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This was not the first time I had been shot, and in truth this hardly counted as a wound. Painful, to be sure, and a steady stream of blood trickled down my leg despite the bandages. But still, it was hardly anything compared with the two brutal wounds that had nearly claimed my life in Afghanistan.
“Really, Holmes, it is hardly anything,” I said, leaning on his arm as we made our way to a cab. “You have seen the wound yourself.”
“Yes, yes. A mere scratch, as you say.” In the dim moonlight, Holmes looked almost as pale as his shirt. There was no merriment on his face despite the successful conclusion of our case, and he looked only as if he wished to reach home as quickly as possible now that Scotland Yard had taken custody of our quarry. “But I fear it must be most painful for you. You have troubles enough with that leg.”
I could not argue with him on that score, and I was lightheaded enough that it seemed too much effort to even fumble for a response. No doubt that would worry Holmes more, but I could not find the strength to do anything other than prevent myself from crying out in pain.
“Ah, Watson,” he said softly as our cab drew up. “Come along. I shall escort you home, and I am quite certain you will feel better with a little rest. Unless you feel you need a doctor?”
“I am a doctor,” I managed, dizzy. The thought of climbing into a cab with my leg burning like this…
“And a most excellent one, my boy, but are you well enough to tend to your own injury?” Giving me an anxious look, Holmes stopped by the cab. “Or perhaps you will let me aid you? As it was my recklessness that resulted in your injury, I should like to be of aid.”
I nodded, out of breath. “I am not certain…”
“Ah, the cab! Well, well, I shall certainly help you in.” His expression grim, Holmes took me in a steady hold and assisted my weak attempt to climb in.
I consider myself a stalwart man, and one who can endure much pain. I have certainly endured enough of it in connection with my old war wounds. But as Holmes helped me into the cab, a blaze of torment erupted through my thigh, and I lost control over a cry.
“Dear me! Dear me!” Holmes, with the considerable strength he could call upon in any emergency, lifted me the rest of the way in and eased me into the seat. I slumped back, shuddering, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Oh, my poor Watson. I truly owe you a thousand apologies for allowing you to be injured in such a way. I really am terribly sorry.”
I mumbled something vague in response, but I could not collect myself to reassure him that I in no way held him responsible for my wounds. And that, in some ways, I felt closer to him than I ever had before.
Holmes and I had settled into the most comfortable of relationships over the years since his return from the horror following Reichenbach Falls. It was not the sort of relationship we discussed, nor had there ever been any grand declarations.
No grand declarations, but we were intimate in a way, a way which I had never experienced with anyone save Mary. It was the same settled feeling, a comfortable familiarity and pleasure at sharing life together, and one that had only deepened as time went on. Nothing made me happier than to curl up beside Holmes on the sofa, or occasionally in bed. He had even purchased a larger one that we might more easily fit on nights when we wished to sleep comfortably beside each other.
And yet, for all that, there was a distance. Holmes was a deeply solitary man at heart, still keeping many of his plots to himself, and I rarely saw his heart. Oh, I had never doubted his care for me.
But still, tonight felt quite different. Although sitting in a cab with Holmes’ arm around me was not wholly unusual, there was an intensity to the way he held me. One arm remained carefully around me, and his other slender hand clasped mine. His keen eyes remained fixed upon me as the cab clattered along, and I had no doubt that he was aware of my every pained reaction.
“I will be all right,” I said in response to a particularly anxious look. “Really, I will. But I do need your help.”
“Anything, gladly. I am yours.”
My heart leapt at the comment, expressed with such earnestness. “Once we get to our rooms, we must… clean and bandage…”
The world spun, and I clutched his hand in a desperate attempt not to faint. Holmes held me close, his arms tethering me to the waking world. “Tut tut, Watson! I shall certainly be glad to tend to your wound. Should you lose consciousness, no doubt I may obtain a little help from your medical texts.”
He was managing his usual light, half-humorous tone much more successfully than before, but I could feel him trembling as he held me. It was not in Holmes’ nature to admit to any tender feelings—which gave me cause to again marvel at his earlier reaction—but I, who knew him so well, was quite certain that he was in a state of suppressed panic.
