A Matter of Conscience, 5/?
Title: A Matter of Conscience, 5/?
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.
Exhausted by our conversation, Holmes slept until well after midday. He awoke feeling considerably stronger, but after a certain amount of badgering, he allowed me at last to examine him again, staring at the ceiling with an air of aggrieved tolerance as I carefully inspected my handiwork. His ribs were still exceedingly sore, as they would be for some time yet, but the tight wrapping I had placed around his chest was doing its job; he was able to breathe, at least, without undue difficulty. And although he admitted to a slight headache and some lingering light sensitivity, the head wound seemed to be healing nicely as well.
His injured right arm was another matter-apart from the obvious fracture, I was still uncertain about what other damage might have been done. Now that he was awake and alert, the time had come to find out, and I removed the outer layers of bandage material with some trepidation. I prodded gently at each of his fingertips, asking him to open and close his hand as I watched intently.
At long last, I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding, relieved beyond words to discover that his fingers retained their normal sensitivity and range of movement. I had not allowed myself to dwell on the possible implications of nerve damage to his hand, but now that the danger was past, I said a silent prayer of thanks that my friend would still be able to play his violin and perform his delicate chemistry experiments, among a thousand other things that were vital to his well-being.
Holmes had been watching me closely as I examined his arm, no doubt inferring from the tension in my shoulders and the intensity of my focus that something very important was at stake. He did not ask what I was looking for, but I suspected that he knew, as he often seemed to know things without any explanation needed. As I finished my examination, his eyes met mine, seeking confirmation that my unspoken fear had been avoided. At my nod of reassurance, he relaxed into the pillows behind him, his eyes slipping closed for a moment in silent thanks.
And at last, for the first time since I had dropped to my knees beside him in the alley, I allowed myself to relax as well. Although it was still painful to think that I had not been there when he needed me, it seemed that at least he would suffer no lasting harm because of it. “It’s fine, Holmes,” I said softly, as much for my own benefit as for his. “It’s all going to be fine.”
****************
Although I was pleased to see my friend’s condition improving, it came as no surprise that his patience for bed rest was wearing thin as his strength returned. By mid-afternoon, he was bored and restless, and I agreed at last to help him dress and move into the sitting room, provided that he was willing to eat something first. Thankfully, the nausea he had experienced the day before seemed to have passed, and he managed some tea and toast without any apparent discomfort.
Getting him dressed proved to be a matter of some difficulty, given that his movements were still severely limited by the pain in his ribs. Between the two of us, we maneuvered him into a clean shirt and trousers, with his arm supported in a makeshift sling, and he managed to shuffle gingerly into the sitting room under his own power. He collapsed on the settee with an air of quiet relief, and I smiled in understanding. Although he would continue to need a great deal of assistance until his injuries had begun to heal, it was much more comfortable to be a houseguest, lounging in the sitting room, than a bedridden patient.
I had just settled myself into the adjacent armchair when a distant knock at the front door announced the presence of a visitor. A familiar voice exchanged pleasantries with Mary in the hallway, and moments later, Inspector Lestrade peered in through the half-open sitting room door. He nodded politely at me as he stepped into the room, but his eyes widened as he noticed Holmes, reclining casually on the settee with a fair approximation of his usual grace.
“Mr. Holmes!” he cried, surprise evident in his voice. “By God, you gave us a scare. I wasn’t expecting to see you up and around so soon, I can tell you.” He sounded genuinely pleased, and once again, I felt a reluctant surge of affection for the inspector. It was true that he and Holmes were in a nearly constant state of exasperation with each other whenever we worked with the Yard. But despite that, I knew that he had a great deal of respect, and a certain amount of fondness, for my eccentric friend. Holmes must have had similar thoughts, as the merest hint of a smile flitted across his features at Lestrade’s greeting. But it was gone in an instant, as he cleared his throat impatiently and waved our visitor toward the other armchair.
“Well, Lestrade,” he drawled, “I trust that you brought us some news about the case? If you’ve just happened by to inquire about my health, I shall be very disappointed.”
