Holmes fic: Singular 2/?
Title: Singular 2/?
Rating: R overall
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary, brief appearances by Mycroft and Clarkie
Wordcount: 2,171
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. [eventual Holmes/Watson/Mary]
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [the first chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (if I can find it again, I'll link it, haha).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Part one
Mary wasn't allowed to touch John until the doctors were finished with their initial assessments; when they withdrew to confer, she planted herself at his bedside and clutched his hand, unwilling to leave again without him saying so. But there was little chance of that at present, for John was exceedingly weak--starved, she'd overheard one doctor say--too weak, even, to wake.
She ought to have known better than to underestimate her John. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, and when she straightened, his eyes were ever so slightly open. "Mary," he rasped, his fingers twitching against her hand.
"Hush," she said, squeezing his hand and tracing his jaw with the fingers of her other hand.
"Holmes?"
"He's in another room. They haven't told me how he's doing. Shall I find out for you?"
"Please." His eyes spoke more vehemently than his voice was able, and she bent to brush a brief kiss to his dry lips.
"I will do my best." John's eyes closed again, and the doctors soon bustled back into the room and bustled her out of it. She stood uncertainly outside the door for a moment, then spied a familiar policeman down the hall. "Constable Clark," she said, hurrying toward him.
He tipped his hat to her. "Good day, Miss Mary. How is Doctor Watson getting on?"
"He woke briefly and spoke to me," she said with a smile. "He asked about Mr. Holmes. Do you know where he is?"
"He's in the room right next to Doctor Watson," he replied, pointing to a door where a stream of doctors and nurses were continually passing in and out, an identical expression of vague discontent on each face.
"Has there been any word on how he is doing?"
"Afraid not, ma'am."
"Does he have any family to summon?" As independent as she knew Mr. Holmes to be, the thought of him alone in hospital was a pitiable one.
"His brother has been sent for."
There was a brother? It was news to her, but she suspected John had known. "Thank you, Constable," she said softly, approaching Mr. Holmes' door purposefully. Seeing an opportunity, she slipped into the room and took up a position near the wall so she could observe without being in the way.
She would not have recognized him.
Granted, it would be difficult to recognize even her own husband in such a state, with one eye swelled shut, bruises discoloring the parts of his face not covered with several weeks' hair growth, and one side of his jaw visibly swollen. A nurse was clipping bits of his hair off under a doctor's direction. Another two nurse-and-doctor pairs were working on each of Holmes' arms, splinting and wrapping his fingers and wrists and forearms.
Then one stopped and administered something with a syringe; a keening sound that Mary hadn't quite noticed abruptly ceased, and she shivered. Mr. Holmes was in a great deal of pain and she wanted to weep for him.
Mary continued to stare, taking in as much detail as her untrained eye could identify--a broken collarbone, numerous broken ribs from the way his chest moved oddly as he took shallow breaths--and watching another set of doctors and nurses tending to his legs. His legs, like his arms, were being wrapped in layer upon layer of linen; in bandaging his knee, one of the doctors moved his leg in a way that made him cry out in agony despite the medication. Mary hoped never to hear such a sound again.
Then one of the doctors was moving away from Mr. Holmes and greeting a man that had just entered the room. The brother, she was sure of it; there was enough family resemblance despite a distinct difference in height and build. The doctor and this other Mr. Holmes stood very near her as the doctor spoke quietly, and she did her best to listen in.
"He'll live, but . . . no internal bleeding has been found . . . uncertain how much function will be regained . . . sedate him for a time . . ."
The general impression Mary gathered was that the wounds were serious but would heal with time and rest, though Mr. Holmes may always suffer some pain or limited movement as a result of his ordeal. She frowned; she knew enough about her husband's mercurial friend to recognize that Mr. Holmes was not one to bear chronic pain or physical limits with grace.
"Mrs. Watson," a smooth, cultured voice greeted her as she felt a touch on her elbow. "Shouldn't you be with your husband?"
Her startled glance met the gaze of a pair of probing grey eyes. The other Mr. Holmes. "John wanted me to find out how Mr. Holmes fared," she said, raising her chin and daring him to challenge her.