Unfortunately, I was in no condition at all to reassure him. I had not quite fainted, but I let my eyes close as I rested against his side. He held me as our cab bumped down the street, and I knew at least that I could come to no harm while I was in his arms.
At least, no physical harm. But as I slipped into vague shock from the pain, jarred with each bump of the cab, my world became muddled.
Screams of the wounded echoed all around, cries of pain and panic and despair. The stench of blood smothered me as it ran down my leg, my shoulder. I bumped along—but was it in a cab, or across the back of a packhorse?
I opened my mouth, trying to call out for help, but I could not get enough air. Pain gnawed at my shoulder, but it was much worse in my left thigh, digging deeper and deeper. Surgery? Were they trying to extract the bullet?
Pain, such pain. I could not breathe. Blood everywhere, the reek of it overwhelming—
“Watson. Watson!” A thin hand cradled my cheek, and I struggled to focus on it. “There, there, my boy. Don’t be scared. I am right here beside you, Watson. You are with Holmes.”
“Holmes?” I could scarcely wrap my tongue around his name. Everything had gone so distant, and the ringing in my ears drowned out everything. “Where am I?”
“Parked just outside Baker Street. I am going to take you inside, but I fear you have had a little slip into memory.” He kissed my brow, and the gesture shocked me back to a state where I could nearly focus. “Are you able to walk?”
I mumbled that I could, although I was not certain of it. But Holmes had me, his grip strong despite his trembling, and I surrendered to him completely.
Somehow, he got me upstairs and to bed. His bed, I realized after a moment. It was larger.
“Poor fellow,” he said sympathetically, easing me back against the pillows. I cried out as he raised my legs into bed, and he touched my shaking hand in apology. “It is all right. There shall be no more movement for a little. We shall let you catch your breath before I tend to this wound, I think.”
He quickly wiped his eyes, likely hoping it was quick enough that I would not see. I saw anyway, but I lacked the strength to gently tease him. And anyway, tears were welling in my own eyes now.
I blinked them away as best I could, struggling to focus. “We’re home?”
“Yes, we are. Home and safe.” Holmes patted my hand, giving me a faint smile. It did not reach his dimmed eyes, and his lip quivered slightly again. “I fear you took a little trip in your mind, back to the battlefield. I had something of a difficult time calling you back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no. There is no need for apology. I am merely relieved that you’re back with me again.” He looked me over quickly, then winced. “Dear me. Perhaps I ought to have helped you change into more comfortable clothes first.”
“Dear God, no.” The words came out weak, and I struggled to focus. A heavy exhaustion blanketed me, settling in deeper at every second. It was all I could do not to fall asleep, or perhaps that was another faint threatening. “I am feeling a bit weak.”
I disliked admitting even that, ashamed of my weakness, but Holmes merely gave a sympathetic nod. “Well, I have gotten you out of your hat and overcoat, at least. Let me remove your boots, and then I shall fetch your medical bag and do a bit of doctoring.”
He gave a short laugh, and even the brief amusement from him made me feel much more at home. I could not be entirely certain whether he really felt at all amused or if he merely meant to reassure me, but I appreciated it nonetheless.
For such a minor injury, it really was ridiculous how much it hurt. I tried my best not to focus on it, but that was difficult without Holmes at my side, grounding me with his quiet mastery. Dimly, I realized that my trouble must be in part due to my old wound, not the new one. This latest shot had skimmed across my thigh, slicing into the scar tissue from my previous injury.
It was as if my entire thigh was on fire now, and I hardly understood Holmes’ words when he returned with my medical bag. I gave him a bleary look, and he patted my arm.
Again, I nearly fainted as he tended to me. With the old wound so aggravated, all touch hurt terribly. I jerked and groaned, then mumbled apologies.
“Hush, hush.” Holmes laid his thin, nervous fingers on my hand. “I shall be done shortly. Do you wish for an injection of morphine?”
