Work Text:
1895
I don’t like to complain.
I have no desire to go on about my aches and pains other than to admit that they exist and are at times quite bothersome. Having been in public practice means that I have spent an inordinate amount of time listening to tedious and lengthy stories of stiff hips and aching knees, sore backs, pounding heads, and every other trivial or horrible thing that goes wrong with the body. It was a chore that I sat through when I had no choice, but now that I have sold my practice and my current interaction with patients are few, my tolerance for such complaints is severely limited. It is enough that I know how poorly I feel on days with rain versus days with sunshine, I shall not subject you, the reader, to such torments as well.
In the spring of that year an unfortunate accident occurred. I fell down a flight of stairs.
I remember none of it. I have read the notes I took in the course of the investigation and Holmes has been kind enough to answer any other questions I had.
Roger Verillion was to all appearances a simple two bit loser who made his money bullying maids into doing his dirty work for him.
Up until the moment we caught up to him and had him cornered and ready for arrest, we’d had no indication that his criminal tendencies ran any deeper than greed. At least not until the moment he produced a large knife and moved to plunge the blade into my friend’s chest.
Holmes, of course, insists that though he had not seen the threat he would have easily been capable of thwarting the attack on his own had I not foolishly intervened.
I assured Holmes that the next time I see someone with murderous intent advancing on his person I will dutifully stand aside and watch first to see if Holmes is able to deflect the attack and then, only after I am certain the murder has taken place unimpeded, I will step in and do what I can to prevent it.
There are times, I suspect, that Holmes is rather exasperated by my plucky sense of humour.
Roger Verillion escaped justice (at least on that day). I received a rather deep cut to the arm from the knife meant for Holmes back before being pushed backwards toward an open cellar door. The one saving grace of the whole debacle is that Holmes was not murdered.
As Holmes is fond of facts and not embellishments, his description of what followed after that was sparse. He did not explain why he didn't subdue Verillion after my unfortunate tumble, or how he too ended up descending the stairs, though he insists he did not fall. Verillion subsequently barred the cellar door, locking us both in the dark depths until Lestrade found us eighteen hours later. The inactivity must have sorely tried Holmes patience. I was mostly unconscious with brief bouts of waking up to spout delirious nonsense before passing out again.
And after we were rescued, I was yet again thrust back into the role of invalid and I hated every moment of it.
The concussion I sustained resulted in over a month of frequent debilitating headaches. It was an entire week before Holmes allowed me to leave the sitting room, during which time he went so far as to hire a young maid to tend to me during my convalescence. The poor girl didn’t know what she was supposed to do half the time with Holmes ordering her to look after my every need and myself ordering her to sit down and let me do things on my own.
Though I appreciated Holmes concern, the attention felt more like punishment than compassion. I made Holmes write the girl a stunningly impressive letter of recommendation and sent her on her way after the second day of employment. Holmes did not replace her.
I slept often, we kept the window coverings drawn to reduce the glare, and Holmes refrained from playing violin or performing any other noise making activities.
I did everything I could to downplay my symptoms, though Holmes sees too much of the world and has a habit of making a study of me in particular. But I did my best to assure him that I was recovering as expected (I did expect it to be a long and gruelling recovery so yes I was completely honest).
But how does one hide a sudden bout of dizziness, or distracted thinking?
Holmes even took to writing notes and leaving them behind when he went out for the day. He wrote down his client’s name, specific details of what he intended to do, and when he expected to return. I piled the notes on my desk along with all the other correspondence I received and intended to sort through sometime in the future when I could focus my eyes well enough to read and not induce a blinding headache as a result.
I could not seem to sleep for more than four hours at a time without waking up, I couldn’t place anything down without losing track of it moments later, I couldn’t focus enough to read or write. I couldn’t do anything more useful than sit around and do absolutely nothing at all.
Holmes returned from his absence (not death) less than a year ago and his desire to include me in his life once again came as a welcome surprise. I was only too happy to oblige. I missed my friend very much and even without the lure of interesting new cases I would have been pleased to be in his company once again.
That our partnership should end yet again was a fear I could not shake. Holmes' year-long absence had already proven that I was expendable. Friendship had not been enough for him to keep me by his side when I was in health, our partnership would certainly end if I became a burden.
My sense of urgency increased as weeks passed and my condition stubbornly refused to improve at no faster than a snails pace. As I could not be counted on to watch Holmes back in dangerous situations I insisted that he at least request Inspector Lestrade loan him one of the young yarders when he suspected the case may turn violent.
The young man who joined Holmes' adventures proved a competent companion and assistant. Far more able bodied than I've ever been in Holmes acquaintance. I found myself growing more desperate every day. I absolutely could not risk being left behind again.
Finally, after much consideration, Holmes did agree to have me rejoin him but only on investigations he felt confident would be entirely inactive and tedious.
Danger can not always be anticipated. For example; the case of the frightened fiance. A cowardly suitor had hired a thug to frighten his intended with the intent to play the hero and secure her affection.
She came to Holmes with her concerns. The suitor went so far s to pay the thug to physically attack her to diminish her confidence. It was a despicable business but the woman is now safe and able to pursue other interests. I will get around to transcribing my notes on that case another time. The thug, a drunkard easy to track down at the nearest pub, was happy to give up the details of his employment for a minimal bribe.
