A Matter of Conscience, 3/?
Title: A Matter of Conscience, 3/?
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes, with appearances by Lestrade and Mary
Summary: When an investigation goes awry, Watson is forced to consider the consequences of his absence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Upon Lestrade’s return, it was quickly decided that I should take Holmes back to my residence, owing to the close proximity of my medical supplies and the existence of an extra bedroom; since I had removed all of my furniture and belongings from Baker Street, it was no longer well-equipped for medical emergencies.
The carriage ride was torturous; there wasn’t room for Holmes to lie down properly, so we had positioned him half-sitting on the narrow bench, leaning back against me for support. He drifted in and out of consciousness, only marginally aware of his surroundings, but he was clearly in agony as we rattled through the streets. Each bump in the road elicited a nearly inaudible groan, and he shifted restlessly in my arms despite my attempts to keep him still.
Lestrade, sitting across from us on the opposite bench, looked on wordlessly. His usual exasperation with my friend was absent, and I found that, under the circumstances, I was unexpectedly grateful for his presence.
At last, to my relief, we arrived at our destination. Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in shock as the inspector and I appeared in the foyer with Holmes’ unconscious form. Breathlessly, I instructed her to gather the supplies that I would need, and she hurried to do as I asked. With some difficulty, we made our way to the spare room and settled Holmes on the bed.
He was, if possible, even paler than he had appeared in the alley, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. It appeared that the ordeal of being lifted and transported had depleted the last of his strength; he did not stir as I removed his boots and socks, then set about stripping off the outer layers of his wet clothing. Lestrade, after some initial hesitation, provided what assistance he could. I was appreciative of his help, but once my friend lay on the coverlet in only his shirtsleeves and trousers, I hesitated.
“I’ll see to it from here, Lestrade,” I said, turning to face him. He nodded his understanding; medical care was my purview, and I preferred to tend to my friend without an audience present. For his part, although the inspector was an ally, of sorts, he was undoubtedly not eager to spend his afternoon playing nursemaid to Sherlock Holmes.
He waved off my thanks as he turned to leave. “I’ll need to question him, when he’s up to it,” he told me apologetically. “We could use any information he can give us about our thieves.” He paused in the doorway to cast a final anxious look at Holmes, lying pale and still on the bed, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
As his footsteps receded, I turned my attention back to my unconscious patient. There was no evidence of blood on his shirt, but his reaction to my earlier attempt to examine him suggested that something was very wrong. Steeling myself for what I might find, I undid the row of buttons and moved the fabric aside to expose his upper body. The clinical detachment I was striving for faltered as I took in the extensive bruising across his abdomen and rib cage; small wonder that he had flinched away from my touch in the alley.
A careful examination of the damaged areas revealed no evidence of internal bleeding, for which I was profoundly grateful. However, it came as no surprise when my probing fingertips encountered several fractured ribs. I winced in sympathy; I could bandage his chest to provide some support, but even so, he would not be able to move or breathe without pain for several weeks. Still, it could be much worse, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that so far I had found nothing life-threatening.
After determining that there was no obvious damage to his shoulders or collarbone, I set about removing his shirt completely. With great care, I maneuvered his injured right arm free of its sleeve. There was bruising evident here as well, just above the wrist, and I swore softly as I palpated the area. The radius and ulna were both fractured, judging from the unnatural instability beneath my fingers, and there was no telling what harm might have been done to the surrounding soft tissues. If there was nerve damage, he might never use his hand properly again. My own hands trembled as I gently replaced his arm on the bed, struggling to stifle an overpowering sense of guilt.
My self-recrimination was interrupted as Mary bustled into the room with the supplies I had asked for. She looked at Holmes, concern evident on her kind face. “How is he, John?”
I glanced up from where I sat on the edge of the bed, making an effort to smile reassuringly. “He just needs rest, darling, not to worry.” My gaze returned, unbidden, to my injured friend, and I lowered my voice. “He’ll be all right.”
She appeared unconvinced, as her eyes took in the bruising on his arm and upper body, the blood in his hair, and his general appearance. Nevertheless, she did not question my pronouncement. Placing her bundle of blankets and medical supplies on a chair beside the bed, she pushed up her sleeves determinedly. “What can I do?”
I looked at her in some surprise, before smiling gratefully. Under my direction, she helped to hold Holmes in a sitting position as I carefully wound a bandage around his ribcage, then slipped a clean nightshirt over his head. As we settled him back onto the bed, I noted with some relief that he was already breathing more easily.
