Work Text:
1886
Some days feel like a gift. The sky is blue and there are no clouds. The breeze is soft and cool. There is laughter with old friends. It seems as though on those rare and perfect days that nothing unfortunate could ever come to pass.
That is a fantasy. People suffer whether the sun is shining or it is not. Children die of starvation in our streets while the wealthy feed their table scraps to their spoiled little dogs. The world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.
It is not uncommon for Holmes and I to disagree, but usually we can do so in a more civilised manner than what transpired over breakfast. The blame is my own as I am fully aware that Holmes was simply doing what he always does and I can not blame him for being himself. It is I who acted out of character.
The situation was this; Holmes had draped his news paper clippings all over my arm chair and drank all but a tiny leftover of tea. It was nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before. It was nothing I had taken exceptional issue with in the past. However, I’d already had a bad night and very little sleep. I’d made my way downstairs with certain expectations. I expected to have a chair to sit in and a cup of tea to drink, really, is that too much to ask?
I endure a lot of strange behaviours with no complaint. But there is a limit.
"Watson, I have an errand for you to run." He held up yet another clipping. "It is of the utmost importance that you verify the contents of a certain safe deposit box. You must first contact Miss Charlotte Reacher and obtain the key. I have already written a note and she will be expecting you this afternoon. You will have to leave soon to catch the train."
"You'll have to find someone else to run your errands today. I have plans to meet with a friend over lunch."
He waved his hand dismissively. "You could not possibly be doing something more important than this."
“Then you should consider doing it yourself.” I replied.
“My time is better spent occupied with more significant matters.”
At least I knew at what level of import he considered my agenda. "I have had these plans set for over a week now and I am not willing to rearrange them. Perhaps I could help you tomorrow?"
"It is imperative that this task be done today." He retorted. “You will simply have to send your regrets and reschedule your lunch date.”
“No, I will not.” I gathered up the clippings on my chair and unceremoniously dropped them on the floor at his feet.
"Watson?"
"This is my chair." I pointed at the chair as though it weren't obvious what I was talking about. I sat down.
Little else was said the remainder of the morning. There was no more mention of the errand Holmes had wished me to undertake.
An hour later I set out for the veterans legion to meet my friend, and we spent a fine afternoon reminiscing on the early days we'd served together. It was an afternoon filled with friendship and laughter, and I am content to say that my thoughts strayed to Holmes only rarely.
It was on my home from that visit that I return to the beginning of this account. I remember thinking the weather could not have been more perfect, and I considered taking an extra detour to walk around the park before venturing back home and having to contend with my contentious roommate once again.
I had just passed a small mending shop, and considered bringing my jacket in to get the inner pocket repaired. A couple walked ahead of me, the woman's hand gently rested upon the elbow of the man beside her. He bent slightly towards her to say something.
But as I mentioned, the world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.
The sudden onslaught of sound was deafening, and a wave of intense heat washed over me just as a great force pushed me backwards.
...
There was smoke and noise. There was a distinctive and terrible smell in the air. Blood and gunpowder.
I pushed back the inner replay of dark times… This was no battlefield. I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on this moment. Was I injured? My head ached from where it struck the ground and my face and right side felt hot, but what damage was done to my person was negligible.
Others were not so fortunate.
I heard a popping sound down the street. It wasn’t close at hand, I ignored it.
Think. What happened?
Someone screamed. A woman called for help. Anyone, please, help us.
I’d been trained in conditions like this. Different circumstances, certainly, as this time I did not have to worry about being added to the slaughter while doing my job. The aftermath of disaster was familiar enough though.
With a quick survey of the scene around me, I made several harsh judgements. It was necessary. Anyone who had been within the building was, without a doubt, beyond help. I needed to focus on those still within my reach.