I followed as a casual observer as Holmes subdueed the former suitor, Gregory Patkins, and secured him in library of his fathers estate. Scotland Yard was on their way. The man gave every indication of being thoroughly cowed. Unexpectedly, Gregory Patkins suddenly pushed Holmes backwards and headed towards the side door to make his escape.
As often happens, not without design, I managed to blend in with the background. It is a tactic I use often, and much to my own amusement. If the enemy does not consider you a threat, it is much easier to get the drop on them.
I tackled him, sending us both crashing into the wall. He delivered a painful blow to my abdomen with his knee that sent me rolling off to the side and we tumbled together in what must have been a somewhat comical looking wrestling match. My head proved to be my downfall yet again when Gregory pushed me against the floor, but the struggle gave Holmes enough time to get back on his feet and knock the man senseless with a well placed blow to the jaw. I remained on the floor for a minute longer blinking the stars out of my eyes.
Once Gregory Patkins was satisfactorily tied up and out of the way, Holmes knelt by my side and offered me a hand up.
“Devil take my decision to have you join me on this endeavour. Are you well?”
“Well enough.” I answered.
"Return to Baker Street and I will join you there once the Yard has come to collect their newest prize."
"I will wait with you for the Yard to arrive first." I insisted and remained sitting. In truth I knew I was not yet ready to stand and wished to have a bit more time to recover being attempting to do so. Reinforcements came, and while Holmes was involved in explaining his deductions to the officers I silently took my leave.
The failure felt crushing. Even the small part I played to subdue Gregory Patkins had proved to be beyond my abilities. I found a cab to take me back to Baker Street and I arrived home, looked at the staircase looming before me, and felt a sudden weariness so heavy that I was entirely overwhelmed.
I sat on the step and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. Only for a moment.
And the next thing I knew Mrs Hudson was hovering over me. "Mr Watson." She stood a few feet back, frowning.
I started awake and remembered where I was. The stairway. Wonderful. I struggled to stand, holding the wall for balance.
"Have you been into the cups, Doctor Watson?"
"No, Mrs Hudson." I assured her. I sighed and steeled myself for taking a step, but as I did my vision blurred and I nearly fell.
"Are you ill? Shall I fetch someone for you?"
"Just tired, Mrs Hudson." Holding fast to the railing I managed to not fall over. I took a step. Sixteen left to go.
She huffed a breath. "Does Mr Holmes know you are out and wandering around like this?"
"I am perfectly well, thank you." Another step.
"Should I make you some tea."
"No thank you, Mrs Hudson."
When I did make it up to our rooms, I closed the door in relief and lowered myself down to the floor. I closed my eyes yet again and made the irrational yet entirely necessary decision that the floor was the perfect place to take a rest. Again, only for a moment.
Only to be woken up yet again what felt like moments later. Holmes. He knelt in front of me, a hand on my shoulder.
The room was dark and lit only by the lamp that Holmes had placed on the floor beside him. The air was cold.
"Watson." He watched me intently, and I felt a great rush of embarrassment at being caught in such a position. "You are on the floor." He said. He detested when people stated the obvious. His voice sounded strained, breathy, and I worried another altercation happened after I left. “Should I fetch a doctor?”
Why would Holmes need a doctor? "Are you injured?" I asked.
He stared at me silently, and again I worried.
“Holmes?” I asked
"I am fine. You are on the one on the floor." He explained. It was perplexing how he seemed intent on committing the sins of logical thinking he accused others of.
I took a steadying breath and pushed myself up to my feet to lean against the wall. His hand hovered inches from my arm, ready to help and perhaps not knowing how to bridge that gap into physical contact. The entire scenario must have been dreadfully uncomfortable for him to endure. He is not a fan of dramatics unless it has some kind of theatrical merit.
He did take my arm carefully as I made my way to the couch and sat down. "Another concussion?"
"Only tired." I assured him.
"I apologize, I did not realise you were suffering."
"I wasn't." I assured him. "I'm not."
"Mrs Hudson told me she found you sleeping on the stairs."
"Resting."
He leaned in close and inspected my head. I felt his breath on my cheek as his dexterous fingers gently probed my skull. When he found the spot at the back where Patkins had smashed my head into the floor, the sudden onslaught of pain felt like a hammer driving nails into my eyes.
He flinched nearly as badly as I did and backed away. "It is the same spot where you were injured previously. You will have a nasty lump but I do not think it will need to be bandaged."
"Do not concern yourself." I assured him.
He sat beside me close enough that our shoulders touched. It felt intimate as he rested one hand on my thigh. "I am trying." He said softly. It was nearly a whisper.
It may have been the head injury slowing my thought process but in this case I don't think it was because I still don’t quite understand what he was attempting to convey. I was genuinely confused. "I do not wish to be an inconvenience."
"How do I demonstrate that it is not your convenience that I value." He lowered his head for a moment.
The heat coming from Holmes sitting at my side was in stark contrast to the late night chill in the room. I leaned into him, and oddly enough I felt him adjust to fit more comfortably against me. "Thank you, Holmes." Fatigue overwhelmed me and I closed my eyes. It felt good to not be alone.