On the other side
Title: On the other side
Author(s): holmes221b
Rating: PG
Character(s): J. Watson, S. Holmes
Summary: Watson is able to make his deadline for the next issue of the Strand, thanks to the ministrations of "Doctor" Holmes.
Warnings: holmes221b!Fluff, Medically Descriptive
Word Count: 930 words
Author's Notes: Companion fic to Ink on his hands.
I was vaguely aware of Holmes putting down his violin, but I was more concerned with a more personal problem--the muscles of my hand had become paralyzed, leaving me unable to let go of my pen.
"Something wrong, Watson?" my friend asked.
"My hand...I can't let go of the pen," I replied, cursing the slight panic that had seeped into my voice.
"Can you move your arm?"
I moved my arm so that he could get a better look at my stiffened hand, figuring that it would be easier to just give him my arm than to explain what I figured was going on with it.
"Looks like writer's cramp," he observed. I glared at him, I knew exactly what I had, I didn't need him challenging my abilities as a doctor. "I just know what the condition looks like, you're the one who going to have to come up with a treatment for it."
"Writer's cramp is a type of paralysis, Holmes," I grumbled, not at all happy with my current predicament. "In this case, it probably was caused by all the writing I've been doing of lately."
"So, what should I do?"
"You?" I asked, completely caught off-guard by his interest in helping me.
"You seriously don't expect me to let you deal with this on your own, Watson. You can't even unclench your right hand enough to let go of your pen right now."
He was right, of course--especially since I could not mix the pills I would need to treat my condition.
"Well, I'll need your help mixing up the pills I'll have to take."
"What do I need to do?" I had never before seen Holmes so eager to do anything for me, and the idea warmed my heart.
I eyed my pen, still in my hand, when I had an idea.
"I'll write the prescription down for you and you go to the chemist's and have them mix it up for us," I directed him, as I wrote down what I needed mixed up on the back of an envelope.
Half a grain of sulphate of strychnia
30 grains of reduced iron
8 grains of extract of belladonna
Mix together and make thirty pills.
As soon as I finished, I handed him the envelope.
Holmes frowned at the ingredient list. I had a good idea why--the man knew his poisons, after all.
"Strychnine? Belladona?" he questioned.
"They both possess benefits when used in small amounts, Holmes," I explained. "Now go to the chemist's before they close for the day."
~*~
Later that evening
I took the first dose that evening, before I went to bed. I grimaced at the overly bitter taste of the pill, ignoring the gut feeling that it was too bitter, that perhaps the mixture hadn't been done correctly.
~*~
The Following Morning
I stepped out of bed, and then the next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room, my nightshirt damp with vomit, my head in my friend's lap.
"H'mes?" I asked, inwardly wincing at how weak I sounded.
"Yes, Watson?"
"S'rry about bein' sick on you."
"It wasn't your fault, Watson, I was trying to make you vomit," Holmes replied. "Now let's get you cleaned up and get some coffee into you."
"Coffee?"
"You obviously don't remember the charcoal and mustard water I gave you," he muttered.
"You?" I was surprised that he would do that for me.
"You were convulsing, the first thing I thought was that you had been poisoned by the strychnine."
"Luckily you were right," I replied, reaching out with my right hand for my bed to pull myself up to my feet--I'd forgotten what had gotten me into this mess originally.
"Here, let me help you," Holmes offered.
I sighed, but I let him help me out, since it would be much harder for me if I took care of things on my own.
He left me drinking a cup of coffee to clean and change into clean clothes himself. By the time he returned, I was staring moodily into my second cup of coffee.
"Watson, I was reading some of your medical texts last night, and--"
"I don't want any more of your help, Holmes," I interrupted him, not caring that such behavior was rude and out of character for me. "I've put you thru too much already as it is."
"Watson, I've put you thru worse, and probably will continue to do so until the last," Holmes insisted, clearly unwilling to allow me to order him away from me.
I snorted as I realized that he'd done the same thing to me several times in the past.
"But you are not a doctor, Holmes. You can't--" I began, but Holmes interrupted me--I idly wondered if he was being childish and interrupting me because I had just interrupted him moments earlier.
"I may not be a doctor, Watson, but I have lived with one long enough to have picked up a few things."
"Including his books," I muttered softly, trying hard not to laugh at the innocent look Holmes gave me at my words.
"Including his books," he agreed.
We sat in silence for a while, before I finally broke it.
"Well, Holmes, what did you find out?" I demanded, unable to wait any longer to hear what he had to say.
"I read about massaging the paralyzed muscles," he began, clearly uncomfortable with what he was suggesting.
"It would help," I remarked. "Anything else?"
"An electrical shock, but I think that's a bit drastic in your case."
"Thank you, Doctor Holmes."
