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Most often when a case went wrong, Holmes and I were in London. That was where we spent most of our time, after all. The close proximity to our rooms at Baker Street made it simple enough to tend to wounds when they occurred, and to rest and recover afterwards.
This time, we were not in London, and I was not even with Holmes when the incident occurred. We were in the process of investigating a complicated case of impersonation, one that had resulted in several esteemed persons being swindled out of a considerable sum of money. But until this particular cold winter day, there had been no sign of real danger to us, merely intrigue.
As it was indeed a very cold, very wet day, in the morning Holmes had cheerily patted me on the arm and informed me that he thought it best if I remained here to study the financial records that we had collected the day. Ordinarily, I would have insisted on accompanying him to the interviews, which were much more interesting than financial records. But as any movement nearly moved me to tears, I agreed.
While Holmes zipped about the snowy countryside, interviewing anyone who might be connected with the case, I sat by the fire in our rented sitting room and sulked. The inn was not particularly warm, even with the fire, and the aches in my leg and shoulder had become nearly unbearable. Even handling the ledgers and making notes worsened my pain.
As evening approached with still no sign of my companion, my mood turned sank even lower. I wished to be out with Holmes, even if I felt poorly. Sitting around by myself only made me feel worse, not to mention entirely useless. I knew Holmes too well to fear that he would tire of me, and yet…
Lost in my misery as I was, I did not hear his approach until the door banged open. I startled, nearly dropping my pipe, and then twisted around a little too fast. My vision blurred with pain, and I struggled to keep that pain off my face. “My dear Holmes! How was your—”
“Tut tut, I have no time!” Holmes’ strident, agitated voice shattered my self-centered sulking. “Your revolver, Watson!”
I snatched my walking stick, dragged myself out of the chair with as much speed as I could muster, and limped to the table where I had left my weapon. Holmes staggered towards me, looking back over his shoulder, and I instinctively aimed my revolver at the door.
And only just in time, too. No sooner had I raised my revolver that three men burst into the room. Two of them with their own guns swinging towards Holmes, and one brandishing a bloody cane.
I did not waste time ordering them to drop their weapons. I merely fired, and kept firing until I ran out of bullets. Then I snatched up my box of cartridges and reloaded as two badly wounded attackers dragged away the one I had certainly killed.
“Well done, Watson!” Holmes was at my shoulder now, breathing hard. “Dear me, dear me. I owe you many thanks, my boy. I fear I encountered a little trouble in the course of my investigation.”
“A little trouble!” I cried, taking a proper look at him. “My dear Holmes, you look as if you have been beaten half to death!”
“All right, Watson. It is not so bad as that.” He held up a warning hand as I opened my mouth to insist that it was very much so bad as that. “If you would be so good as to keep your revolver at the ready just in case, I shall shut and bar the door. And then I shall tell you about my little adventure.”
Despite his light tone and the speed at which he dashed across the room, I was not fooled. I had known Holmes for a long time, and was well accustomed with his stubborn ability to conceal pain.
But he could not conceal the rapidly darkening bruises on his face, the cuts and abrasions, or the trail of blood he left on the sitting room carpet. I watched him with horror, my stomach twisting into knots.
“Holmes, I am so terribly sorry,” I said, dizzy with guilt. “I ought to have been with you. Had I gone with you, you might not have been hurt.”
“That is a most endearing thought, my dear Watson, but I fear your conclusions are erroneous.” He closed and locked the door, then hugged an arm against his side and limped back to me. “You would only have been hurt too, particularly in your current condition.”
The words stung, even though they were entirely accurate. “I an sure I am very useless.”
“Not useless, not in the slightest!” Holmes looked entirely stricken at the thought, so stricken that it nearly distracted me from his injuries. “My poor Watson, you must not believe that I think any less of you for—”
His breaths faltered, and his eyes snapped shut. For a moment—just a moment—his entire expression twisted with agony.
Then he regained mastery over himself, blinking rapidly, and continued. “You must not believe that I think any less of you solely because you are in pain. You are the most capable of men, and I know you would have driven yourself to join me today. But I did not wish…”
Holmes’ next word, whatever it was, turned into a sob. He curled in on himself, legs buckling.
“Holmes!” I rushed to him at once, catching his arm. My shoulder screamed in pain, but I ignored it. “Here, come and sit on the settee. I will tend to you.”
His eyes remained screwed tightly shut, but he waved a dismissive hand. “Truly, Watson, it is nothing. Some little discomfort. You need not worry.”
“I ought to have worried much more, rather than being caught up in my guilt.” I helped him sit, extracted him from his jacket, then eased him back to recline against pillows. Under the bruising, he had gone horribly ashen. “Where are your worst injuries? Have you been shot, stabbed, or otherwise wounded in a way that resulted in serious loss of blood?”
Holmes gave one of his silent laughs, then winced again. “No, no. Nothing like that, my boy. Merely some little bruises, scrapes, minor things like that.”
I stared at the long laceration on his cheek, which was bleeding profusely, then to the guarded way that he was holding himself. “What is wrong with your side?”
