Work Text:
It was early morning, the bustle of London just beginning to build to a crescendo — street sellers wandered around outside, their cries and delightful laughs joining with the scampering of children upon the pavement, winding between horse-drawn carriages and city sweepers. Through the window, tendrils of smoke from my pipe escaped to aid in the clutter.
Watson had departed amidst the crowd a mere hour ago to aid a known patient, as informed by the haphazardly scribbled note on the table. I was left to my devices, absorbed in a chemical experiment that was not connected to a particular case but enraptured me all the same.
I momentarily set my cigar down to lean over my notebook, scribbling. Perhaps I failed to observe, or there was a crack that I had missed, for when I reached for the flask of acid it splintered in my hand.
A shard of glass struck clean across my palm. It had been heated extensively, though not enough to cauterize, and I felt white hot, searing pain sweep throughout my skin — I stumbled back with a low cry of pain, hissing through my teeth as drops of acid mixed with the blood I saw dripping onto the floor. I crouched slightly, bent and cradled it to me.
I cast a swift glance to the flask — it had not broken more, the mixture still inside, thank God — and fumbled to turn off the flame. I dare say I whined, gritting my teeth when the acid cascaded slowly into the wound and bubbled across red, explosed flesh. I examined it, watching my hand tremble.
An utterly failed experiment; I knew by now it was unsalvagable, and although I never said this around Watson for unwillingness to being fairly crucified, I often found my disappointment to permeate clean through my pain.
It did, momentarily. But then it flared, and I clutched it to my chest through measured breaths. I hissed a quiet yet passionate oath. I would have to rinse it in a wash basin, immediately.
So distracted, my eyes screwed shut, I didn’t even register the pounding of footfalls on stairs until the sitting room door flew open. There was a knock, most likely, but I either didn’t hear or ignored it.
“Mr. Holmes?”
I sent an irritated glance upwards. I met Mrs. Hudson’s concerned eyes. She tutted in a distinctly motherly manner, crossing the room with brisk steps.
I attempted a smile and straightened as she approached, although even I felt it was rather crooked. My hand throbbed where it was cradled protectively in the other. “An accident, nothing more, Mrs. Hudson: I can tend—”
“Your hand, Mr. Holmes,” she interrupted, and it was decidedly not a question. When I did not, she raised her eyebrows, even as they drew together at the ends in worry.
“You must not trouble—”
“Priorities, sir. You are dripping blood onto the carpet and clearly in decided pain– do not look at me like that. Let me see,” she insisted.
After a moment, I relented, looking down at it morosely. “I was handling acid: it would be unwise for you to touch it.”
“Aci– Oh, good Heavens,” and with an expression of mounting concern and exasperation grasped my elbow. I had no choice but to follow. Despite our difference in stature, I felt frankly helpless and decided it would be unwise to even begin to attempt anything. Kind yet absurdly intimidating woman, you have to believe.
I was led swiftly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she drew out a basin and a few bandages from a cupboard I did not know existed.
I tried to argue, but it fell flat to my own ears. “Really, this is unecessary. I have made such a foolish error before: there is no need to fret, I can tend to it myself.”
She shook her head, holding out her hand. “Mr. Holmes.”
We stared at odds for a few moments.
When I extended my right arm, she held it gently, peering at the wound. It had grown an angry scarlet around the edges, framing a gash that spanned from my forefinger and approached the middle of my wrist. Blood soaked my sleeve and fell occasionally onto the tiles.
She tutted softly, coaxing me towards the basin. I stood wordless as she rinsed it slowly with a rag, suppressing the urge to hiss. “You poor dear. You really ought to be more careful, Mr. Holmes — I can forgive the bloodstains, provided you resolve them, but you really get injured so often."
She dried it gingerly, before pressing a dry rag to the wound. This time I could not hold back a sharp inhale, wincing. “Hold that, dear. I would rather you didn’t faint from blood loss in my kitchen,” but there was no reprimand there.
I did as she said with a grimace, watching her unwound the bandages and take a bottle of antiseptic. She inclined her head to a chair; I sat down, feeling a third of my age.
“Mrs. Hudson—”
“Do hush, dear.”
I faltered before thinking better of it and hushed. With a small breath, I pressed my teeth together for composure.
She took my hand carefully again, peeling back the rag. Quietly, I watched as she swept away the remainder of stained blood and dripped a small amount of antiseptic onto her cloth. My other hand clenched the edge of my jacket as it burned the wound; I couldn’t smother a flinch as it reached the deepest part.
Her fingers brushed pre-existing plasters when she held my wrist to steady me, reaching for the bandages. “Well, I hope it was urgent, at the very least.”