Author(s): holmes221b
Rating: PG
Character(s): J. Watson, S. Holmes
Summary: Watson is able to make his deadline for the next issue of the Strand, thanks to the ministrations of "Doctor" Holmes.
Warnings: holmes221b!Fluff, Medically Descriptive
Word Count: 930 words
Author's Notes: Companion fic to Ink on his hands.
I was vaguely aware of Holmes putting down his violin, but I was more concerned with a more personal problem--the muscles of my hand had become paralyzed, leaving me unable to let go of my pen.
"Something wrong, Watson?" my friend asked.
"My hand...I can't let go of the pen," I replied, cursing the slight panic that had seeped into my voice.
"Can you move your arm?"
I moved my arm so that he could get a better look at my stiffened hand, figuring that it would be easier to just give him my arm than to explain what I figured was going on with it.
"Looks like writer's cramp," he observed. I glared at him, I knew exactly what I had, I didn't need him challenging my abilities as a doctor. "I just know what the condition looks like, you're the one who going to have to come up with a treatment for it."
"Writer's cramp is a type of paralysis, Holmes," I grumbled, not at all happy with my current predicament. "In this case, it probably was caused by all the writing I've been doing of lately."
"So, what should I do?"
"You?" I asked, completely caught off-guard by his interest in helping me.
"You seriously don't expect me to let you deal with this on your own, Watson. You can't even unclench your right hand enough to let go of your pen right now."
He was right, of course--especially since I could not mix the pills I would need to treat my condition.
"Well, I'll need your help mixing up the pills I'll have to take."
"What do I need to do?" I had never before seen Holmes so eager to do anything for me, and the idea warmed my heart.
I eyed my pen, still in my hand, when I had an idea.
"I'll write the prescription down for you and you go to the chemist's and have them mix it up for us," I directed him, as I wrote down what I needed mixed up on the back of an envelope.
Half a grain of sulphate of strychnia
30 grains of reduced iron
8 grains of extract of belladonna
Mix together and make thirty pills.
As soon as I finished, I handed him the envelope.
Holmes frowned at the ingredient list. I had a good idea why--the man knew his poisons, after all.
"Strychnine? Belladona?" he questioned.
"They both possess benefits when used in small amounts, Holmes," I explained. "Now go to the chemist's before they close for the day."
~*~
Later that evening
I took the first dose that evening, before I went to bed. I grimaced at the overly bitter taste of the pill, ignoring the gut feeling that it was too bitter, that perhaps the mixture hadn't been done correctly.
~*~
The Following Morning
I stepped out of bed, and then the next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room, my nightshirt damp with vomit, my head in my friend's lap.
"H'mes?" I asked, inwardly wincing at how weak I sounded.
"Yes, Watson?"
"S'rry about bein' sick on you."
"It wasn't your fault, Watson, I was trying to make you vomit," Holmes replied. "Now let's get you cleaned up and get some coffee into you."
"Coffee?"
"You obviously don't remember the charcoal and mustard water I gave you," he muttered.
"You?" I was surprised that he would do that for me.
"You were convulsing, the first thing I thought was that you had been poisoned by the strychnine."
"Luckily you were right," I replied, reaching out with my right hand for my bed to pull myself up to my feet--I'd forgotten what had gotten me into this mess originally.
"Here, let me help you," Holmes offered.
I sighed, but I let him help me out, since it would be much harder for me if I took care of things on my own.
He left me drinking a cup of coffee to clean and change into clean clothes himself. By the time he returned, I was staring moodily into my second cup of coffee.
"Watson, I was reading some of your medical texts last night, and--"
"I don't want any more of your help, Holmes," I interrupted him, not caring that such behavior was rude and out of character for me. "I've put you thru too much already as it is."
"Watson, I've put you thru worse, and probably will continue to do so until the last," Holmes insisted, clearly unwilling to allow me to order him away from me.
I snorted as I realized that he'd done the same thing to me several times in the past.
"But you are not a doctor, Holmes. You can't--" I began, but Holmes interrupted me--I idly wondered if he was being childish and interrupting me because I had just interrupted him moments earlier.
"I may not be a doctor, Watson, but I have lived with one long enough to have picked up a few things."
"Including his books," I muttered softly, trying hard not to laugh at the innocent look Holmes gave me at my words.
"Including his books," he agreed.
We sat in silence for a while, before I finally broke it.
"Well, Holmes, what did you find out?" I demanded, unable to wait any longer to hear what he had to say.
"I read about massaging the paralyzed muscles," he began, clearly uncomfortable with what he was suggesting.
"It would help," I remarked. "Anything else?"
"An electrical shock, but I think that's a bit drastic in your case."
"Thank you, Doctor Holmes."