrs Hudson’s dinner thought Watson darkly as he began his journey and focused on the snow covered pavement in front of him aware that his leg had been paining him for a few days now and tried in vain to hide this from the world’s only consulting detective who had disapproved of Watson going out in such inhospitable weather.
It was his concentration in trying not to slip on the snow and ice that led to Watson failing to hear the thugs creep up behind him until it was far too late. With a heavy blow to his head Watson let out a cry as he was dragged into a side alley by his attackers and his cries for help was muffled as a heavy hand covered his mouth. He tried to fight back, but one of the attackers was too strong and burly and roughly pulled Watson’s arms tightly behind his back as the other, thin, lean and rat faced looking reigned several blows into Watson’s stomach, Watson collapsed under the strain, his legs giving way, but not giving up completely he tried to fight back yet again staggering back up and taking a swing at one of his attackers making contact with Rat Man’s face and broke his nose. But he was weakened by the earlier blows and his attackers had the upper hand. Rat man, in an opportune moment picked up Watson’s heavy cane and struck Watson heavily across his head. Watson fell into the snow trying in vain to protect himself as the heavy cane came crashing down onto him again and again until Watson moved no more. Blood ran down Watson’s head and began to form a pool as his attackers picked his pockets clean and the burly attacker was about to pick up the discarded parcel Watson was carrying when a passing Policeman came into view and the thieves ran leaving Watson face down in the snow. The parcel was thrown down besides Watson. The Policeman blew his whistle signalling for help, kneeling down and felt for Watson’s pulse. It was there but only just. It was very weak. He turned over the victim gently and to his surprise recognised him. As a sergeant stationed at Scotland Yard, he had seen him often enough at in the company of Sherlock Holmes. The Policeman took off his cloak and placed it on top of Watson. He would see Watson safely taken to hospital. As his colleagues arrived he tore a bit of paper from his notebook having written a brief note and turned to instruct one of them.
“Here, Alf, I want you to go to 221B Baker Street with this note, tell them what has happened and advise that this gentleman is at Charing Cross Hospital”
Alf nodded and left. The Sergeant turned back to focus on the unconscious Dr Watson. He knew that within an hour one very angry and distraught detective would be at Charing Cross Hospital. As to the thieves, their future did not bode very well indeed once Sherlock Holmes had caught them, and catch them he would. They had chosen the wrong person to mug, tonight of all nights thought the Sergeant grimly as the ambulance arrived and he helped lift Dr Watson onto a stretcher and quickly taken away to hospital. Dr Watson was badly hurt. He placed the discarded Christmas present besides the Doctor and patted the doctor’s shoulder gently, his role in this was over but he would pray for his recovery as would everyone else in the Yard on this snowy Christmas Eve.
Chapter Two
Sherlock Holmes was poking furiously at the fire and glanced up at the mantelpiece clock. Watson was late. He berated himself for even having been persuaded by his Boswell to allow him to even go out on such a snowy day. He smiled fondly as he recalled Watson’s words of determination. Holmes, I have to go. Just because it is Christmas Eve it does not mean that London will not have cases of flu, colds and broken bones! I am a Doctor and it is my duty to care for the sick, just as you are compelled to fight for justice in this dark world we live in. His thoughts were interrupted by a tearful Mrs Hudson who came into the sitting room in tears.
“Mr Holmes, oh Mr Holmes, Dr Watson has been attacked. He is badly hurt…the note here says….” Said Mrs Hudson shakily before she was interrupted in mid flow by Holmes snatching the note off her and his hands shook reading it.
Holmes steadied himself against the mantelpiece as he read the words over and over again,
Mr Holmes, Dr Watson attacked and grievously hurt, and has been taken to Charing Cross Hospital.
Sergeant Duncan Peter Walters
Holmes placed a hand on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder and guided her to the couch and wrapped an afghan blanket around the Landlady’s shoulders.
“Mrs Hudson, I am going to Charing Cross Hospital. Please do not fret yourself over this; I am sure it is not as bad as the note says it is. Dr Watson is a soldier of Maiwand. If he survived that he will surely survive this. Do not worry. I will bring him home”. Said Holmes to Mrs Hudson in a voice that was not altogether as steady as he would wanted it to have been.
Holmes grabbed his coat and ran down the thirteen steps and hailed a cab.
