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This is from a prompt by holmes221b on livejournal. Although, I owe her an apology. I got Holmes and Watson’s roles in this backward by mistake. It was the poor Doctor whose meant to have a sore hand. I hope it will still satisfy.
Again, prompts are welcome!
His limp head jerked upward…and he realized that the page, which had been blurring before his eyes, had been lost completely as his heavy lids had fallen shut. Now they snapped open again, as the voice cut through his tense slumber.
His teeth closed around the cold stem of his pipe and he turned to see a familiar figure making its stiff way into the room, illuminated by the dim lights of the landing.
Watson blinked in bewilderment as he drew closer to the chairs and the still banked fire…he was leaning heavily on the stick Holmes had left at his bedside.
The detective straightened with a sigh, putting aside his book and uncurling from his chair, considerably stiffened himself.
“I became bored watching you convalesce.” He said, “I hope you do not mind my absence from your bedside.”
“No…not at all.” Watson replied automatically, as his kind nature demanded…then he blinked… “Convalesce?”
A sudden smile played across Holmes’ face and he removed his pipe to accommodate the rare expression. “Surely, Watson…you cannot fail to have noticed the cast upon your arm?”
The Doctor looked down at his limb, which was indeed encased in hardened plaster du Paris…he fingered the rough edge.
“I had noticed.” He said, looking up again. “In fact I rather hoped you would tell me why I have a cast, and why I woke just now in my bed at…” he glanced at the mantle clock “…at four twenty in the morning?”
“Since you’ve been in your bed for over eight hours I’m not surprised you woke up at this odd hour.” Holmes got to his feet and crossed to the Persian slipper which hung from the mantle, catching the light of the fire with it jeweled toe, flashing fantastically.
Watson watched in patient curiosity as his friend knocked his pipe out against the grate and then refilled it methodically.
“You arm is broken in two places, clean fracture through the radius and ulna, that is the reason for the cast.”
“And it was enough to make me faint?” the good Doctor looked somewhat chagrined.
Holmes raised a dark brow, which only looked more unnerving as he loomed over his friend in the dim firelight, his face made more angular and sharp by the shadows.
“I guarantee you Watson…that would be enough to make me faint. But no…it was more the circumstances surrounding your accident that made you faint.”
Watson frowned in true consternation, he sank back into his chair…eyes clear becoming introspective.
“We…were on a case were we not?”
“We were.” Holmes nodded, pleased, “its good to see your concussion is mild after all.”
Watson’s brow furrowed in honest consternation. “We were here…in London…and…”
He met his friend’s patient gaze. “Good heaven…the docks!”
Holmes sighed in veritable relief and he reached for a coal with the firetongs. “Yes quite…you needn’t worry old fellow…we got our man…you tried to stop a colossus with a crowbar, and it proved more hearty than your bones…OW!”
There was a dull thud as coal and tongs fell suddenly to the floor, the Doctor stomped automatically down on the ember and glared closer at his friend’s hand…noticing the white bandage covering it.
“You’re hurt?”
To his surprise Holmes did not brush off the inquiry. He was holding his appendage close to his chest. He swore softly and met the kind hazel eyes with a look that was at once suspicious and oddly fearful.
Watson reached out and was astonished further when Holmes obligingly proffered the hand.
“Its getting worse…” he murmured.
His friend fumbled the bandages aside somewhat awkwardly for the cast and sling, a noise of displeasure in his throat.
“Holmes you bandaged this yourself.”
“There were more important and urgent patients to hand, Doctor.”
The rag came away to reveal that the long pale hand of the detective had become grossly swollen, the skin hot and red with irritation.
“It’s infected.” Watson turned it over in the light. “What the devil…”
He looked up to see the oddly shamed-fearful look in the gray eyes once again. “It looks as though someone tried to bite your fingers off!”
Holmes opened hi s mouth…but no sound emerged.
“You’ve left this untreated? Holmes, mouths are some of the filthiest places. You should have had this looked at.”
“Perhaps…but it seemed unimportant at the moment.”
Watson sighed, dissatisfied but did not press., “Could you fetch my bag…and some water…I’ll set this to rights for you.”
He got up at once to comply, though he returned his hand only gingerly when Watson soaked a cloth in antiseptic to place against it.
“You are perhaps the only man I know who can ignore the most painful ailments when you have a purpose, and put up so much fuss when it doesn’t matter half as much. One would think you had the pain tolerance of a two-year-old.”
“Why thank you Watson, that makes me feel much better…ouch!”
The Doctor tightened his grip on his friend’s wrist to keep it still, cleaning the ugly marks as gently as he could, they were the deep imprints of a man’s teeth, oddly clear and even.
“Holmes.” Watson glanced up at his flinching friend.
“Yes-oww!”
“Did you even notice the bloke was biting your hand? It looks as though you did not even bother to pull away.”
The gray eyes met his face, and then closed again.
Watson blinked, certain now that his friend was hiding something…and it was not embarrassment…not for himself at any rate. He was composed…though obviously avoiding the answer.
“Holmes…”
The detective hissed between his teeth.
“…Did I do this?” Watson could not believe it even as he said it. But the silence that greeted this inquiry convinced him.
“Can I ask how it is remotely possible that I bit you?”
“It wasn’t truly your fault…old fellow.” Holmes said quickly, sighing in relief when Watson placed a lint pad over the hurts and began to wrap it with gauze. “You didn’t have much choice.”
“No? What did you do? Shove your hand in my mouth?”
This statement, meant half as a jest, hung in yet another long silence and Watson looked at his friend sharply.
Holmes sighed. “Lestrade had already arrived when you went down, the police surgeon hadn’t. You had to be moved because the tide was coming. One of the newer lad’s father was a surgeon, he offered to splint your arm so that your bones wouldn’t sever you artery...they were totally dislocated Watson…overlapping.” He could not convey the terror he’d felt at seeing his friend curled about the twisted limb, how he’d shuddered at his friend’s outcry as it had been manipulated. He’d had to do something to relieve the pain he could see on the pale, strained face.
The detective shrugged, almost sheepishly. “There are not a lot of sanitary objects for a man to bite down upon in a London dockyard…you won’t remember you were barely coherent…I removed my glove first.”
He would pay attention to a small detail like that…suddenly the whole situation didn’t seem so unbelievable when Watson thought of who he was talking to.
He cleared his throat, tied off the bandage and reached for another piece of coal with the tongs.
“Are you alright?”
Holmes flapped his good hand, pulled on his pipe and exhaled in a contented cloud of smoke. “Quite…although I wish you wouldn’t eat so much fish…you teeth are remarkably strong.”
“Thank you.” Watson said softly, aware of the lines of strain and worry at the corners of his friend’s eyes…he did was not referring to strength of teeth.
“You’re quite welcome.” Holmes smiled.