A man only five feet ahead of me lay twisted, blood spurted rhythmically and voluminously from the gaping wound in his upper thigh while his breath came in horrible rapid gasps. Time is precious. His time was coming to an end that no physician could stall. I stepped around him. A woman lay at his side, her eyes open but glassy with pain, pitiful moans coming from her mouth. Her arm was twisted, her sleeve stained red, and she lay face down in the dirt. Her breath shuddered and I turned her as gently as possible to ease her respiration. There were burns along her face from her eye down to her chin. I pulled off my jacket and tore strips to make hasty bandages. I wrapped one of the lengths around her arm to reduce the blood loss from a nasty gash. I could not ease the suffering around me. The best I could hope for was to preserve the lives of those I could long enough for help to arrive.
A crowd began to form. They stood on the periphery watching and I was only vaguely aware of their existence. There was shouting and crying. This was the difference between a civilian disaster and a military one. At least in the military there are no gawking bystanders.
I knelt beside another man and I took off my jacket and placed it over him like a blanket. Pale, cold sweat. “You are doing well, help will come soon.” I knew already that at best he would lose his leg at the knee.
A mother knelt beside a child. Burns marred the side of the girls face and there was blood from where she'd hit her head on the ground. Her heart felt strong. If she woke from the head wound, she'd survive.
These are the specific injuries I remember. There were more, but I must admit these things blend in my mind with past experience and it is difficult to sort out one from another in hindsight.
Eventually a hand grasped the fabric of my shirt at my shoulder and demanded my attention.
"Are you injured?" The man asked.
It was a medical student from the hospital. I vaguely recognised him from a lecture I'd attended, but not well enough to place a name.
I sat back. This man had a medical bag and proper bandages. Relief at no longer being alone washed over me. "I'm fine." I clenched my fist against the tremor in my hands.
He nodded and moved on. He was not the only medical student on the street. Reinforcements had arrived. For the first time I allowed myself the luxury of time to look around see the bigger picture of what had happened. Everything seemed covered in a dark dust, obliterating colour. But perhaps that is an artifact of memory. The entire front of the bank had exploded outwards. Smoke continued to billow from the gaping hole in the building.
There were bodies inside. Nothing I hadn't seen before.
My eyes drifted back to the man I had seen first, the one I neglected to treat. He was no longer struggling for breath. Was there something I could have done to save him? He was not the only victim I had stepped around. I should have done more.
The tremor in my hands spread to the rest of my body. Now that there were others taking over the care of the wounded the best I could do was keep out of the way.
"Dr Watson?"
I jumped at the voice unexpectedly close to my ear, but recognised the young man who sometimes worked alongside Lestrade. Constable Plinker.
The constable's hand hovered close to my elbow as though offering support. "Do you need help, sir? I can help you over to the wagon just over there."
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Sir. If you pardon me saying so, it wouldn't be right of me to allow you to walk the streets looking as you do. Can I take you somewhere?"
He was right. I would cause quite the fright. My hands were covered with blood, my jacket was gone and my shirt resembled a butcher's apron. "Yes, of course." There was no where to properly rinse and so I crouched at the side of the road dipping my hands into a puddle.
The constable averted his gaze, a look of revulsion clear on his face, and I noticed too late that there was a small group of onlookers standing only feet away. This was no battlefield. None of these people had ever stripped the jacket off a dead body to use it to staunch the bleeding of another. None of these people would ever witness a battlefield of chaos and confusion only to…
This wasn’t the same. It was no fault of theirs that I so easily get lost in time and circumstance.
“I’m sorry.” I doubt anyone heard me. I straightened and wiped my hands on bloodied pant legs.
I followed him to his wagon. "Baker street." I said softly.
The tremors only grew worse and my mind raced with images from long ago that blended with the horror I'd just witnessed. I needed to go home.
The constable dropped me off at the door. "I should see you inside, Dr Watson."
"Others need you more than I. I'll see to myself from here." Mrs Hudson, thankfully, had left for the day to visit an elderly aunt and so I did not need to worry about meeting her in the hall. Holmes, if fate were merciful, would still be out on the errand I refused to carry out for him.