God, yes, I wished for an injection of morphine. But I had been given a steady dose of it in the field hospital in Afghanistan, and the mere thought of being further reminded of those horrors made me shudder. “No, that will make the battlefield nearer.”
“Well, well. We do not want that.” Gently, Holmes secured the bandage on my leg, then watched me anxiously as I groaned in pain. “A little brandy, perhaps?”
I nodded weakly, although in truth I wanted brandy much, much less than I wanted Holmes to hold me close and soothe me through the terror. His nearness had always calmed me, and had been the key to my own steadiness as I struggled to recover after the war.
But how could I ask for such a thing? I knew myself well enough to be aware that asking Holmes to hold me would result in another escape of tears. I had already worried him enough, and had no wish to weep again.
Soon, his thin hand slid under my head, lifting it so that I could drink. I sipped the brandy, still ashamed of myself. This was hardly even a wound! Absolutely nothing compared to the others. Why was I falling so completely apart?
“There, is that a little better?” Holmes set aside the cup and touched my brow, frowning. “You are sweating. Are you too warm? Or cold?”
“Closer to cold,” I managed. My poor sliced up trousers were soaked in blood near the wound.
“Ah, then I shall fetch more blankets. I fear Mrs. Hudson will be a little displeased about blood on the bedsheets, but your comfort is far more important.” Holmes zipped off, and was back in moments with all of the blankets from my bed. I stared at them in surprise. “There, my boy. We shall keep you warm. Would you like a little to eat? There is food on the sideboard.”
Ordinarily, I liked to have a snack when we arrived home after a case. Today, my stomach churned with the stench of the battlefield, and the thought of food sickened me. I shook my head.
“Hmm.” After covering me with the blankets, Holmes stood beside the bed and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. “Well, now, if you are not hungry, perhaps a cup of tea? Or if you would prefer distraction, I should be very happy to read to you, or play the violin a little.”
My throat tightened, and I nearly began to weep. I did not want any of that, but if I said no, Holmes would simply keep trying to find a different way to help. It was in his nature to solve problems.
“You do not want the violin?” He rubbed his hands again, eyes going distant as he stared down at the bed. “I should be most glad to play your favorites if you did. Ah, but perhaps that is too much noise for your nerves. I remember, when we first met, you did not categorize violin playing as a row, and yet—”
“Holmes.”
He rushed back to me at once, sitting beside me so lightly that it did not jar the bed. With infinite care, he took my hand and held it in his own. “Forgive me. I did not mean to ramble at you in such a fashion, I am just a little… I am concerned for you. I wish to care for you, to do anything that may ease your pain.”
Again his lip trembled, just a little, and he went even paler. For a moment, I thought he might weep, and the sight startled me nearly as much his reaction in the immediate aftermath of my injury. To see such love laid so bare on a face that more commonly held a cynical smile left me breathless.
Breathless, and with less of a filter than I ought to have had. My deepest longing slipped out in a rush. “My dear Holmes, all I want is for you to hold me. I know we cannot be married, but I feel more than ever as if we are, and all I want is to be held by my…”
The tears did come then, in a sudden flood. Even a few sobs escaped me, and I began to shake again.
“Dear me!” Holmes cried, his expression stricken. “Oh, my Watson, a thousand apologies yet again. I ought to have realized at once. Of course you wish me to hold you, and I have made an ass of myself by not thinking of something so obvious. You will be all right if I lie down?”
I nodded, tears still rolling down my cheeks. I could think of nothing I wanted better than to be in Holmes’—in my husband’s—arms.
At once, Holmes slipped under the blankets to my right. He curled against me, one long arm sliding under my shoulders. He brushed a hand against my cheek, gazing at me with all the tenderness imaginable. “Oh, my dear Watson. I am so dreadfully sorry that I did not keep you safe tonight.”
A tear escaped down his cheek, and he quivered as he pressed against me. I could not move my leg much without pain, but I brought my hand to his wiry arm. “You do not need to be sorry. I was glad to go into danger with you, and would do it again.”