“Indeed I did,” the inspector replied evenly, refusing to rise to the bait, “but you might want to have a look at this first.” He tossed a newspaper onto the table, crossing the room to seat himself in the chair Holmes had indicated. Even as I reached for it, I could see the cause of Lestrade’s consternation; blazoned across the front page was the dramatic headline: SHERLOCK HOLMES INJURED IN BRUTAL ATTACK.
“Lovely,” I sighed, unfolding the paper for a better look. Holmes watched silently from his position on the settee, his expression unreadable.
“We tried to keep it quiet,” Lestrade explained, “but we had a team at that building yesterday, going over everything.” He shrugged apologetically. “As much as we wish it didn’t, that sort of thing attracts attention-the press got wind of it somehow.”
“Well,” I remarked, scanning the article, “it’s mostly speculation, of course; they don’t seem to have any idea what you were doing there.” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck me. “But if your jewelry thieves didn’t know who it was that they attacked-“
“They certainly do now,” Holmes finished for me. I put the newspaper aside and stared at him, struggling to stifle a growing sense of disquiet.
Lestrade shifted uneasily in his chair. “Right, well… that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He hesitated, glancing uncomfortably at me, before addressing Holmes again. With characteristic directness, he drove to the heart of the matter. “Do you think your attacker meant to kill you?”
Holmes shook his head thoughtfully, considering the question as he would any other puzzle. “No. There was nothing to stop him; if he had meant to kill me, he would have.” I winced at that, but he did not seem particularly distressed at the idea, continuing his train of thought in the same detached, contemplative manner. “I’m certain he didn’t recognize me. It was quite dark, as I recall… he must have taken me for a vagrant, snooping around the building, which wouldn’t be unusual in that part of town. Of course,” he added pensively, gesturing at the newspaper, “now that he is aware of my identity-and presumably, the purpose of my visit-he, or his employers, may regret that decision.”
His words hung ominously in the air, and Lestrade nodded, as though his suspicions about the situation had been confirmed. “Watch yourself, Mr. Holmes,” he said grimly. “These people are a nasty sort.”
“I’m aware,” Holmes replied dryly. “But come now, Lestrade, bring us up to speed. Did your men find anything of interest in the building?”
The inspector shook his head seriously. “Not much, I’m afraid. They must have cleared everything out before we arrived.”
Holmes sighed, tilting his head back against the cushions. “I thought as much,” he murmured, his voice low. “It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t able to apprehend my assailant,” he added, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I daresay he could have provided some very useful information.”
“Well,” Lestrade said heavily, rising from his chair, “if anything else happens, you’ll be the first to know.” He tipped his hat to both of us, turning to leave. “In the meantime,” he added, glancing back at Holmes, “if you’d take a look at our latest crime scene when you’re feeling up to it, I’d be much obliged.”
I shot the inspector a warning look, but it was too late-Holmes had lifted his head at once, instantly alert. “You have another crime scene?” With an effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. “For Heaven’s sake, Lestrade, why didn’t you say so?”
“Mr. Holmes,” began Lestrade, glancing apologetically at me, “believe me, it can wait. It happened on Sunday morning, but the family’s gone to the countryside for a few weeks, so nothing’s been disturbed. My men are keeping an eye on things-another day or two won’t make any difference.”
Holmes gave a great, dramatic sigh, as though Lestrade were missing some thoroughly obvious point. “Perhaps not to you; for a man of my talents, it makes a great deal of difference indeed. It is impossible to guess what details may have already been altered with the passage of time.” Even as he spoke, his eyes were casting about for his coat and boots.
“Holmes,” I said firmly, inserting myself into the conversation in an effort to make him see reason. He looked at me in some surprise, as though he had momentarily forgotten I was there. “Listen to me. You are in no condition to go anywhere.”
He scoffed dismissively, waving away my concerns without a second thought. “I believe, Watson, that I am quite well enough for a short cab ride and a brief visit to the home in question.” As Lestrade was still standing nearby, I refrained from pointing out that, only moments earlier, he had barely managed to walk as far as the sitting room without help.
