Fic for venturous1: The Small Knife
May. 3rd, 2014 05:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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acdholmesfestTitle: The small knife
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venturous1
Author:rojo3131
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, pre-slash
Warnings: Injury to character, blood, but nothing gruesome. A touch of angst and H/C
Summary: When Holmes was away, he made a vow. Now he intends to honour it.
Disclaimer – Always a pleasure to say that no money is being made out of this.
The sound of a thousand small drops suddenly hitting the windows of the filthy drinking den made him turn to look outside and sighed tiredly, dearly hoping that the wretched weather would clear up before he had to venture outside without an umbrella. Draining the last of the amber liquid from his glass, and readjusting on his seat, he waited for it to be refilled and tried to focus on the task at hand, which in his humble opinion, was quite unpleasant and tedious.
"I know it sounds dull, old friend, but it’s quite necessary. Though I doubt it would be dangerous,” Holmes had said, knowing full well that he would not refuse to help him, but he hated to be on the safe path of the scheme.
Holmes had devised a plan that required them to be apart; the consultant detective at the opera house, shadowing Clint, the dangerous smuggler they had been shadowing for weeks. The Detective would have to get as much information as he could and the Doctor at the “Barley”, a public house where Clint’s smugglers usually met up, would have to keep his ear ready to whatever news he could acquire.
His glass refilled by a bad tempered but diligent pub owner, he couldn’t help but chuckled at the memory of what took place on 221B, before they parted ways.
“This man is incredibly vicious my dear fellow, and so are the vermin working for him, so I need you to be as attentive as you can to anything that seems out of the ordinary,” Holmes had said, aligning his cravat in front of the mirror. Watson mumbled a response, occupied on how best to wear the array of clothing that was supposed to be a disguise; a weary but still presentable carpenter, enough to be allowed entrance to the public house he was going. Suddenly the taller man turned to face him; grey eyes filled with seriousness reserved for delicate cases and grabbed both his biceps, to have his full attention.
“Watson, listen to me. This man has threatened us already and he has no rules to abide by, like Moriarty might have had at some point. He is not educated, he is not honorable. He does not play a clean game. He is ruthless and cunning and cares for nothing else but money and gold, so please, if you, by any chance, find yourself near to be discovered by his people, I beg of you that you flee immediately and give warning to Wiggins, who will be keeping an eye out for you, should you need any assistance.” – Followed by this little speech, he squeezed his friend’s arms for emphasis, bored his eyes into Watson’s for a moment, as if considering something. The he shook his head minutely and turned back to fixing the cravat.
The Doctor dropped his gaze and didn’t say a word, of course. They both knew that Holmes’ interaction with people, and especially with him, had changed. The ex-soldier’s supposes that the time away from home and friends, as few as Holmes might have had, made him anxious to lose it all again. He did not shouted at Lestrade when the inspector did not secure the scene of the crime at a particular gruesome case, thought he still pointed out how stupid some reasoning was. He did not yell at Mrs. Hudson, when she took the liberty of taking out the plate where he had left some odorous experiment, but he still took her favorite set of teacups to prove some point to Lestrade. Needless to say that the teacups were beyond repair afterwards
He watches Watson much more often now, the doctor has noticed, but his gaze feels different now; no longer as if he’s an insect under the microscope. He still makes fun of his penchant to write their cases, of course, but Watson knows the detective’s dependence on the poisonous substances he injects himself with are occasional now, rather than a daily happening.
Once, after a particularly trying day at the hospital, he made a direct line to his chair in front of the fire and convinced that the detective was at the Yard, he settled to wait for him, not having any desire to eat on his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knew he was awake, panting.
“Only a nightmare, nothing more. Go back to sleep, John.” A deep, secure voice, promptly reassured him and he did as he was told, knowing his friend was there. A moment later, he could have sworn feeling a hand carding through his hair, calming him down.
To be perfectly honest, Watson couldn’t decide what to think on this new side of his friend. Distantly, he could feel an old flicker of hope rekindling, no matter how much he tried to reason it away.
Times like those, Watson couldn’t help but wonder…but no. His smile dropped off soon. No amount of fanciful wishing and waiting would get him that. Holmes was not like that, he was sure of it.