"Which you have done," he said mildly. "I do not wish to make you feel unwelcome, but in consideration of my brother's modesty, it would be best if you returned when he is in a better state of dress."
Mary peeked at the bed again and her eyes widened. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I didn't notice. You're right, I should return later. Will you be staying here with him, Mr. Holmes?"
His eyes smiled at her, though the rest of his expression remained placidly calm. "For a time, yes," he replied as he escorted her to the door.
A small thought that had been germinating in the back of her mind presented itself insistently, and she stopped just outside the door, the other Mr. Holmes' hand still on her elbow. "I would like to request that your brother and my husband share a room. I know John will rest easier if Mr. Holmes is within sight. Would you object?"
His expression became thoughtful and he regarded her seriously. "No, I would not."
Mary made her request, and the doctors were amenable, but it would be at least a week before they were willing to attempt moving Dr. Watson; moving Mr. Holmes was, of course, quite out of the question. In the meantime, Mary made it her duty to check in on Mr. Holmes when John was sleeping or being tended by the nurses. Mr. Holmes didn't know of her visits, as he was drugged insensible to keep the pain at bay and to keep him still so he could heal. But she felt better for looking in on him on John's behalf, especially when his brother returned to work and only stopped by occasionally.
He looked so small, all bandaged up and nearly motionless. Practically every inch of him was covered either in bandages or bruises, but she noticed that the swelling around his eye was receding and took heart that his other injuries must similarly be healing, albeit slowly.
The true delight of those long days was attending to her husband, helping him eat, assisting him in shaving and other necessary tasks, and reading to him when he was fatigued but not yet tired enough to sleep. John objected to her help at first, but she tartly pointed out that, being a doctor's wife, she ought to be familiar with the basics of nursing, and this was the perfect situation for practice. He had to concede the point.
John slept long and often, but he gradually grew stronger and could hold a cup or a spoon without assistance and without trembling. He progressed to the point that Mary allowed him to hold the razor himself, and as she watched him, she had an idea. When John was finished and napping, she took the basin and shaving kit to Mr. Holmes' room. A nurse was there, giving him an injection; she looked skeptical but consented to the plan, and brought a few towels for her use.
Mary perched on the edge of the bed, watching Mr. Holmes' face carefully for any sign that she was causing him discomfort. She set the basin in his lap gently, draped a towel down his chest and tucked another around his neck, then set to work.
His jaw was still somewhat swollen on the one side, so she used a light touch on the razor. It was a challenge, but the practice on John helped. When she wiped the last of the lather from his face, she marveled at how young and vulnerable he looked. Perhaps that was why he never went about clean-shaven.
She returned to John's side quite pleased with herself.
The next day, a full two weeks after being rescued, Watson was able to stand on his own and walk a few steps with assistance. He was shaking when he sat back down on his bed, but the first thing he said afterward was a demand to know when he could move to Holmes' room.
He was moved the next day, transported in a wheeled chair since his strength was not yet sufficient to walk the distance. Watson's bed was furthest from the door, since Holmes needed more attention from the staff, so he was able to get a glimpse of Holmes as he was pushed past, enough to see he was still heavily bandaged.
It wasn't until Watson was seated on his bed that he had a clear look at Holmes, who he had not seen with his eyes since they were abducted weeks--or was it months?--before.
He could guess at the injuries beneath the yards of bandaging and winced in sympathy, imagining how Holmes must have come by all of them. Unnaturally still, Holmes looked fragile, his complexion nearly as white as the sheets. Watson hurt just looking at him.
Mary touched Watson's shoulder. "You should rest. The nurse thinks they'll let him wake up for a while tomorrow."
He stretched out on his side so he could keep Holmes within his sight. Mary held his hand even as he stared at Holmes until he fell asleep.
He had been floating in a dark, cushioned place for so long that he wasn't sure what was happening at first when the cushioning grew thinner and light began filtering in. Then there were sounds--voices, murmurs that comforted him even though he couldn't understand them or identify who they were.
Right after he was able to hear came a wave of hot pain and he whimpered. There was a touch on his brow and one of the voices came closer, speaking soothingly in words he still couldn't comprehend. He tried to open his eyes to see who was near him, but the light was too overwhelming. He tried to move away from it and agony cascaded over him.