“Forgive me. I do not mean to center my own little agonies.” Holmes managed the usual light tone, but he sniffled as he rubbed his arm. “I am exceedingly relieved that you were not hurt worse, but your poor leg hardly needed another gunshot wound. It must be terribly painful.”
It was terribly painful, especially as the area that always pained me cramped and gnawed from the stress. I had no idea how I would manage to get around at all, and was doubly grateful that I was not much in practice as a doctor. I would be in no shape to drag myself around London for some time. “It is better now than I’m not moving.”
“Ah, that was the worst of it, I think. And no doubt my tending to it was more than a little uncomfortable.” Holmes was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him trembling as he held me. “Do you think you should need stitches? I shall fetch a doctor at once if you do.”
“No need of stitches. Please, just stay.”
“I shall do as you ask. Only the best for my Watson.” His long, nervous fingers drummed against my arm for a moment, and then he stilled himself with what seemed to be supreme force of will. “Forgive me. I am not quite sure what do, other than stay.”
Even in my current shaken state, I could not help smiling. He was the most restless of men, and would no doubt rather be pacing. “My dear Holmes, that is all that you can do. I just feel much safer in your arms.”
“You are safe. I will not let anyone harm you again.” He drew a long, shuddering inhale full of rage. “My God, I should have liked to kill that man. I would certainly have done so if you had been killed. I could not have—”
“It is a scratch,” I interrupted quickly, for a mere glance at Holmes again showed me his utter anguish at my injury. “I have not been killed. And I was most…”
I hesitated, unused to discussing such things, and Holmes gave me a quick searching look. “Are you all right? You look as if you are in distress.”
“I am all right. Only touched by the way you have reacted.” I swallowed hard, attempting not to cry again. “I know you care for me, but the look on your face when I was shot… My God, Holmes, I do not believe I ever realized just how deeply you love me.”
“Of course I love you!” he cried, looking so upset that I automatically caught his hand and held it tightly. “Oh, my dear fellow, I owe you all the apologies in the world. I fear I am not very good with such things. I had no idea that you felt unloved or neglected.”
“I do not feel unloved or neglected.”
“But you did not realize that I love you.”
“I did know, just not the depths.” Choked up again, I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it. “You are so self-contained. Sometimes, it is easy even for me to forget how strongly you feel things. But in truth, I was very happy that I was shot, for it showed me how very fortunate I am.”
Holmes still looked confused, but he gave a quick smile and squeezed my hand. “I am afraid that being happy about being shot is a little strange to me, but I am relieved that I have not neglected you. You know that I am somewhat less than an expert on the tender feelings. But I do care for you, with all that I am.”
“I know. I understand it fully now.” Tired but happy, I rested my head on his thin shoulder. Afghanistan felt very far away with Holmes so close beside me. “And I hope you know just how much I feel for you.”
“It is quite evident,” he said, and the humor was back in his tone now. My cheeks warmed. “And as for the question of marriage. I do hope it is clear that I do think of you very much as my husband. I have for many years, John.”
A fresh thrill rushed through me at the use of my name, and I briefly closed my eyes to savor the sound of it. “It is clear. I do love you so, Sherlock.”
“And I love you.”
When I opened my eyes, he smiled, then leaned in and kissed me most tenderly. His gentleness and affection quite thoroughly distracted me from my pain, and I gratefully sank deeper into his embrace.
“There, now. I believe you ought to rest,” he said softly once we drew apart. He coaxed me to lie with my head on his shoulder, then drummed his fingers on my arm again. He quickly stopped and gave me one of his sardonic smiles. “Provided I do not keep you awake with my restlessness.”
“I never mind your restlessness.” I was quite accustomed to it, all of his pacing and drumming fingers and rubbing hands together. In a way, such things soothed me as much as they seemed to comfort him. “So long as you do not leave me in order to pace, you may move as much as you like. It will not trouble me.”
Holmes laughed, and his gentle tapping on my arm resumed. “All right, Watson. Do let me know if you need anything.”
I would certainly need things later, such as help getting around. My leg throbbed with pain, both from the new injury and the old. But for now, all I needed was for my loving husband to hold me close.