Reichenbach comes to his mind whenever he wanders about these topics; he didn’t even know until that terrible day he lost Sherlock Holmes at the claws of the Falls. After that, when he finally reached London, wrecked and grieving, his Mary forced him back to his feet, and so he lived in what it was one of the most calm and bittersweet-amazing periods of his life, had a small but incredible family to live and care for and his life was idyllic for two months, until that terrible influenza season that took it all from him; his lovely Mary and the beautiful Violet, her baby girl.
“8th of May” he muttered and made plans to be at the cemetery later, hopefully before the day had finished, to offer bundles of beautiful flowers to both white gravestones, yellow and red roses for Mary and daisies for her baby girl. Sometimes, he dreams of green eyes and auburn silky hair he longs for, to caress and listen to those soft baby noises she used to do so often, as if impatient to express herself. When he finally dares and reaches, she dissolves, like dandelions blown by the wind.
Stamping down the memory for a second, he brought his mind back on reality. Distractions are not allowed today, Holmes had said.
Shaking his head, in an effort to clear his head, he took a swig from the strong scotch and focused on the task at hand. He took another look at the place; gamblers on the right corner table, a birthday celebration of someone at his left. It was quite an effort not to go join the gambling table, but he had promised Holmes his best behavior and would definitely not fail.
The only new presence at the pub was an old man, right next to him at the counter, with a soft wool cap, cropped white beard and heavily relying on his walking stick, rudely shouted for the pub owner, for more wine. The old man caught the doctor looking at him sideways. For a minute, Watson could swear he saw him smirk but then the bearded man turned to him, glaring.
“What you lookin at?” – said he, in a gruff, violent tone, his body turning to face him directly.
“Nothing,” replied Watson patiently, in the gruffest voice he could manage. “Just leaving”
A moment after that, he decided to call it a night. Holmes should have finished his task by now and was probably waiting for him at Baker Street. Watson climbed off the stool to get his coat on.
A hand, too quick to naturally belong to the old man sitting next to him, shot out and drove a small dagger on his side, getting it out so quickly, that all Watson could do was gasp and catch himself on the countertop, a shout strangled in his throat at the searing pain.
The old man got closer; placing a callous hand on the back of his head to bring him closer to his mouth, making sure only the good doctor could hear him.
“Tell that nosy fella that if he interferes again, Mr. Clint will not be so merciful”- the now not-so-old man said, pulling his white faked beard off his face – “That is, of course, if you manage to survive. Either way, he’ll understand.” Instantly, the old man was gone.
Watson did not cry out, the pain so overwhelming and radiating as lightning that he could not form a word. His legs wobbled and tried to slide as carefully as possible to the dirty floor.
“Oi Oi gov! Get up! You can’t be that drunk now! Get up or get out!” yelled the man behind the counter, going around to deal with him; unconscious men were not welcome on the place.
“Please...call a doctor…” said Watson, moving as little as possible while turning to look at the owner of the place. He wished so very much that the dagger had missed hitting any important organ. His breathing was getting out of control, panic seeping in.
“Who? When did this…? The owner was stunned when he got a look at the wounds and the blood on his disguise.
“I don’t…” The good doctor had to refrain from yelling both from the pain and in an effort to calm down.
“Oh God! Billy! Good look for a cab or a doctor, now!”
“NO!”
The doctor turned his head to the door.
Being a row behind Mr. Clint, with nothing more than spectacles, a fake moustache –thankfully, the leader of the smuggler ring didn’t know how he looked like- and a mask of interest, Sherlock Holmes was sure he would get some information worth his time.
He was utterly wrong.
All the evening consisted on Mr. Clint and a woman he had invited, animatedly whispering to each other about some aspect or another of the horrid play, his assistants never reaching out to offer him updates on some theme of interest.
That was, until some twenty minutes short of the much awaited ending, he overheard something that congealed the blood on his veins.
“…blond fella back at the pub, gov”. – some well-dressed man muttered.
Holmes blood congealed. That was all he dreaded to hear and didn’t need to stay to guess the rest of the conversation; however he could not get up suddenly without attracting some attention.
“Give him a message. And if possible, leave him alive” – replied Clint softly, turning his attention to the stage again.