“Charing Cross Hospital on the double please cabbie!” cried Holmes
As the cab rolled away from Baker Street and towards the hospital his thoughts were for Watson. Would Watson be awake? Would he even be aware of my presence? How bad were his injuries? And then darker thoughts gripped him. What if Watson is dying as I rush to the hospital? The note said grievously. I don’t have to be a detective to know that means it’s very serious indeed. Holmes closed his eyes in horror at the rapid chain of thought assailed him and then snapped them open. No! I must not give into this, Watson is strong. I must stay focused and be strong also. But Watson’s attackers would pay for whatever damage they had done, of that Holmes was resolute. The cab soon arrived at the hospital and Holmes swiftly paid the cabbie and made his way through the main entrance and into the reception area where he made his enquiries of Watson. A consultant met Holmes and advised that him of the injuries his friend had sustained. Two cracked ribs, a broken arm, severe bruising to his back and abdomen where he was repeatedly struck with the cane and most devastatingly of all the consultant advised Holmes of the head trauma and that Watson was not responding at all, he was not just unconscious but in a coma. What remaining colour was in Holmes’s face drained away completely and he had to force himself to walk into the ward and to the bed where Dr Watson lay. Holmes took in the scene. The ward reeked of antiseptic and Watson was covered in bandages, some were bloodstained, especially around the hands. His Boswell had tried to fight back. Holmes collapsed rather than sat into a nearby chair and pulled himself up close to his friend. With tears forming in his eyes and threatening to spill over, Holmes carefully lifted a clammy hand into his and whispered softly
“Oh Watson what have they done to you? Please don’t leave me, don’t you DARE leave me, not now…“ Holmes was unable to continue and buried his head in the blanket covering a very still and silent Watson. Like broken notes on a poorly tuned violin Holmes’s tears echoed around the near empty hospital ward.
Chapter Three
The Christmas morning sun’s rays lazily made its way to the bed where Holmes was slumped over the still form of Watson. Holmes awoke and wearily rubbed his eyes. After the shock and his initial breakdown at seeing Watson so very badly hurt, a nurse had tried to get Holmes to leave but he had spent the next hour arguing with hospital doctors over where Watson would recover. He knew that Watson would not want to spend Christmas in a hospital and after a lot of persuasion, it was arranged for Watson to return home to Baker Street under the care of Holmes with the provision that a doctor attend to him the following day. Holmes stared down at Watson who lay in his bed unmoving. Holmes had given over his bedroom to Watson, knowing that if Watson recovered when he recovered Holmes corrected himself; Watson’s mobility would be severely restricted during his convalesce.
“Watson?” whispered Holmes softly in the hope that there would be a response.
There was no response at all from Watson. Holmes shoulders slumped in defeat. Just as he was about to get up there was a gentle tap at the door and it opened to reveal Mrs Hudson who announced
“Mr Holmes, I’m sorry to interrupt but Doctor Anstruther is here to see to the poor Doctor”.
Holmes got up and vacated his bedroom and entered the sitting room to see Watson’s colleague standing there. Holmes need only to take in a casual deductive glance to see that the Doctor disapproved of the removal of Watson from the hospital and before Anstruther could protest Holmes raised his hand warningly.
“Dr Anstruther I know you disapprove of my bringing Dr Watson back to Baker Street, he may be your colleague at the practice but he is also my colleague and partner as well. Not only that but he is also my fellow lodger and I know his habits. He would not want to spend Christmas Day on a hospital ward” said Holmes assertively.
Dr Anstruther glared at Holmes before entering the bedroom and closing the door behind him. Holmes paced the sitting room and anxiously awaited the outcome of the ministrations of Dr Anstruther. He did not have to wait too long. The door to his bedroom opened within ten minutes of them being closed and Holmes stopped his pacing and faced Watson’s colleague his eyes boring into him as Dr Anstruther began to report on his prognosis.
“He is still not responsive Mr Holmes. His other injuries have been tended to of course, and I have left some morphine and bandages to last over next few days. I shall forward you the bill and will be round tomorrow to check on the Doctor.”