He panted and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light. He fought against the pain, trying to cling to the voices that continued speaking--they sounded worried, now--but he was too easily overcome. In the midst of everything there was a small prick against his skin and the dark began to overtake him again.
He surrendered gladly.
Six days later they tried again to allow Holmes to rouse to full consciousness. A half hour before he would have been due for his sedative, he was given a generous dose of morphine. Watson sat close by in a chair between their beds, waiting anxiously with Mary by his side.
An hour after the morphine, Holmes showed signs of waking. His breathing quickened, his eyelids quivered, and parts of his body twitched as if he was methodically assessing his physical state.
Watson wished he could take Holmes' hand so he'd know he was there, but his hands were bandaged until they looked like mittens, and Watson didn't want to hurt him with a touch that could be felt through all of the layers. He spoke instead, saying Holmes' name softly and watching for a response.
Holmes seemed to turn his head a little in his direction.
The doctor observing the proceedings from the other side of the bed motioned for him to continue.
On the fourth repetition of his name, Holmes took a sharp breath and tried to speak. "Wa'son?" he mumbled almost voicelessly.
"Yes, I'm right here, Holmes," Watson answered eagerly.
Holmes blinked repeatedly, then seemed to focus on Watson's face. "Watson," he said. "All right?"
"I'll be all right, and so will you."
Mary held a cup to Holmes' lips for him to sip a bit of water. He looked up at her and nodded a fraction when he'd had enough.
"How do you feel?" Watson asked.
Holmes took a while to think about this, his eyes drooping sleepily. "Tired. Ev'rything hurts."
"They did a number on you," Watson agreed sorrowfully. "But you've already started healing. It will get better."
Holmes only response was a hum--of agreement? acknowledgement? it was impossible to tell--as his eyes closed and his breaths deepened and he slipped back into sleep.
The doctor checked Holmes' pulse and nodded in satisfaction. "Very good. He was more aware than we anticipated. I will have the sedation limited to nighttime and we shall see how he responds."
Continued
Rating: R overall
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary, brief appearances by Mycroft and Clarkie
Wordcount: 2,171
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. [eventual Holmes/Watson/Mary]
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [the first chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (if I can find it again, I'll link it, haha).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Part one
Mary wasn't allowed to touch John until the doctors were finished with their initial assessments; when they withdrew to confer, she planted herself at his bedside and clutched his hand, unwilling to leave again without him saying so. But there was little chance of that at present, for John was exceedingly weak--starved, she'd overheard one doctor say--too weak, even, to wake.
She ought to have known better than to underestimate her John. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, and when she straightened, his eyes were ever so slightly open. "Mary," he rasped, his fingers twitching against her hand.
"Hush," she said, squeezing his hand and tracing his jaw with the fingers of her other hand.
"Holmes?"
"He's in another room. They haven't told me how he's doing. Shall I find out for you?"
"Please." His eyes spoke more vehemently than his voice was able, and she bent to brush a brief kiss to his dry lips.
"I will do my best." John's eyes closed again, and the doctors soon bustled back into the room and bustled her out of it. She stood uncertainly outside the door for a moment, then spied a familiar policeman down the hall. "Constable Clark," she said, hurrying toward him.
He tipped his hat to her. "Good day, Miss Mary. How is Doctor Watson getting on?"
"He woke briefly and spoke to me," she said with a smile. "He asked about Mr. Holmes. Do you know where he is?"
"He's in the room right next to Doctor Watson," he replied, pointing to a door where a stream of doctors and nurses were continually passing in and out, an identical expression of vague discontent on each face.
"Has there been any word on how he is doing?"
"Afraid not, ma'am."
"Does he have any family to summon?" As independent as she knew Mr. Holmes to be, the thought of him alone in hospital was a pitiable one.
"His brother has been sent for."
There was a brother? It was news to her, but she suspected John had known. "Thank you, Constable," she said softly, approaching Mr. Holmes' door purposefully. Seeing an opportunity, she slipped into the room and took up a position near the wall so she could observe without being in the way.