After some five minutes of deliberating with himself, he couldn’t take it anymore and exited the opera house and making sure no one was following him, he ran to the public house as quickly as he could managed, while the cold rain started to fall.
“NO!”
How on earth did he get here so quickly? The doctor was astounded – and quite relieved- at the sudden arrival of his best friend on the premises.
“Hol- Argh!” – the sole attempt at moving a bit had aggravated his side, but he had to lean and to see where the detective was and if the fiend had not touch laid a finger on his friend. The detective quickly reached him and crouched, taking the clean cloth the owner of the establishment was offering them to press into the wound.
“Are you alright?” Watson asked anxiously, and Holmes could not help but chuckled at the ironic question but refrained from answering. Instead, he took his friend’s hands off the wound, taking account of how much blood had been spilled already and quickly rearranged the clothing to apply precise pressure on the wound. The white piece of fabric quickly turned a dark red colour. Watson couldn’t help but growl.
“Shush, Ian, don’t try to talk too much, here, let me hold that, mate” – replied Holmes, in an almost perfect Scottish accent that Watson would have no hardship imitating. Holmes worried expression and usage of their aliases told him they were not safe. “Is a cab on its way here?” Holmes had asked to no one in particular. It was quite obvious that moving Watson more than strictly necessary was out of the question; the man was losing blood quickly.
“Yes, a doctor or a cab, Billy went out when you came in,”. The pub owner replied. A small number of viewers had gathered around the fallen man but didn’t seem to be doing much good. The owner quickly managed the situation, sending them all to their tables or out in the streets. Holmes appreciation for the man was growing by the second.
His attention turned to his friend then, just to find him sweating and trying to control his breathing, eyes tightly shut. Holmes gently laid his hand on the side of his face and Watson’s eyes opened again, locking into his own.
“Dear chap, talk to me, how bad is it?” Holmes whispered, when the pub owner went to see out the door if the lad was coming with the cab.
“I…don’t know. I think it might have damaged…the lung, that could account the difficulty in breathing but…but the knife was small… “ – He was starting to get restless, his breathing slightly fast.
“Alright my dear, don’t talk now, I can see you’re having trouble with your breathing. Calm down and stay awake and I promise you we’ll be home soon, you reading those dreadful novels you love and I, working on my larvae experiment. Doesn’t it sound splendid?” Holmes spoke in quite a reassuring tone that Watson couldn’t help but believe him and smile a little.
Finally, Billy proudly announced that he had a cab waiting at the door and the pub owner helped them into the carriage; the faster they went away, the faster he could go back to business.
“Now Ian, dear friend, I need you to help me…
Holmes turned to look at his injured Boswell, who was leaning against him heavily. Holmes had an arm around his shoulders, the other at his injured side, holding the makeshift bandage into place.
“Watson?”
No response. His dear doctor didn’t appear to be conscious, thought his breathing was quite shallow now.
“… dear chap? Stay with me, please. Calm down, I need to control your breathing, alright? Will you do that for me? – Holmes was talking now, which forced Watson to control himself and make an effort to stay alert, to focus on that baritone that reached him, but was quickly failing. “…and we are almost there Watson, just…” Watson’s mind wanted to say so many things to his friend, if this was indeed the last time he would be seeing him.
He tried to get himself under control and fought for some time, Holmes’ gaze and mouth reassuring and moving in a hypnotic way, calming him down.
“I- I can’t breathe…I’m sorry” – was all he managed to say before consciousness quickly slipped from his grasp.
“NO! Watson! John! Wake up, wake up please!”
What a miracle thing is the brain! - Thought the good doctor, before losing himself into darkness. He could even feel a soft touch on his brow, like a couple of cold lips had just left a delicate kiss on him. Just a hallucination, surely.
“We are here, gov.”
The first thing he noticed was the smell, unmistakable of a hospital and the light, piercing through his brain cruelly. Shutting his eyes against it was a marvelous idea.
The second was that there was a weight at his side of the bed, moving suddenly and jerkily; making an effort he open his eyes once more, he found his best friend at his side, having a nightmare.
Watson’s brow knitted and thinking no more of it, he lifted his hand and he put his hand on his friend’s hair. He knew it’d be compromising if anyone was to walk by, but he couldn’t just watch him suffer like that. Softly and slowly, he stroked his head, moving the black silky strand back.