At any rate, I knew that I was fighting a losing battle; any reasonable appeal to his health would be utterly lost on him, now that his attention was fixed on the case. As always, I had only two choices: I could come along to pick up the pieces, or simply get out of the way. I sighed inwardly as I rose from my chair, realizing that there was nothing else for it. “Let me get my coat.”
As Holmes and Lestrade both glanced at me in surprise, I attempted to salvage something of my dignity. “As it happens, I have no patient appointments scheduled until five o’clock,” I explained, in what I hoped was a reasonable tone. “Of course, it wouldn’t be in any official capacity, but perhaps I can be of some help in the meantime.” I shrugged, elaborately casual, as though my interest in accompanying them was a matter of courtesy, and had nothing to do with the fact that Holmes looked as though he might topple over at any second.
I watched my friend’s face as he realized that I was offering to participate in the investigation, and for an instant, he looked so innocently delighted that I nearly forgot to be aggravated with him. But the fleeting expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he raised an inquiring eyebrow at the inspector. “I assume you have no objections, Lestrade? An extra pair of eyes could be very useful.”
“None whatsoever,” he responded affably. “Your help is always welcome, Doctor.” He glanced knowingly at me; clearly, my attempt at feigning casual interest in the case was fooling no one.
That settled, Holmes cleared his throat impatiently, clearly anxious for us to be on our way. Although I had to help him on with his boots, he waved away my offer of assistance as he pushed himself off the settee. He winced briefly as he straightened, but it seemed that the pain barely registered; his eyes were alight with the thrill of a new puzzle, and he set off determinedly, if somewhat unsteadily, for the door as Lestrade and I trailed behind. As always, I thought ruefully.
As we left the house and moved toward the waiting carriage, I felt a vague sense of unease about the whole affair. Regardless of his fragile health, there would be no dissuading Holmes from pursuing the case, but I hoped that he wouldn’t get more than he bargained for. If these people were truly as dangerous as they seemed, we would have to tread carefully indeed.
Chapter 6
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.
Exhausted by our conversation, Holmes slept until well after midday. He awoke feeling considerably stronger, but after a certain amount of badgering, he allowed me at last to examine him again, staring at the ceiling with an air of aggrieved tolerance as I carefully inspected my handiwork. His ribs were still exceedingly sore, as they would be for some time yet, but the tight wrapping I had placed around his chest was doing its job; he was able to breathe, at least, without undue difficulty. And although he admitted to a slight headache and some lingering light sensitivity, the head wound seemed to be healing nicely as well.
His injured right arm was another matter-apart from the obvious fracture, I was still uncertain about what other damage might have been done. Now that he was awake and alert, the time had come to find out, and I removed the outer layers of bandage material with some trepidation. I prodded gently at each of his fingertips, asking him to open and close his hand as I watched intently.
At long last, I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding, relieved beyond words to discover that his fingers retained their normal sensitivity and range of movement. I had not allowed myself to dwell on the possible implications of nerve damage to his hand, but now that the danger was past, I said a silent prayer of thanks that my friend would still be able to play his violin and perform his delicate chemistry experiments, among a thousand other things that were vital to his well-being.
Holmes had been watching me closely as I examined his arm, no doubt inferring from the tension in my shoulders and the intensity of my focus that something very important was at stake. He did not ask what I was looking for, but I suspected that he knew, as he often seemed to know things without any explanation needed. As I finished my examination, his eyes met mine, seeking confirmation that my unspoken fear had been avoided. At my nod of reassurance, he relaxed into the pillows behind him, his eyes slipping closed for a moment in silent thanks.
And at last, for the first time since I had dropped to my knees beside him in the alley, I allowed myself to relax as well. Although it was still painful to think that I had not been there when he needed me, it seemed that at least he would suffer no lasting harm because of it. “It’s fine, Holmes,” I said softly, as much for my own benefit as for his. “It’s all going to be fine.”