That task accomplished, Mary worked at starting a fire in the fireplace, as I turned my attention to the head injury. Gently, I cleaned away the blood with a wet cloth, to get a better look at the wound underneath. The laceration was deep, requiring a few sutures, but his pupils were equal and reactive to light. Although it would be impossible to know for certain until he awoke, it seemed likely that the head trauma was not serious.
Finally, after splinting his arm and binding it securely across his chest, I tugged off his trousers and settled him beneath the sheets and coverlet, piling on the extra blankets Mary had brought. The fire now crackling in the fireplace was quickly warming the little room, but my friend’s face was still terribly pale.
Outside the window, the sun had begun to set, filling the room with a soft glow as I sank wearily into the chair beside the bed. It was difficult to imagine that, just a few short hours ago, I had been preparing to sit down to afternoon tea with my wife, blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. Thank Heaven for Lestrade, I thought with a touch of irony. He may have saved Holmes’ life.
I studied my friend’s face in the fading light. With the blood cleaned away, and the neat row of sutures hidden in the hairline, I could almost pretend that he was sleeping. Leaning forward, I rested a hand on his arm beneath the blankets, careful to avoid his injuries. “I’m sorry, old chap,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “I’m so very sorry.” Not unexpectedly, I received no reply.
It was sometime later that I was awakened, still propped upright in my chair, by a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Mary standing over me, her eyes filled with sympathy. “John,” she said softly, “Why don’t you go on to bed? You won’t do him any good if you collapse from exhaustion before he wakes up.”
I shook my head, tired but determined. “He can’t be left alone.”
She smiled, resting a hand lightly on the back of my neck. “Then I will sit with him until morning. Go on, John-I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
Reluctantly, I acquiesced; I couldn’t expect to function as a doctor if I could barely stay awake. As I stood, Mary pulled me into an embrace. “I know you feel guilty, John, but you mustn’t torture yourself,” she whispered. “You didn’t do this.”
“No,” I agreed bitterly as I pulled away. “I was across town when it happened, which is no better.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and left the room. Pausing only to remove my boots, I stretched out across our bed in the room I shared with Mary and closed my eyes. As exhausted as I was, sleep came quickly.
I dreamed of cold rain, and wet cobblestones, and silence.
Chapter 4
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes, with appearances by Lestrade and Mary
Summary: When an investigation goes awry, Watson is forced to consider the consequences of his absence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Upon Lestrade’s return, it was quickly decided that I should take Holmes back to my residence, owing to the close proximity of my medical supplies and the existence of an extra bedroom; since I had removed all of my furniture and belongings from Baker Street, it was no longer well-equipped for medical emergencies.
The carriage ride was torturous; there wasn’t room for Holmes to lie down properly, so we had positioned him half-sitting on the narrow bench, leaning back against me for support. He drifted in and out of consciousness, only marginally aware of his surroundings, but he was clearly in agony as we rattled through the streets. Each bump in the road elicited a nearly inaudible groan, and he shifted restlessly in my arms despite my attempts to keep him still.
Lestrade, sitting across from us on the opposite bench, looked on wordlessly. His usual exasperation with my friend was absent, and I found that, under the circumstances, I was unexpectedly grateful for his presence.
At last, to my relief, we arrived at our destination. Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in shock as the inspector and I appeared in the foyer with Holmes’ unconscious form. Breathlessly, I instructed her to gather the supplies that I would need, and she hurried to do as I asked. With some difficulty, we made our way to the spare room and settled Holmes on the bed.
He was, if possible, even paler than he had appeared in the alley, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. It appeared that the ordeal of being lifted and transported had depleted the last of his strength; he did not stir as I removed his boots and socks, then set about stripping off the outer layers of his wet clothing. Lestrade, after some initial hesitation, provided what assistance he could. I was appreciative of his help, but once my friend lay on the coverlet in only his shirtsleeves and trousers, I hesitated.
“I’ll see to it from here, Lestrade,” I said, turning to face him. He nodded his understanding; medical care was my purview, and I preferred to tend to my friend without an audience present. For his part, although the inspector was an ally, of sorts, he was undoubtedly not eager to spend his afternoon playing nursemaid to Sherlock Holmes.