The detective immediately stopped moving and woke up.
“How are you feeling, my chap?” – The detective asked, quickly running his hands thought his face.
“Like I was run over by a four-wheeler! But happy enough now that I can breathe properly, so I suppose the lung was not severely damaged” said Watson, animatedly.
“No, my dear chap, what made you pass out was the blood loss and the shock. You were right, the knife was too small to clip your lung at that angle,” explained Holmes, suddenly taking a deep breath and letting it go through his nose.
He made a vow to be the model of a decent man, if he ever returned to London and that was what he intended to do right now.
“Watson, I want to offer you an apology. I really should have…”-
“Stop Holmes. – Watson held out a hand briefly, pulling at his wound and hissing. Quickly he recovered and continued “…stop at once, because I know what you’re going to say and we both know it’s absurd to think you can predict and plan for every and any eventuality. You’re a genius my dear, but you’re not God. I chose to be here, by your side, on your cases, accepting what I knew from the start to be a great risk. So no, I don’t want your apology because I have no use for it. You have done me no wrong, dear chap; quite on the contrary, I believe I would have gone directly into the ground, had you not come back to me when you did. So thank you for giving me a reason to live once more.” After this little speech, Watson placed his hand on the detective’s arm, trying not to jostle his wound more than was necessary.
Holmes was speechless, truly beyond words. No one, in his 39 years of life, had said something like John H. Watson had just said to him. He closed his eyes and moved forward, inches away from his Boswell, watching those beautiful green eyes getting amazed by his proximity. He remained for a moment there, before placing a kiss on the forehead. Watson dropped his gaze and smiled sadly.
Holmes cleared his throat and recounted for his best friend what he saw and heard at the opera house, filing that sad smile for future examination.
Maybe he would never be what he wanted to be with his Boswell; perhaps he will never get to see Watson in the morning, or count the freckles across his back. Ask the story behind every single one of his doctor’s scars, for he knows not all are from the war. Maybe he will never achieve to say “John” in the tone of voice he wants to say, that had wanted to say it for years. But to be what Watson needed him to be for now, that was more than enough.
Recipient:
venturous1Author:
rojo3131Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, pre-slash
Warnings: Injury to character, blood, but nothing gruesome. A touch of angst and H/C
Summary: When Holmes was away, he made a vow. Now he intends to honour it.
Disclaimer – Always a pleasure to say that no money is being made out of this.
The sound of a thousand small drops suddenly hitting the windows of the filthy drinking den made him turn to look outside and sighed tiredly, dearly hoping that the wretched weather would clear up before he had to venture outside without an umbrella. Draining the last of the amber liquid from his glass, and readjusting on his seat, he waited for it to be refilled and tried to focus on the task at hand, which in his humble opinion, was quite unpleasant and tedious.
"I know it sounds dull, old friend, but it’s quite necessary. Though I doubt it would be dangerous,” Holmes had said, knowing full well that he would not refuse to help him, but he hated to be on the safe path of the scheme.
Holmes had devised a plan that required them to be apart; the consultant detective at the opera house, shadowing Clint, the dangerous smuggler they had been shadowing for weeks. The Detective would have to get as much information as he could and the Doctor at the “Barley”, a public house where Clint’s smugglers usually met up, would have to keep his ear ready to whatever news he could acquire.
His glass refilled by a bad tempered but diligent pub owner, he couldn’t help but chuckled at the memory of what took place on 221B, before they parted ways.
“This man is incredibly vicious my dear fellow, and so are the vermin working for him, so I need you to be as attentive as you can to anything that seems out of the ordinary,” Holmes had said, aligning his cravat in front of the mirror. Watson mumbled a response, occupied on how best to wear the array of clothing that was supposed to be a disguise; a weary but still presentable carpenter, enough to be allowed entrance to the public house he was going. Suddenly the taller man turned to face him; grey eyes filled with seriousness reserved for delicate cases and grabbed both his biceps, to have his full attention.