****************
Although I was pleased to see my friend’s condition improving, it came as no surprise that his patience for bed rest was wearing thin as his strength returned. By mid-afternoon, he was bored and restless, and I agreed at last to help him dress and move into the sitting room, provided that he was willing to eat something first. Thankfully, the nausea he had experienced the day before seemed to have passed, and he managed some tea and toast without any apparent discomfort.
Getting him dressed proved to be a matter of some difficulty, given that his movements were still severely limited by the pain in his ribs. Between the two of us, we maneuvered him into a clean shirt and trousers, with his arm supported in a makeshift sling, and he managed to shuffle gingerly into the sitting room under his own power. He collapsed on the settee with an air of quiet relief, and I smiled in understanding. Although he would continue to need a great deal of assistance until his injuries had begun to heal, it was much more comfortable to be a houseguest, lounging in the sitting room, than a bedridden patient.
I had just settled myself into the adjacent armchair when a distant knock at the front door announced the presence of a visitor. A familiar voice exchanged pleasantries with Mary in the hallway, and moments later, Inspector Lestrade peered in through the half-open sitting room door. He nodded politely at me as he stepped into the room, but his eyes widened as he noticed Holmes, reclining casually on the settee with a fair approximation of his usual grace.
“Mr. Holmes!” he cried, surprise evident in his voice. “By God, you gave us a scare. I wasn’t expecting to see you up and around so soon, I can tell you.” He sounded genuinely pleased, and once again, I felt a reluctant surge of affection for the inspector. It was true that he and Holmes were in a nearly constant state of exasperation with each other whenever we worked with the Yard. But despite that, I knew that he had a great deal of respect, and a certain amount of fondness, for my eccentric friend. Holmes must have had similar thoughts, as the merest hint of a smile flitted across his features at Lestrade’s greeting. But it was gone in an instant, as he cleared his throat impatiently and waved our visitor toward the other armchair.
“Well, Lestrade,” he drawled, “I trust that you brought us some news about the case? If you’ve just happened by to inquire about my health, I shall be very disappointed.”
“Indeed I did,” the inspector replied evenly, refusing to rise to the bait, “but you might want to have a look at this first.” He tossed a newspaper onto the table, crossing the room to seat himself in the chair Holmes had indicated. Even as I reached for it, I could see the cause of Lestrade’s consternation; blazoned across the front page was the dramatic headline: SHERLOCK HOLMES INJURED IN BRUTAL ATTACK.
“Lovely,” I sighed, unfolding the paper for a better look. Holmes watched silently from his position on the settee, his expression unreadable.
“We tried to keep it quiet,” Lestrade explained, “but we had a team at that building yesterday, going over everything.” He shrugged apologetically. “As much as we wish it didn’t, that sort of thing attracts attention-the press got wind of it somehow.”
“Well,” I remarked, scanning the article, “it’s mostly speculation, of course; they don’t seem to have any idea what you were doing there.” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck me. “But if your jewelry thieves didn’t know who it was that they attacked-“
“They certainly do now,” Holmes finished for me. I put the newspaper aside and stared at him, struggling to stifle a growing sense of disquiet.
Lestrade shifted uneasily in his chair. “Right, well… that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He hesitated, glancing uncomfortably at me, before addressing Holmes again. With characteristic directness, he drove to the heart of the matter. “Do you think your attacker meant to kill you?”
Holmes shook his head thoughtfully, considering the question as he would any other puzzle. “No. There was nothing to stop him; if he had meant to kill me, he would have.” I winced at that, but he did not seem particularly distressed at the idea, continuing his train of thought in the same detached, contemplative manner. “I’m certain he didn’t recognize me. It was quite dark, as I recall… he must have taken me for a vagrant, snooping around the building, which wouldn’t be unusual in that part of town. Of course,” he added pensively, gesturing at the newspaper, “now that he is aware of my identity-and presumably, the purpose of my visit-he, or his employers, may regret that decision.”
His words hung ominously in the air, and Lestrade nodded, as though his suspicions about the situation had been confirmed. “Watch yourself, Mr. Holmes,” he said grimly. “These people are a nasty sort.”