She would not have recognized him.
Granted, it would be difficult to recognize even her own husband in such a state, with one eye swelled shut, bruises discoloring the parts of his face not covered with several weeks' hair growth, and one side of his jaw visibly swollen. A nurse was clipping bits of his hair off under a doctor's direction. Another two nurse-and-doctor pairs were working on each of Holmes' arms, splinting and wrapping his fingers and wrists and forearms.
Then one stopped and administered something with a syringe; a keening sound that Mary hadn't quite noticed abruptly ceased, and she shivered. Mr. Holmes was in a great deal of pain and she wanted to weep for him.
Mary continued to stare, taking in as much detail as her untrained eye could identify--a broken collarbone, numerous broken ribs from the way his chest moved oddly as he took shallow breaths--and watching another set of doctors and nurses tending to his legs. His legs, like his arms, were being wrapped in layer upon layer of linen; in bandaging his knee, one of the doctors moved his leg in a way that made him cry out in agony despite the medication. Mary hoped never to hear such a sound again.
Then one of the doctors was moving away from Mr. Holmes and greeting a man that had just entered the room. The brother, she was sure of it; there was enough family resemblance despite a distinct difference in height and build. The doctor and this other Mr. Holmes stood very near her as the doctor spoke quietly, and she did her best to listen in.
"He'll live, but . . . no internal bleeding has been found . . . uncertain how much function will be regained . . . sedate him for a time . . ."
The general impression Mary gathered was that the wounds were serious but would heal with time and rest, though Mr. Holmes may always suffer some pain or limited movement as a result of his ordeal. She frowned; she knew enough about her husband's mercurial friend to recognize that Mr. Holmes was not one to bear chronic pain or physical limits with grace.
"Mrs. Watson," a smooth, cultured voice greeted her as she felt a touch on her elbow. "Shouldn't you be with your husband?"
Her startled glance met the gaze of a pair of probing grey eyes. The other Mr. Holmes. "John wanted me to find out how Mr. Holmes fared," she said, raising her chin and daring him to challenge her.
"Which you have done," he said mildly. "I do not wish to make you feel unwelcome, but in consideration of my brother's modesty, it would be best if you returned when he is in a better state of dress."
Mary peeked at the bed again and her eyes widened. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I didn't notice. You're right, I should return later. Will you be staying here with him, Mr. Holmes?"
His eyes smiled at her, though the rest of his expression remained placidly calm. "For a time, yes," he replied as he escorted her to the door.
A small thought that had been germinating in the back of her mind presented itself insistently, and she stopped just outside the door, the other Mr. Holmes' hand still on her elbow. "I would like to request that your brother and my husband share a room. I know John will rest easier if Mr. Holmes is within sight. Would you object?"
His expression became thoughtful and he regarded her seriously. "No, I would not."
Mary made her request, and the doctors were amenable, but it would be at least a week before they were willing to attempt moving Dr. Watson; moving Mr. Holmes was, of course, quite out of the question. In the meantime, Mary made it her duty to check in on Mr. Holmes when John was sleeping or being tended by the nurses. Mr. Holmes didn't know of her visits, as he was drugged insensible to keep the pain at bay and to keep him still so he could heal. But she felt better for looking in on him on John's behalf, especially when his brother returned to work and only stopped by occasionally.
He looked so small, all bandaged up and nearly motionless. Practically every inch of him was covered either in bandages or bruises, but she noticed that the swelling around his eye was receding and took heart that his other injuries must similarly be healing, albeit slowly.
The true delight of those long days was attending to her husband, helping him eat, assisting him in shaving and other necessary tasks, and reading to him when he was fatigued but not yet tired enough to sleep. John objected to her help at first, but she tartly pointed out that, being a doctor's wife, she ought to be familiar with the basics of nursing, and this was the perfect situation for practice. He had to concede the point.
John slept long and often, but he gradually grew stronger and could hold a cup or a spoon without assistance and without trembling. He progressed to the point that Mary allowed him to hold the razor himself, and as she watched him, she had an idea. When John was finished and napping, she took the basin and shaving kit to Mr. Holmes' room. A nurse was there, giving him an injection; she looked skeptical but consented to the plan, and brought a few towels for her use.