He waved off my thanks as he turned to leave. “I’ll need to question him, when he’s up to it,” he told me apologetically. “We could use any information he can give us about our thieves.” He paused in the doorway to cast a final anxious look at Holmes, lying pale and still on the bed, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
As his footsteps receded, I turned my attention back to my unconscious patient. There was no evidence of blood on his shirt, but his reaction to my earlier attempt to examine him suggested that something was very wrong. Steeling myself for what I might find, I undid the row of buttons and moved the fabric aside to expose his upper body. The clinical detachment I was striving for faltered as I took in the extensive bruising across his abdomen and rib cage; small wonder that he had flinched away from my touch in the alley.
A careful examination of the damaged areas revealed no evidence of internal bleeding, for which I was profoundly grateful. However, it came as no surprise when my probing fingertips encountered several fractured ribs. I winced in sympathy; I could bandage his chest to provide some support, but even so, he would not be able to move or breathe without pain for several weeks. Still, it could be much worse, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that so far I had found nothing life-threatening.
After determining that there was no obvious damage to his shoulders or collarbone, I set about removing his shirt completely. With great care, I maneuvered his injured right arm free of its sleeve. There was bruising evident here as well, just above the wrist, and I swore softly as I palpated the area. The radius and ulna were both fractured, judging from the unnatural instability beneath my fingers, and there was no telling what harm might have been done to the surrounding soft tissues. If there was nerve damage, he might never use his hand properly again. My own hands trembled as I gently replaced his arm on the bed, struggling to stifle an overpowering sense of guilt.
My self-recrimination was interrupted as Mary bustled into the room with the supplies I had asked for. She looked at Holmes, concern evident on her kind face. “How is he, John?”
I glanced up from where I sat on the edge of the bed, making an effort to smile reassuringly. “He just needs rest, darling, not to worry.” My gaze returned, unbidden, to my injured friend, and I lowered my voice. “He’ll be all right.”
She appeared unconvinced, as her eyes took in the bruising on his arm and upper body, the blood in his hair, and his general appearance. Nevertheless, she did not question my pronouncement. Placing her bundle of blankets and medical supplies on a chair beside the bed, she pushed up her sleeves determinedly. “What can I do?”
I looked at her in some surprise, before smiling gratefully. Under my direction, she helped to hold Holmes in a sitting position as I carefully wound a bandage around his ribcage, then slipped a clean nightshirt over his head. As we settled him back onto the bed, I noted with some relief that he was already breathing more easily.
That task accomplished, Mary worked at starting a fire in the fireplace, as I turned my attention to the head injury. Gently, I cleaned away the blood with a wet cloth, to get a better look at the wound underneath. The laceration was deep, requiring a few sutures, but his pupils were equal and reactive to light. Although it would be impossible to know for certain until he awoke, it seemed likely that the head trauma was not serious.
Finally, after splinting his arm and binding it securely across his chest, I tugged off his trousers and settled him beneath the sheets and coverlet, piling on the extra blankets Mary had brought. The fire now crackling in the fireplace was quickly warming the little room, but my friend’s face was still terribly pale.
Outside the window, the sun had begun to set, filling the room with a soft glow as I sank wearily into the chair beside the bed. It was difficult to imagine that, just a few short hours ago, I had been preparing to sit down to afternoon tea with my wife, blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. Thank Heaven for Lestrade, I thought with a touch of irony. He may have saved Holmes’ life.
I studied my friend’s face in the fading light. With the blood cleaned away, and the neat row of sutures hidden in the hairline, I could almost pretend that he was sleeping. Leaning forward, I rested a hand on his arm beneath the blankets, careful to avoid his injuries. “I’m sorry, old chap,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “I’m so very sorry.” Not unexpectedly, I received no reply.
It was sometime later that I was awakened, still propped upright in my chair, by a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Mary standing over me, her eyes filled with sympathy. “John,” she said softly, “Why don’t you go on to bed? You won’t do him any good if you collapse from exhaustion before he wakes up.”
I shook my head, tired but determined. “He can’t be left alone.”
She smiled, resting a hand lightly on the back of my neck. “Then I will sit with him until morning. Go on, John-I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
Reluctantly, I acquiesced; I couldn’t expect to function as a doctor if I could barely stay awake. As I stood, Mary pulled me into an embrace. “I know you feel guilty, John, but you mustn’t torture yourself,” she whispered. “You didn’t do this.”
“No,” I agreed bitterly as I pulled away. “I was across town when it happened, which is no better.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and left the room. Pausing only to remove my boots, I stretched out across our bed in the room I shared with Mary and closed my eyes. As exhausted as I was, sleep came quickly.
I dreamed of cold rain, and wet cobblestones, and silence.
Chapter 4