“I’m aware,” Holmes replied dryly. “But come now, Lestrade, bring us up to speed. Did your men find anything of interest in the building?”
The inspector shook his head seriously. “Not much, I’m afraid. They must have cleared everything out before we arrived.”
Holmes sighed, tilting his head back against the cushions. “I thought as much,” he murmured, his voice low. “It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t able to apprehend my assailant,” he added, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I daresay he could have provided some very useful information.”
“Well,” Lestrade said heavily, rising from his chair, “if anything else happens, you’ll be the first to know.” He tipped his hat to both of us, turning to leave. “In the meantime,” he added, glancing back at Holmes, “if you’d take a look at our latest crime scene when you’re feeling up to it, I’d be much obliged.”
I shot the inspector a warning look, but it was too late-Holmes had lifted his head at once, instantly alert. “You have another crime scene?” With an effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. “For Heaven’s sake, Lestrade, why didn’t you say so?”
“Mr. Holmes,” began Lestrade, glancing apologetically at me, “believe me, it can wait. It happened on Sunday morning, but the family’s gone to the countryside for a few weeks, so nothing’s been disturbed. My men are keeping an eye on things-another day or two won’t make any difference.”
Holmes gave a great, dramatic sigh, as though Lestrade were missing some thoroughly obvious point. “Perhaps not to you; for a man of my talents, it makes a great deal of difference indeed. It is impossible to guess what details may have already been altered with the passage of time.” Even as he spoke, his eyes were casting about for his coat and boots.
“Holmes,” I said firmly, inserting myself into the conversation in an effort to make him see reason. He looked at me in some surprise, as though he had momentarily forgotten I was there. “Listen to me. You are in no condition to go anywhere.”
He scoffed dismissively, waving away my concerns without a second thought. “I believe, Watson, that I am quite well enough for a short cab ride and a brief visit to the home in question.” As Lestrade was still standing nearby, I refrained from pointing out that, only moments earlier, he had barely managed to walk as far as the sitting room without help.
At any rate, I knew that I was fighting a losing battle; any reasonable appeal to his health would be utterly lost on him, now that his attention was fixed on the case. As always, I had only two choices: I could come along to pick up the pieces, or simply get out of the way. I sighed inwardly as I rose from my chair, realizing that there was nothing else for it. “Let me get my coat.”
As Holmes and Lestrade both glanced at me in surprise, I attempted to salvage something of my dignity. “As it happens, I have no patient appointments scheduled until five o’clock,” I explained, in what I hoped was a reasonable tone. “Of course, it wouldn’t be in any official capacity, but perhaps I can be of some help in the meantime.” I shrugged, elaborately casual, as though my interest in accompanying them was a matter of courtesy, and had nothing to do with the fact that Holmes looked as though he might topple over at any second.
I watched my friend’s face as he realized that I was offering to participate in the investigation, and for an instant, he looked so innocently delighted that I nearly forgot to be aggravated with him. But the fleeting expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he raised an inquiring eyebrow at the inspector. “I assume you have no objections, Lestrade? An extra pair of eyes could be very useful.”
“None whatsoever,” he responded affably. “Your help is always welcome, Doctor.” He glanced knowingly at me; clearly, my attempt at feigning casual interest in the case was fooling no one.
That settled, Holmes cleared his throat impatiently, clearly anxious for us to be on our way. Although I had to help him on with his boots, he waved away my offer of assistance as he pushed himself off the settee. He winced briefly as he straightened, but it seemed that the pain barely registered; his eyes were alight with the thrill of a new puzzle, and he set off determinedly, if somewhat unsteadily, for the door as Lestrade and I trailed behind. As always, I thought ruefully.
As we left the house and moved toward the waiting carriage, I felt a vague sense of unease about the whole affair. Regardless of his fragile health, there would be no dissuading Holmes from pursuing the case, but I hoped that he wouldn’t get more than he bargained for. If these people were truly as dangerous as they seemed, we would have to tread carefully indeed.
Chapter 6