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As was so frequently the case, it was Holmes and his eagerness for stimulation in any form that spurred us out of our rooms and indeed London, despite the bad weather. He had been languishing in a black mood and drug-induced haze for weeks, and leapt eagerly at the first case that seemed to offer even the slightest challenge.
So it was that we stood in a muddy field somewhere in Sussex, being thoroughly rained on while Holmes awed the local authorities with his usual brilliant deduction. He pranced around the field, gleefully pointing out the smallest signs of disturbance that indicated where several pairs of small feet had passed.
“I very much doubt that you will find the young scamps who so boldly made off with the prize bull, though you may have luck finding the bull if you search every field to the south.” Rubbing his long hands together, Holmes indicated the direction. “There is a slightly deeper depression on each step of the left hind, although I fear the rain seeks to steal our evidence. This bull was somewhat lame, and no doubt the pain worsened during the theft.”
“So…” The local detective looked around with a deeply furrowed brow, as if thinking so hard was giving him a terrible headache. “They may have had to leave it behind?”
“How clever of you to think of that, Detective,” Holmes demurred, his sparkling eyes seeking out my approval at the joke. I smiled in response, content to watch his enthusiasm despite the rain. “I believe you are quite right. They no doubt sold the bull en route, and I suspect they purchased passage on a ship with the money. Since there are reports of—”
I listened to his further deductions, unable to stop smiling. Despite my long history with Holmes, I never tired of watching him at work. He truly was brilliant, and his quick and clever mind still awes me.
“Well, Watson,” he said as he left the authorities to follow the trail of a lame bull, “that was an entertaining diversion. But no doubt you are ready to retire to somewhere warmer and drier.”
“My leg would be glad of it,” I admitted, “but I enjoyed your performance very much.”
“Performance! Tut tut, Watson.” He shook his head sadly, although he was still smiling. “I merely state my case plainly, and without any embellishments of the sort.”
“Really, Holmes. You cannot deny that you take a pleasure in presenting your case with a dramatic flair.”
“The only dramatic flair is in your stories, my dear Doctor.” And now the smile gave way somewhat, yielding to the deeper irritation that only sprang out on occasion. “You lend far too much importance to the chaos of emotion, which has little place in my work unless as a clue. Your own passion for a clever turn of phrase muddies waters that should be clearer than glass.”
We bickered contentedly about my writing on our walk back to the tiny nearby village. I was glad of the distraction, not least because my leg was indeed fiercely aching. The pain no doubt rendered me somewhat less capable than usual in debate, but Holmes took pity on me and only teased me gently.
“No doubt you shall have an immense amount of clutter about the youths in your story,” Holmes said with a put-upon sigh. “How their desire to move to the continent spurred their theft, perhaps?”
“Only if my interviews with the townsfolk provide such information.”
He shook his fists in the air. “But that is precisely the trouble, Watson! The matter of why they stole the bull is entirely immaterial to the case. Your only concern should be—”
Holmes moved so suddenly that at first, I thought he had tripped. Alarmed, I reached to catch his arm and steady him.
But there was no need. He was already straightening, one hand gripping the wrist of a young man, the other clutching his coat. Holmes struck the man’s wrist against a raised knee, and a knife plopped to the mud.
“And here is another one for your stories, Watson!” Holmes cried, his face flushed with anger as he shoved the young man back. “Perhaps you would like to interview him, and discover why, precisely, he needs my pocketbook?”
“I would be happier to get out of the cold,” I said, shaken by the sudden interruption to our peaceful walk. “Shall we take him to the authorities?”
“They are out hunting a bull,” Holmes said, frustrated. He shook his fist at the young man, who had frozen up and was watching us with terror. “By Jove, count yourself lucky that you did not harm Watson! I would not have been so lenient had you caused him injury.”
“I’m s-sorry,” the young man said weakly, bowing his head.
“If you insist on being a thief, I would advise you to do it cleanly and without involving weapons,” Holmes snapped. “Adding assault or murder to your crimes will make the punishment all the harsher. I have half a mind to administer some punishment of my own, after you put Watson in danger.”
My cheeks flushed too, but not with anger. Holmes lacked an understanding of the gentler emotions, and he did not feel many things in the same way that I did. But in moments like this, when his fierce protectiveness shone through, I could not doubt his devotion to me.
The young would-be thief fled, and Holmes shook his head in disgust. He turned to me, all the bright amusement of our earlier conversation replaced by concern. “You are not hurt, Watson?”
“Not at all, Holmes. But what of you? There is blood upon the blade of that knife, although the rain washes away that evidence too.”
“Very perceptive.” Holmes gave me a quick smile, then set off for the diminutive inn at a pace slow enough to accommodate my increasing limp. “There is no concern. The tip of the knife has done some injury to my waistcoat, I fear, but I have merely a little gash.”
We reached the inn before long, and I was glad of the fire in our room. I limped to it and warmed my hands above the flames. “Shall we ring for food, Holmes? Or do you have yet more work to do?”
There was a loud thud behind me. When I turned, curious to see what Holmes was throwing about and why, I instead found him sprawled on the floor.
“Holmes?” I called, uncertain if he had fallen or if he’d merely flung himself down enthusiastically to examine some oddity on the rug. “What are you doing?”