“Watson, listen to me. This man has threatened us already and he has no rules to abide by, like Moriarty might have had at some point. He is not educated, he is not honorable. He does not play a clean game. He is ruthless and cunning and cares for nothing else but money and gold, so please, if you, by any chance, find yourself near to be discovered by his people, I beg of you that you flee immediately and give warning to Wiggins, who will be keeping an eye out for you, should you need any assistance.” – Followed by this little speech, he squeezed his friend’s arms for emphasis, bored his eyes into Watson’s for a moment, as if considering something. The he shook his head minutely and turned back to fixing the cravat.
The Doctor dropped his gaze and didn’t say a word, of course. They both knew that Holmes’ interaction with people, and especially with him, had changed. The ex-soldier’s supposes that the time away from home and friends, as few as Holmes might have had, made him anxious to lose it all again. He did not shouted at Lestrade when the inspector did not secure the scene of the crime at a particular gruesome case, thought he still pointed out how stupid some reasoning was. He did not yell at Mrs. Hudson, when she took the liberty of taking out the plate where he had left some odorous experiment, but he still took her favorite set of teacups to prove some point to Lestrade. Needless to say that the teacups were beyond repair afterwards
He watches Watson much more often now, the doctor has noticed, but his gaze feels different now; no longer as if he’s an insect under the microscope. He still makes fun of his penchant to write their cases, of course, but Watson knows the detective’s dependence on the poisonous substances he injects himself with are occasional now, rather than a daily happening.
Once, after a particularly trying day at the hospital, he made a direct line to his chair in front of the fire and convinced that the detective was at the Yard, he settled to wait for him, not having any desire to eat on his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knew he was awake, panting.
“Only a nightmare, nothing more. Go back to sleep, John.” A deep, secure voice, promptly reassured him and he did as he was told, knowing his friend was there. A moment later, he could have sworn feeling a hand carding through his hair, calming him down.
To be perfectly honest, Watson couldn’t decide what to think on this new side of his friend. Distantly, he could feel an old flicker of hope rekindling, no matter how much he tried to reason it away.
Times like those, Watson couldn’t help but wonder…but no. His smile dropped off soon. No amount of fanciful wishing and waiting would get him that. Holmes was not like that, he was sure of it.
Reichenbach comes to his mind whenever he wanders about these topics; he didn’t even know until that terrible day he lost Sherlock Holmes at the claws of the Falls. After that, when he finally reached London, wrecked and grieving, his Mary forced him back to his feet, and so he lived in what it was one of the most calm and bittersweet-amazing periods of his life, had a small but incredible family to live and care for and his life was idyllic for two months, until that terrible influenza season that took it all from him; his lovely Mary and the beautiful Violet, her baby girl.
“8th of May” he muttered and made plans to be at the cemetery later, hopefully before the day had finished, to offer bundles of beautiful flowers to both white gravestones, yellow and red roses for Mary and daisies for her baby girl. Sometimes, he dreams of green eyes and auburn silky hair he longs for, to caress and listen to those soft baby noises she used to do so often, as if impatient to express herself. When he finally dares and reaches, she dissolves, like dandelions blown by the wind.
Stamping down the memory for a second, he brought his mind back on reality. Distractions are not allowed today, Holmes had said.
Shaking his head, in an effort to clear his head, he took a swig from the strong scotch and focused on the task at hand. He took another look at the place; gamblers on the right corner table, a birthday celebration of someone at his left. It was quite an effort not to go join the gambling table, but he had promised Holmes his best behavior and would definitely not fail.
The only new presence at the pub was an old man, right next to him at the counter, with a soft wool cap, cropped white beard and heavily relying on his walking stick, rudely shouted for the pub owner, for more wine. The old man caught the doctor looking at him sideways. For a minute, Watson could swear he saw him smirk but then the bearded man turned to him, glaring.
“What you lookin at?” – said he, in a gruff, violent tone, his body turning to face him directly.
“Nothing,” replied Watson patiently, in the gruffest voice he could manage. “Just leaving”
A moment after that, he decided to call it a night. Holmes should have finished his task by now and was probably waiting for him at Baker Street. Watson climbed off the stool to get his coat on.
A hand, too quick to naturally belong to the old man sitting next to him, shot out and drove a small dagger on his side, getting it out so quickly, that all Watson could do was gasp and catch himself on the countertop, a shout strangled in his throat at the searing pain.