And with those final words Dr Anstruther saw himself out, leaving Holmes alone in the sitting room. Holmes stared at the floor. Watson was still in a coma. This is my entire fault. I should never have let him go out at all yesterday. Holmes walked to the sitting room window and saw Baker Street on Christmas morning. Carol singers were gathered on the corner of the street, their carols full of joy that Holmes did not feel. The snow was still falling. Unable to observe the Christmas joyfulness any further Holmes turned and saw the breakfast Mrs Hudson had prepared. The long suffering landlady had decided that Christmas celebrations should continue despite what had happened. Watson would have wanted that he thought bitterly. Walking back towards his bedroom his hand brushed upon the parcel left on the chemical table the previous evening, although the brown paper and string were somewhat torn, sodden and in a pitiful state, the label half peeling off was addressed to him. He recognised the writing as being that of his dear friend. Carefully Holmes sat down with the parcel and slowly unwrapped the remaining paper, cutting open the box with the jacknife from the mantelpiece. Inside and well wrapped up was another well wrapped up parcel but in a shape he instantly recognised. Holmes proceeded to unwrap the item to reveal a violin case, his initials inscribed in gold lettering on the case. He rubbed his fingers against his initials and then opened the case to find inside there laid a bow and a Stradivarius, a card sitting on top which Holmes opened. It read simply as follows.
My Dear Holmes, please accept this gift from me, I could not bear to see the strings of your heart broken over your destroyed Stradivarius any longer. Just promise me you won’t screech on it as you usually do in the early hours of the morning over Christmas.
Watson
Holmes laughed as he lifted the violin from his case and gently plucked at the strings. He would truly be lost without his Boswell. He took the violin with him into the bedroom and saw the still form of Watson. Carefully placing the violin under his chin and with a careful sweeping of the strings with his bow, Holmes began playing a melody of Christmas carols and immersed himself into the music, his whole body flowing with the flow of music. And as he played he switched from Christmas carols to music from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to Pablo de Sarasate’s Gipsy Airs.
Pluck pluck. Watson’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion on the sound of the plucking reaching his ears. What on earth? Thought Watson as he struggled against the wall of blackness. He had not expected to wake up to this sound. He strained to hear further and fought back the sheer exhaustion preventing him from opening his eyes. But his efforts paid off and Watson wearily opened his eyes to see Holmes playing his new violin totally absorbed. The music was deliciously wonderful thought Watson and he knew Holmes was an excellent violinist but his head was aching and he needed a glass of water. He tried to call out but his throat ached and was so infernally weak. Watson tried to raise a hand and that felt like a weight of bricks was pressing him down. He tried once more to call to his friend.
“Holmes” rasped Watson weakly.
The sound of a thud followed and within moments his weak hand was supported by shaking strong ones.
“Watson! Oh my dear fellow it is so good to see you awake at last” cried Holmes shakily.
Watson opened his tired eyes once more and found Holmes close to him, he looked terrible. He tried to get up but was gently pushed back by Holmes.
“Easy Watson, you have been badly hurt when you were attacked by those two thieves. You are not going anyway for the next few days” warned Holmes.
He began to pour out a glass of water for Watson and placed his arm behind Watson’s back and raised him slightly to allow Watson to drink, which Watson did so greedily and then slumped back exhausted. The attack came rushing back to Watson who shivered involuntarily at the unpleasant memories and then stared at Holmes wanting to know more. Holmes acknowledged the unspoken question and said quietly
“No Watson they have not been caught yet, but they will be and when they are caught they will be sorry they ever laid a finger on you” said Holmes with a voice of steel that betrayed his seething anger at Watson’s attackers.
Shakily Watson placed his hand on Holmes’s arm, it took all his strength to do it but he had to.
“Holmes, please don’t go and do anything foolish on my account. Not without me anyway. It is Christmas and it was your music that brought me back from the darkness. Your music reached me, calling me home. I don’t to spend it on my own without you and without your music. I will never quibble about your late night screeching again..!” Watson stopped to catch his breath as one of his cracked ribs grated against his lung, and he held his side tightly waiting for the pain to subside.
Holmes stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Watson to fear he had somehow offended him. But Holmes swiftly returned carrying a large tray which he set on a dresser and carried over a plate to Watson.
“Watson I will never leave you alone, you have my word. Have some of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent scrambled eggs! Merry Christmas Watson!” cried Holmes jovially as he poured himself a cup of tea.
As Christmas Day morning became afternoon the only sound that could be heard from 221B Baker Street was that of laughter and joy and the sound of Holmes playing his violin, the music of love and friendship forever playing forever echoing in the mists of time.