“Alas, Watson,” he said in a weak voice. “I fear I am fainting.”
“Fainting?” Abandoning my pursuit of warmth, I hobbled across the room and knelt down beside him. Gently, I rested my hand on his back. “Talk to me, Holmes. What are your symptoms?”
He failed to answer me, only giving a faint groan. But I did not need him to explain further. Now that I was close, I could easily see the spreading puddle of blood by his side. And that was a clue that I could most easily follow, no matter how cold and in pain.
“A little gash! Holmes, you are absurd.” As gently as possible, I turned him onto his back. He had paled, and sweat glistened on his face. His eyes remained closed, and his expression was oddly peaceful. As if he had just sunk back in his armchair to ponder a case. “Holmes!”
I resisted the urge to shake him, and instead undid the closure of his waistcoat. The fabric was indeed torn, and so was his shirt. Blood soaked through both.
Pushing the fabric aside, I bent over his wound. It was not a little gash, as he put it. The knife had laid open several inches of his stomach, a curving slice that grew deeper as it neared his ribs.
It bled heavily, a steady stream running across his stomach and down his side. I lunged for our luggage and snatched a shirt out of my bag, then pressed it across the wound while I fumbled for my medical kit.
Blood quickly soaked through the shirt, a red stain spreading across the white fabric. I added another shirt, this one belonging to Holmes, and pressed down more firmly to stem the bleeding.
Holmes’ eyes flickered open, and he gave a faint smile. “Ah. Watson. A man of action, as always.”
“Fortunately for you, as your reluctance to admit to injury could have very well cost you your life,” I snapped with some considerable rancor. Holmes had a terrible habit of downplaying his troubles, and dealing with that reticence was a constant challenge in our relationship. “I am your doctor, and more. You must not conceal these things from me.”
“I did tell you I was wounded, my dear fellow.”
“This is no ‘little gash’, as you well know.” The wound bled through the second shirt. I fetched another. “You are losing a significant amount of blood and will need to be stitched up soon.”
“I turn myself entirely over to your capable hands.” He spoke with his usual certainty, but his voice was much weaker than usual. The loss of blood had already taxed him greatly.
I had however tended to many a gunshot, bayonet, and saber wound in my time. I remained on my knees despite the pain in my leg, which had by this time advanced to a scream. Under the current circumstances I could hardly shift to relieve the discomfort, so intense was my focus on preventing further loss of blood.
Once content that it had slowed, I fumbled in my bag for bandages. Without removing the blood soaked shirts, I bandaged the wound, and then took Holmes’ pulse. It was weak and thready, but not so much that I thought him in any real danger.
His skin remained clammy, however, and his wet clothes could not be helping with any chill. I tore the blankets off of his bed and covered him, then rose to stoke the fire.
While up, I washed my hands clean of blood and had a bracing glass of brandy. I changed my own clothes so as not to drip rainwater on him, then sat on the floor and took his thin hand in mine.
His eyes crept open at once, with all the languor he showed when emerging from his bouts of drug use. But once they fixed on me, they brightened. “What is your verdict, Doctor? Shall I recover?”
“Provided you stay away from situations that cause further loss of blood, yes.” That was something of a tall order at the best of times, another constant challenge. I would have to keep a very close eye on him and prevent him from charging off to the next case as soon as he could hobble.
He gave an aggrieved sigh, but squeezed my hand. “You have my word, Watson. And my apologies. I do believe I am currently bleeding on your best shirt.”
“You never need apologize to me, Holmes. Not for that.” I cupped his cheek and bent, pressing a light, careful kiss to his brow. “Although I would not object to an apology for your silly refusal to tell me that you were seriously injured.”
Holmes smiled at me. “A thousand apologies, Doctor, as always. Would you be so good as to help me to my bed? And, perhaps, to stay?”
“Of course I shall stay.” I raised his hand and kissed it, then helped him off the floor. He gave a sharp noise of pain as I raised him, and his tall, lanky figure wilted against my side. With some pain I half-carried him to bed and laid him back against the pillows.
He caught my arm as I drew back, his glassy eyes searching for him. “Watson?”
“Yes, Holmes?”
“Your leg. Have I harmed you?”
I shook my head, although both that and my shoulder now throbbed fiercely. “My old wounds object to the weather, that is all.”
“You must rest,” he said urgently, long fingers still encircling my wrist. “I would not have you suffer on my account. Not for anything.”
I would have gladly suffered any pain for Holmes, no matter how grievous, but I agreed softly. He would not rest unless I did so, and he was still weakened by his injury.
Quickly, I fetched my medical bag, along with the blankets from the other bed, and joined him. After an injection of morphine to numb the pain, I removed his bandages and stitched the wound.
The familiar haze had come into his eyes as the drug did its work, but he remained awake throughout the stitching and gave me a curious look. “Am I correct that you would prefer me to stay abed tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said, fervently. “I am done stitching the wound, but it needs time to heal.” Carefully, I bandaged it again. “Promise me there will be no prancing around fields until I am sure it will do you no harm.”
Holmes gave an almost grave nod as I laid down beside him and covered us both with blankets. “You have my word, Watson. Although I fear I shall succumb to boredom rapidly without your help.”
“There’s no cause to worry.” I took his hand again as we curled up together. “You will always have my help, however and whenever you need it.”