It wasn’t much, not at this moment specifically, but I would be an idiot to admit that. I nodded instead. “In the future, yes. I was…testing for methods of identifying patent fingerprints. Invisible marks, unseen to the naked eye. There was a case recently that was made more difficult by the lack of clear evidence — with marks such as that, even the police would…struggle to fail…”
My voice faltered as she pressed a strip of gauze to the wound, dissolving into a sound of pain. Mrs. Hudson frowned, fixing me with concern, but I determinedly did not meet her gaze. I shook my head instead. “No, it’s necessary. Please, continue, before I…spot your kitchen. I’m afraid blood is most unsanitary,” I tried to lighten, before gritting my teeth. I had suffered worse, but the wound continued to thrum agony down to my elbow in a degree I could not ignore. I feared the acid had permeated more than I thought.
She clasped my hand between both of hers, pressing the gauze in place. “Was it dilute?” Mrs. Hudson asked, quite seriously now.
I nodded. “It was not concentrated enough to do any particular harm. I doubt it reached any nerves,” and flexed my fingers to prove it. They went rigid as it pulled painfully on the injury.
She considered me with disquietment. “I will bandage it, for when Doctor Watson returns. I’m not quite so familiar with acid, which I would usually consider a good thing.”
I set my jaw. “I regret to trouble you with it.”
“It is care, not trouble, Mr. Holmes. I believe the good Doctor has already informed you of the difference,” she murmured gently.
For once, I found myself at a loss for what to say in response, so I said nothing. I avoided her eyes and attempted to keep my features blank.
It did not feel the same as when Watson took my hand in his and treated it with plasters and gauze. On a physical level, although his technique was swifter and more efficient due to his experience, the sting was the same and my discomfort was no different. Yes, that had always been the case — I never did learn how to accept such vulnerability, always shifted away from it, and had reason to believe I would always do so.
But where a stirring affection sat curiously in my chest when Watson tended to me, sentimentality bloomed where Mrs. Hudson carefully wrapped the bandages around. Where Watson’s touch was confident and grounding, hers was kind in a maternal, inescapable sort of way. I remained pliant as I observed her work. I did not look up, partly from an awkward resignation, but also because I knew that if I did I would see her features as someone else’s. And I knew that then, sorrow would lay thick in my throat.
I could not put a specific name to the feeling. I swallowed, and sat patiently under her ministrations.
Whatever its name, it did not feel negative.
Mrs. Hudson drew a tight knot at the end, securing it twice over the back of my hand. I gingerly turned it over — a rosy colour had already begun to stain, but it did not spread more than a petalled splotch in the center. The bandages were neat and elegantly woven, pressuring the gauze but not to a painful degree. I stared and distantly felt a burning memory.
“Were you hurt anywhere else?”
I blinked back to focus before shaking my head. “The glass did not burst.”
“Good. And it ought to stay that way,” she huffed sternly, clearing away the equipment. “No more experiments for today, Mr. Holmes, and I shall have the Doctor hold you to that if I cannot. Until the carpet is cleaned, at least.”
Through some strange feeling, I couldn't stop staring at them.
I finally looked up, expecting irritation, but any I might have found had faded behind her kind, keen eyes. My hand still ached, but with the abiding of acid and protection from the air it had become muted.
I nodded, glancing back down at it. A smile pulled at my lips. “Thank you,” I murmured sincerely, my voice soft even in the quiet room. “I can promise you both.”
Something in her features eased as she smiled in kind, rubbing briefly at my shoulder; the touch was firm and scarce and so my skin did not prickle in response, nor did I lean away. “Very good. Now, kindly shoo, good sir; I am a very busy woman. And be careful with that.”
I stood gracefully. “Of course.”
And as I departed up the stairs again, holding my bandaged hand to myself, I heard a good-natured sigh from behind me. My housekeeping skills often go frightfully undocumented; I aimed to prove them, an odd something spurring me into action that I would have usually avoided, and went to rifle through the rooms in search of cleaning products. A few had become a downright mess through the course of my experiment, although Mrs. Hudson oughtn’t know that.
Watson, naturally, was not particularly impressed when he returned home from his patient a few hours later. A hand wound is irritatingly difficult to conceal.
“I left for a brief moment, Holmes,” he intoned, face the picture of disappointment, although reached out with careful hands regardless. I was reluctant but did not pull away. “It is not serious, at least?”
I shook my head. “A broken flask with dilute acid. Dilute, Watson,” I emphasised at his intense look, “...Mrs. Hudson…rinsed and tended to it.”
He raised his eyebrows at me.
“She heard from downstairs. I…found I could not refuse. She cleaned and bandaged it efficiently,” I said quietly.
“Insistent woman,” Watson smiled, a knowing look thrown my way, turning it over in his hold. “It does appear to be bandaged well, although I will also insist on looking at it when time comes to change the gauze.”
I sighed. “Watson. ”
“Holmes.”
After a moment, I deflated, admitting faintly. “...I would appreciate it, my dear fellow.”
He patted my hand gently, going to fetch his pipe and offering me my own. Warmth compounded in my chest at the affectionate look he sent — I took it, and used it to hide the smile on my lips.
Warmth. I suppose that suited.