Mary perched on the edge of the bed, watching Mr. Holmes' face carefully for any sign that she was causing him discomfort. She set the basin in his lap gently, draped a towel down his chest and tucked another around his neck, then set to work.
His jaw was still somewhat swollen on the one side, so she used a light touch on the razor. It was a challenge, but the practice on John helped. When she wiped the last of the lather from his face, she marveled at how young and vulnerable he looked. Perhaps that was why he never went about clean-shaven.
She returned to John's side quite pleased with herself.
The next day, a full two weeks after being rescued, Watson was able to stand on his own and walk a few steps with assistance. He was shaking when he sat back down on his bed, but the first thing he said afterward was a demand to know when he could move to Holmes' room.
He was moved the next day, transported in a wheeled chair since his strength was not yet sufficient to walk the distance. Watson's bed was furthest from the door, since Holmes needed more attention from the staff, so he was able to get a glimpse of Holmes as he was pushed past, enough to see he was still heavily bandaged.
It wasn't until Watson was seated on his bed that he had a clear look at Holmes, who he had not seen with his eyes since they were abducted weeks--or was it months?--before.
He could guess at the injuries beneath the yards of bandaging and winced in sympathy, imagining how Holmes must have come by all of them. Unnaturally still, Holmes looked fragile, his complexion nearly as white as the sheets. Watson hurt just looking at him.
Mary touched Watson's shoulder. "You should rest. The nurse thinks they'll let him wake up for a while tomorrow."
He stretched out on his side so he could keep Holmes within his sight. Mary held his hand even as he stared at Holmes until he fell asleep.
He had been floating in a dark, cushioned place for so long that he wasn't sure what was happening at first when the cushioning grew thinner and light began filtering in. Then there were sounds--voices, murmurs that comforted him even though he couldn't understand them or identify who they were.
Right after he was able to hear came a wave of hot pain and he whimpered. There was a touch on his brow and one of the voices came closer, speaking soothingly in words he still couldn't comprehend. He tried to open his eyes to see who was near him, but the light was too overwhelming. He tried to move away from it and agony cascaded over him.
He panted and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light. He fought against the pain, trying to cling to the voices that continued speaking--they sounded worried, now--but he was too easily overcome. In the midst of everything there was a small prick against his skin and the dark began to overtake him again.
He surrendered gladly.
Six days later they tried again to allow Holmes to rouse to full consciousness. A half hour before he would have been due for his sedative, he was given a generous dose of morphine. Watson sat close by in a chair between their beds, waiting anxiously with Mary by his side.
An hour after the morphine, Holmes showed signs of waking. His breathing quickened, his eyelids quivered, and parts of his body twitched as if he was methodically assessing his physical state.
Watson wished he could take Holmes' hand so he'd know he was there, but his hands were bandaged until they looked like mittens, and Watson didn't want to hurt him with a touch that could be felt through all of the layers. He spoke instead, saying Holmes' name softly and watching for a response.
Holmes seemed to turn his head a little in his direction.
The doctor observing the proceedings from the other side of the bed motioned for him to continue.
On the fourth repetition of his name, Holmes took a sharp breath and tried to speak. "Wa'son?" he mumbled almost voicelessly.
"Yes, I'm right here, Holmes," Watson answered eagerly.
Holmes blinked repeatedly, then seemed to focus on Watson's face. "Watson," he said. "All right?"
"I'll be all right, and so will you."
Mary held a cup to Holmes' lips for him to sip a bit of water. He looked up at her and nodded a fraction when he'd had enough.
"How do you feel?" Watson asked.
Holmes took a while to think about this, his eyes drooping sleepily. "Tired. Ev'rything hurts."
"They did a number on you," Watson agreed sorrowfully. "But you've already started healing. It will get better."
Holmes only response was a hum--of agreement? acknowledgement? it was impossible to tell--as his eyes closed and his breaths deepened and he slipped back into sleep.
The doctor checked Holmes' pulse and nodded in satisfaction. "Very good. He was more aware than we anticipated. I will have the sedation limited to nighttime and we shall see how he responds."
Continued