The old man got closer; placing a callous hand on the back of his head to bring him closer to his mouth, making sure only the good doctor could hear him.
“Tell that nosy fella that if he interferes again, Mr. Clint will not be so merciful”- the now not-so-old man said, pulling his white faked beard off his face – “That is, of course, if you manage to survive. Either way, he’ll understand.” Instantly, the old man was gone.
Watson did not cry out, the pain so overwhelming and radiating as lightning that he could not form a word. His legs wobbled and tried to slide as carefully as possible to the dirty floor.
“Oi Oi gov! Get up! You can’t be that drunk now! Get up or get out!” yelled the man behind the counter, going around to deal with him; unconscious men were not welcome on the place.
“Please...call a doctor…” said Watson, moving as little as possible while turning to look at the owner of the place. He wished so very much that the dagger had missed hitting any important organ. His breathing was getting out of control, panic seeping in.
“Who? When did this…? The owner was stunned when he got a look at the wounds and the blood on his disguise.
“I don’t…” The good doctor had to refrain from yelling both from the pain and in an effort to calm down.
“Oh God! Billy! Good look for a cab or a doctor, now!”
“NO!”
The doctor turned his head to the door.
Being a row behind Mr. Clint, with nothing more than spectacles, a fake moustache –thankfully, the leader of the smuggler ring didn’t know how he looked like- and a mask of interest, Sherlock Holmes was sure he would get some information worth his time.
He was utterly wrong.
All the evening consisted on Mr. Clint and a woman he had invited, animatedly whispering to each other about some aspect or another of the horrid play, his assistants never reaching out to offer him updates on some theme of interest.
That was, until some twenty minutes short of the much awaited ending, he overheard something that congealed the blood on his veins.
“…blond fella back at the pub, gov”. – some well-dressed man muttered.
Holmes blood congealed. That was all he dreaded to hear and didn’t need to stay to guess the rest of the conversation; however he could not get up suddenly without attracting some attention.
“Give him a message. And if possible, leave him alive” – replied Clint softly, turning his attention to the stage again.
After some five minutes of deliberating with himself, he couldn’t take it anymore and exited the opera house and making sure no one was following him, he ran to the public house as quickly as he could managed, while the cold rain started to fall.
“NO!”
How on earth did he get here so quickly? The doctor was astounded – and quite relieved- at the sudden arrival of his best friend on the premises.
“Hol- Argh!” – the sole attempt at moving a bit had aggravated his side, but he had to lean and to see where the detective was and if the fiend had not touch laid a finger on his friend. The detective quickly reached him and crouched, taking the clean cloth the owner of the establishment was offering them to press into the wound.
“Are you alright?” Watson asked anxiously, and Holmes could not help but chuckled at the ironic question but refrained from answering. Instead, he took his friend’s hands off the wound, taking account of how much blood had been spilled already and quickly rearranged the clothing to apply precise pressure on the wound. The white piece of fabric quickly turned a dark red colour. Watson couldn’t help but growl.
“Shush, Ian, don’t try to talk too much, here, let me hold that, mate” – replied Holmes, in an almost perfect Scottish accent that Watson would have no hardship imitating. Holmes worried expression and usage of their aliases told him they were not safe. “Is a cab on its way here?” Holmes had asked to no one in particular. It was quite obvious that moving Watson more than strictly necessary was out of the question; the man was losing blood quickly.
“Yes, a doctor or a cab, Billy went out when you came in,”. The pub owner replied. A small number of viewers had gathered around the fallen man but didn’t seem to be doing much good. The owner quickly managed the situation, sending them all to their tables or out in the streets. Holmes appreciation for the man was growing by the second.
His attention turned to his friend then, just to find him sweating and trying to control his breathing, eyes tightly shut. Holmes gently laid his hand on the side of his face and Watson’s eyes opened again, locking into his own.
“Dear chap, talk to me, how bad is it?” Holmes whispered, when the pub owner went to see out the door if the lad was coming with the cab.
“I…don’t know. I think it might have damaged…the lung, that could account the difficulty in breathing but…but the knife was small… “ – He was starting to get restless, his breathing slightly fast.