Brief hesitation, and then he attempted a shrug. “It is a little painful. With a little rest, I shall be fine.”
“Holmes.”
“Truly, Watson, I have been injured before. This is a mere trifle.” He tried to wave a hand again, and his expression briefly locked up in a way that told me he was doing his very best not to cry out. It was an expression I had seen on my own face in the mirror often enough when my old wounds became painful enough, as well as on patients who, for one reason or another, were resistant to honesty with their doctor.
Holmes was very much one of those patients. He had been nearly killed the year before in a beating intended to deter him from pursuing a case, and he had even dismissed that as a minor inconvenience. No matter what I said, he would continue to dismiss his suffering.
But that did not mean I would stay silent, and I had been his partner for long enough to know just how to obtain the information I needed. “My dear Holmes, please do not lie to me. It only worries me more if you refuse to tell me where you are hurt.”
Holmes, clearly recognizing the ploy, gave another silent laugh. Then he groaned, almost as silently, and his eyes closed. For a moment, he merely took ragged breaths.
Then he looked at me, his normally keen grey eyes fogged. “That charming gentleman with the cane beat me somewhat extensively while the others held me in place. I fear I might have a cracked rib or two. It is a little uncomfortable.”
I knew better than to try to get a clearer answer out of him, at least in that regard. “Are you having any trouble breathing? Is the blood on your lips from your facial injuries, or have you been coughing it up?”
“No, no coughing, and my breathing is unimpeded save for pain.” Holmes’ gaze flicked to me again, and there was a certain reluctance there. A reluctance to ask for help, and yet a need.
I already knew what he needed, and reached to snatch my medical bag from the nearby chair. “I’ll administer morphine before I examine you. Are you able to roll your sleeve up for me?”
“Of course I can,” Holmes said tersely, his movement slow and pained as he fumbled with his sleeve. “It is not as if I am unconscious or paralyzed. I am perfectly capable of performing such a simple task.”
The flare of asperity did not alarm me, for Holmes had something of a sharp temper even when not in pain, particularly if he had suffered some loss of control or was frustrated. After having lost a fight earlier—if he had indeed lost—he would likely be very irritable for a time.
My shoulder throbbed with vicious objection to any movement, but at least drawing the appropriate dose, tying the tourniquet, and injecting morphine into Holmes’ scarred arm were all well-practiced tasks. The chronic misery of my war wounds stole my focus on days like this, and I could not afford to make a mistake.
“How did you escape?” I asked as I pulled a linen compress from my bag and held it to Holmes’ wounded cheek. That gash was deep enough and bleeding enough that it was as good a place to start as any, since none of his wounds seemed life-threatening. “There were three men.”
“And as I was defeated by two men last year, you think me incapable of handling these?” Holmes asked with a foggy glare.
“You clearly handled them in some fashion, although I will remind you that I killed at least one of them to protect you.”
I said it bluntly, and Holmes’ expression softened in response. “Well, well. So you did, Watson, and a beautifully accurate shot it was. Mr. Blake won’t be putting that cane to use again.”
He chuckled quietly, and his hands twitched slightly, as if he’d nearly tried to rub them together and then thought better of it. I curled my fingers around his, holding his hand gently. “Give me the word, and I’ll gladly eliminate the rest of them.”
“Good old Watson! No, my dear fellow. I do not want you walking around in that snow, nor do I wish you to leave my side.”
“I would not leave for long.”
“It is unnecessary. Blake was the leader, and the other two are quite nicely wounded. I do not think we are likely to have further trouble with their little gang.”
Keeping the compress against Holmes’ cheek, I looked over him as he spoke. Aside from the way he continued to guard his side, I saw no indication that he was concealing more serious wounds from me. That, at least, was some balm to my guilt, although I still felt like weeping as I gazed at his battered face. “They were the ones impersonating our clients?”
Holmes gave me a startled look. “Dear me! I entirely forgot that I have not explained what happened. How have I become so absent-minded?”
“Considerable pain and injury, not to mention morphine in your system, may account for it. And those bumps on your head…”
“Bumps on my face, Watson,” he corrected. “I merely have one little scrape on the back of my head, although I fear that is bleeding on these estimable pillows.”
That was of some relief as well, although Holmes had enough bruising on his face that I would watch for signs that his brain had been shaken about by the blows. So far, he seemed to have escaped that trouble. “But what did happen, Holmes?”
He explained it to me in a slightly intermittent fashion as I tended to him. In the course of his investigation—which he also relayed in comprehensive detail—he had accidentally stumbled on those three men.
“They had absolutely nothing to do with that little case of impersonation,” he said, sounding deeply put out by the fact. “They are mere bullies who intended to extort a member of the household at the estate that lies a half mile from this charming inn.”
“And they assumed you were after them?”
Holmes had been lying back with his eyes closed while I cleaned wounds, and occasionally wincing when I used an antiseptic. But his eyes flicked open now, and he gave me a warm smile. “Excellent, Watson. That is quite correct. Regrettably, while I evaded the first two, I was ambushed by the third and knocked down in the snow. By the way, I am a little cold, so perhaps you could desist?”