I needed to refresh myself in solitude. I often felt that Holmes could see right through me and all my faults and defects laid bare before him. My shattered nerves were one thing I desperately wanted to keep to myself.
As I climbed the stairs I became aware of the scent of Holmes strong pipe tobacco. I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. He was home. I willed the familiar aroma to vanquish the battleground smell that seemed to linger within me.
I wanted to continue straight to my own room to change clothes and clean properly, but I sat on the stair instead. Holmes would undoubtedly be interested to hear about the explosion. I had nothing to offer him. Present and past swirled together in dizzying confusion, and I feared he'd be disappointed at my lack of observational skills; an ex-army surgeon should be more aware of his surroundings in an emergency.
The door opened, Holmes stood silhouetted in the light, assessing the situation. Assessing me. What did he see? In a flurry he appeared at my side, a strong grip on my forearm guided me up to our rooms and to the sitting room.
"There’s been an explosion on Groening Street, I offered my services." My voice was steadier than I'd anticipated. Holmes steered me towards the couch. With one arm he swept the entirety of his days work of clippings onto the floor as he helped me sit down.
"Groening street." He repeated after me. "The bank?" A glass of brandy appeared. Despite gripping the glass with both hands, I could not stop it from shaking.
“I was nearby.”
I swallowed the contents my glass. Holmes refilled it and poured a glass of his own. He rubbed lightly on his bottom lip for a moment. "How nearby were you?"
I thought about the man and the woman walking just in front of me. I thought about the man with blood pooled around him in the street. I thought about how a bullet feels when it enters flesh. I thought about the sound of a canon and the sound of explosions.
"Watson. You are injured." Holmes said.
I looked down at my shirt. "It’s not my blood."
"Some of it is." He insisted and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "May I?"
I did not stop him as he undid the buttons and carefully eased the garment from my shoulders and arms. His expression remained absolutely neutral as he examined the extent of my injuries. Explosions are always messy . There are burns, there is metal and wood and shards of glass projected through the air. Holmes is never affected by the wounds left on the corpses of victims we have examined with the Yard at crime scenes. But his eyes are by far the most expressive of his features, and he was not unaffected seeing blood on me.
I felt the brush of his fingertips across the scar on my shoulder. He assessed the wounds thoroughly and collected the supplies he needed. A basin of water and a clean cloth, bandages and salve. I did not bother to coach him. Over the years we have tended to each others wounds many times and I trust his ability more than many of my colleagues. He paused for a moment and apologised when I flinched involuntarily. Meticulously, the wounds were cleaned and bandaged. I did not pull away as he took my hands in his and wiped away the blood.
I took a deep breath. I’d been so focused on the warmth of his touch that when he drew away I felt suddenly untethered. The sitting room grew thick with dark fog, and the next thing I knew Holmes had his arm around my torso as I leaned heavily into his chest with my head resting on his shoulder.
"I’m sorry."
He carefully eased me down on the couch and then he sat on the floor next to where I lay my head. "I am relieved you are well." He said.
"Thank you." I closed my eyes.
I felt a hand ghost over over my hair so lightly that I may have imagined it. It was that touch I felt as I drifted off to sleep.
If I have ever found peace in sleep, it certainly was not that afternoon.
The pressure of a hand on my chest rescued me from the depths of memory I’d fallen into. Holmes chair was pulled up close to the couch where I lay. I reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist even as I berated my weakness.
With his other hand he passed me a handkerchief and I wiped my face. If I allowed myself to, I could fall apart completely. Instead I let him go. “It’s been a long day.” I explained poorly.
The fireplace was lit and the room was warm. Holmes picked up his violin and played a soft melody, something I didn't recognize but it was slow, repetitive, and peaceful. The music washed over me like gentle waves as I sank into a more restful sleep.