“Alright my dear, don’t talk now, I can see you’re having trouble with your breathing. Calm down and stay awake and I promise you we’ll be home soon, you reading those dreadful novels you love and I, working on my larvae experiment. Doesn’t it sound splendid?” Holmes spoke in quite a reassuring tone that Watson couldn’t help but believe him and smile a little.
Finally, Billy proudly announced that he had a cab waiting at the door and the pub owner helped them into the carriage; the faster they went away, the faster he could go back to business.
“Now Ian, dear friend, I need you to help me…
Holmes turned to look at his injured Boswell, who was leaning against him heavily. Holmes had an arm around his shoulders, the other at his injured side, holding the makeshift bandage into place.
“Watson?”
No response. His dear doctor didn’t appear to be conscious, thought his breathing was quite shallow now.
“… dear chap? Stay with me, please. Calm down, I need to control your breathing, alright? Will you do that for me? – Holmes was talking now, which forced Watson to control himself and make an effort to stay alert, to focus on that baritone that reached him, but was quickly failing. “…and we are almost there Watson, just…” Watson’s mind wanted to say so many things to his friend, if this was indeed the last time he would be seeing him.
He tried to get himself under control and fought for some time, Holmes’ gaze and mouth reassuring and moving in a hypnotic way, calming him down.
“I- I can’t breathe…I’m sorry” – was all he managed to say before consciousness quickly slipped from his grasp.
“NO! Watson! John! Wake up, wake up please!”
What a miracle thing is the brain! - Thought the good doctor, before losing himself into darkness. He could even feel a soft touch on his brow, like a couple of cold lips had just left a delicate kiss on him. Just a hallucination, surely.
“We are here, gov.”
The first thing he noticed was the smell, unmistakable of a hospital and the light, piercing through his brain cruelly. Shutting his eyes against it was a marvelous idea.
The second was that there was a weight at his side of the bed, moving suddenly and jerkily; making an effort he open his eyes once more, he found his best friend at his side, having a nightmare.
Watson’s brow knitted and thinking no more of it, he lifted his hand and he put his hand on his friend’s hair. He knew it’d be compromising if anyone was to walk by, but he couldn’t just watch him suffer like that. Softly and slowly, he stroked his head, moving the black silky strand back.
The detective immediately stopped moving and woke up.
“How are you feeling, my chap?” – The detective asked, quickly running his hands thought his face.
“Like I was run over by a four-wheeler! But happy enough now that I can breathe properly, so I suppose the lung was not severely damaged” said Watson, animatedly.
“No, my dear chap, what made you pass out was the blood loss and the shock. You were right, the knife was too small to clip your lung at that angle,” explained Holmes, suddenly taking a deep breath and letting it go through his nose.
He made a vow to be the model of a decent man, if he ever returned to London and that was what he intended to do right now.
“Watson, I want to offer you an apology. I really should have…”-
“Stop Holmes. – Watson held out a hand briefly, pulling at his wound and hissing. Quickly he recovered and continued “…stop at once, because I know what you’re going to say and we both know it’s absurd to think you can predict and plan for every and any eventuality. You’re a genius my dear, but you’re not God. I chose to be here, by your side, on your cases, accepting what I knew from the start to be a great risk. So no, I don’t want your apology because I have no use for it. You have done me no wrong, dear chap; quite on the contrary, I believe I would have gone directly into the ground, had you not come back to me when you did. So thank you for giving me a reason to live once more.” After this little speech, Watson placed his hand on the detective’s arm, trying not to jostle his wound more than was necessary.
Holmes was speechless, truly beyond words. No one, in his 39 years of life, had said something like John H. Watson had just said to him. He closed his eyes and moved forward, inches away from his Boswell, watching those beautiful green eyes getting amazed by his proximity. He remained for a moment there, before placing a kiss on the forehead. Watson dropped his gaze and smiled sadly.
Holmes cleared his throat and recounted for his best friend what he saw and heard at the opera house, filing that sad smile for future examination.
Maybe he would never be what he wanted to be with his Boswell; perhaps he will never get to see Watson in the morning, or count the freckles across his back. Ask the story behind every single one of his doctor’s scars, for he knows not all are from the war. Maybe he will never achieve to say “John” in the tone of voice he wants to say, that had wanted to say it for years. But to be what Watson needed him to be for now, that was more than enough.