I had just begun unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I’m sorry, Holmes, but I must examine your side first, as well as your stomach, to be certain that there is no serious injury.”
Although if there was a serious injury, I would be hard pressed to deal with it here. There were no local hospitals in the region, and my brief encounter with the village doctor had not impressed me. I would be on my own.
Holmes sighed at my insistence, but did not argue. I peeled his damp shirt away from the injury and bent, examining him closely in the lamplight.
His stomach was bruised, and his side bruised and swollen. I carefully palpated the area, paying attention to both the feel of it and Holmes’ slight responses. His breath caught sharply as I touched his side, and his fingers dug into his thigh.
“Broken ribs,” I confirmed, “but nothing that should put you in danger. For now, we will just limit your movement and monitor your condition. You will need to rest.”
Holmes groaned, his expression swiftly sinking into utter misery. “But I have not yet solved my case! I can hardly abandon my clients.”
“You have been injured. You must—”
I tried to straighten, and an explosion of agony erupted through both my shoulder and leg. A weak cry tore from me, and my vision blurred. For a moment, I feared I might faint.
“Dear me! Dear me!” Holmes caught my upper arm in a shockingly strong grip, steadying me as I swayed. “Oh, my dear Watson. A thousand apologies. I have been utterly criminal in allowing you to tend to me while you are in such pain.”
Managing to sit upright, I rubbed my shoulder. “You were very much in need of tending. I will be all right.”
“Well, now that I am not in danger, and you are not yet all right, I insist that you rest for a little.” Despite his condition, Holmes managed a stern look. “Perhaps I might entertain you with the tale of my escape?”
Breathless, I nodded. I had not yet finished tending to Holmes, but I desperately needed not to move for a moment.
“You were not the first to wound them, my dear Watson,” Holmes said with a truly sinister glee, his eyes lighting up with joy even though one of them had swollen partially shut. “In order to prevent my screa— that is, in order to prevent any noise of the little brawl from reaching the country house, they kindly escorted me to the vicinity of the barn. In the course of events, I was able to get my hands on a pitchfork.”
He gave me an expectant look. I was not sure what exactly he expected. “A pitchfork?”
“You did not notice the marks on the tall man with the rather ostentatious mustache?”
I smiled at the disappointment in his tone. “No, I’m afraid I was more focused on shooting them all as many times as possible.”
“Ah, well, I suppose that is understandable. I drove the pitchfork into that particular gentleman here.” Holmes indicated his own thigh, looking extremely proud of himself. “Then, whilst he was quite occupied with that little problem, I took advantage of the distraction to sneak in a few blows of my own to the others. I am quite a good boxer, you know.”
Proudly, he held out his right hand to me, the knuckles scabbed. I took a damp cloth and held it to the blood that had run down his fingers. “Splendid, Holmes! I’m certain they were taken entirely by surprise.”
“Quite.” He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes, then winced. The movement must be incredibly painful with his broken ribs, although he would not complain. “I had some little discomfort running back here, but I was quite motivated to escape their clutches before I found myself unconscious in a snow drift. I knew I might rely on you to aid me.”
“It was an honor to do so,” I said warmly. Despite my joy at having been able to aid my partner, I could not deny the lingering guilt and pain of my own failure. “I only wish I had been with you sooner. I am sorry I was not fit to accompany you today, Holmes.”
I had intended to rinse my cloth, but he caught my hand and held it tightly. Despite the pain, despite the morphine, Holmes gazed up at me with keen grey eyes that transfixed me in place. “You need never be sorry, John. I am always grateful to have you at my side when you are able, but you are of no less use to me when you must remain behind for a little. You are always of infinite value to me.”
My breath caught at the tenderness in his voice. Holmes rarely allowed even me to see him so vulnerable, so open, and yet he gazed at me with as much earnestness as I had ever seen. When he looked at me like that, I could not feel guilty, nor as if I ought to be ashamed of my pain.
“It is my greatest joy to be with you,” I said, teary, “even if I can only be with you after the day’s work is done.”
“The day’s work is never done, my dear Watson.” Firmly back in control of himself, Holmes turned to look at the ledgers, then winced. “I would be greatly obliged to you if you would read to me from those scintillating financial records. I fear I am not quite capable of sitting up to examine them myself.”
I would have liked to insist that he sleep now, but I could tell at a glance that he was still far too worked up for any rest. First, I fetched a blanket for him, since he was chilled, and then turned my attention to his request. My shoulder throbbed as I picked up the ledger, but once I propped the book on a pillow in my lap, I was able to turn the pages without too much pain.
Holmes settled back with his eyes closed, and I began to read to him. As I read, I kept a close eye on the door, and my revolver remained in easy reach.
Most likely Holmes was right, and we would not be troubled again by the remaining men from that gang. I had no intention of letting my guard down. I had not been able to prevent Holmes from being attacked today, and I was still in pain from my old wounds. But even in pain, I was more than capable of keeping guard over my partner, and ensuring that nobody hurt him again.