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From the Diary of Dr. John Watson.
March 14th, 1883
I find myself compelled to record the events of this afternoon, though my hand still trembles slightly as I write. My tremors come not from shock - certainly not I who have witnessed the carnage of war, who have held dying men in my arms and felt their life's blood seep warm through my fingers - but from some peculiar disturbance of the spirit that I cannot quite name, and which I find myself ill-equipped to confront.
The case itself was straightforward enough - so entirely mundane in comparison to the great cases Holmes and I have taken on in the past that normally I would not even have considered writing the events down.
When Holmes had cornered our suspect in one of the wretched and dank warehouses by the docks, I had followed close behind, my revolver at the ready. The pursuit had been almost disappointingly simple, and I remember thinking - fool that I was - that our target seemed more resigned than dangerous.
What we had failed to account for, however, was the desperation of a man who had seen the shadow of the hangman's noose stretching long and inevitable before him.
When Holmes moved to restrain him, the man lunged. The blade came from nowhere: it was a vicious, serrated thing drawn from his boot, its edge catching the weak light with a dull, malevolent gleam. There was no warning beyond the sudden intake of breath, no time for me or Holmes to do much in terms of defense.
Holmes twisted aside with that lithe, almost feline agility of his, but not quickly enough.
The knife caught him across the forearm and continued upward in a single, horrifying motion, opening a jagged gash along his jaw - missing his eye by a margin so narrow that even now I cannot bear to dwell upon it. Blood sprang forth at once, bright and shocking against his pale ivory skin, streaming freely down his neck and soaking into the pristine white of his collar.
For a moment - no longer than the blink of an eye, and yet interminable - I could do nothing but stare.
I then moved to strike the criminal down with the butt of my revolver, my blow landing with a force that sent him crumpling to the floor in a senseless heap. Whether I employed more force than strictly necessary is a matter I shall not trouble myself to consider too closely.
My attention was already fixed solely upon Holmes.
"It's nothing, Watson," he said, in that familiar, maddeningly dismissive tone of his, even as vivid crimson droplets fell from his chin to darken his waistcoat. "A superficial injury at worst."
Nothing.
I have treated bullet wounds in the bloodied expanse of The Hindu Kush. I have amputated limbs by lamplight in Afghan field hospitals where the screams of the dying provided our only accompaniment. I am a medical man, trained and honed, my nerves steadied by years of practice and exposure to suffering.
To me, blood is merely blood - a bodily fluid, nothing more.
And yet.
The sight of Holmes standing there - blood coursing down that long, pale throat, his solemn grey eyes fixed upon me with an expression that I can only describe as faint concern (concern, I believe, for me, rather than for his own injury) - did something unspeakable to my composure. A constriction seized my chest so sudden and severe that for a terrifying moment I wondered if I might be about to collapse.
My hands - these hands which have remained steady through surgical horrors enough to turn a layman’s stomach - began to shake as I moved to press my handkerchief to his bloodied jaw.
"Hold still," I commanded, my voice rougher than I intended, edged with something dangerously close to panic.
To his credit, Holmes obeyed at once, though I was acutely aware of his curious gaze upon my face as I examined the wound. The cut was not deep. Facial wounds bleed prodigiously, and this one would require no more than a few careful stitches. Nothing, indeed, compared to the injuries I have seen and treated without a tremor.
And yet I found myself checking his pulse, examining his pupils and searching his expression for signs of shock that I knew, even then, were not present. I hovered and fussed throughout our way to Baker Street, returning again and again to injuries already assessed, unable - or unwilling - to cease.
"Watson," he said later, quietly, when we had returned to our sitting room and I was cleaning the wound with meticulous care, "I assure you, I am quite well."
I could not bring myself to meet his eyes. "Allow me this professional thoroughness," I muttered, a poor excuse even as it left my lips.
For I must be honest here, in the privacy of these pages: I don't know quite what it was - but it was not professional thoroughness that governed my actions.
Professional thoroughness does not account for the ice-cold terror that seized me when I saw that blade flash, nor the way my breath caught when I saw how close the blade came to his eye. It does not explain the sickening lurch of my stomach at the sight of Holmes's blood, nor the overwhelming relief - so intense it left me weak - when I realized the wound was not grievous. Nor does it excuse the anger I felt toward the man who hurt Holmes: a sharp, consuming fury far beyond what the circumstances warranted.
I have treated wounded criminals with perfect equanimity. I have bound the injuries of men who would gladly have seen me dead. Why, then, should this be different?
That is a question I struggle to answer.
Holmes is my friend, certainly. My closest companion these past years. We share rooms, share adventures, share long evenings where conversation and silence flow as easily as the tobacco smoke curling between us. I have grown accustomed to his presence: to the relentless brilliance of his mind, his infuriating habits, his occasional, unexpected kindnesses that reveal the good man beneath the affectations.
But this sensation - this wrenching fear, this visceral reaction to the mere thought of harm befalling him - this seems excessive for friendship, does it not? And yet I find myself unable to examine the matter with the same clear-eyed scrutiny I would apply to any other problem.
I am a creature of science and reason, although certainly not to the extreme as Holmes. But I have seen war - I should not be so disturbed by a simple laceration.
The stitches upon Holmes' jaw and forearm are neat, the wounds properly dressed. He sits now in his armchair, pipe in hand, already lost in contemplation of some new intellectual pursuit, as though the afternoon’s violence were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. The bloodstained handkerchief lies discarded in the basin, and I find that I cannot bring myself to look upon it without that same peculiar tightness returning to my chest.
Perhaps it is merely that I have seen enough of death and violence in my years. Perhaps I have simply grown weary of blood, and seeing it on someone I... perhaps seeing it on someone I regard as my dearest and closest friend has somewhat reminded me of all I witnessed in the service.
Yes. That must be it.
And yet, even as I write this rationalization, I know it to be false.
I think I shall not examine this matter too closely. If my time at Holmes's side has taught me anything, it is that there are conclusions which, once reached, cannot be set aside again so easily. They alter the landscape of one’s life in ways both subtle and irrevocable, demanding acknowledgment, decision, and - perhaps - action.
I am not prepared for any of these things.
And so I shall do what I have so often done before: I shall close this book, set down my pen, and return to the familiar comforts of routine. I shall tend to Holmes's injuries, ensure his continued health, and resume my place at his side as I always have - his friend, his companion, and his chronicler. That, at least, is a role I understand.
If there is something more lurking beneath this afternoon’s events - some deeper truth stirring uncomfortably at the edges of my consciousness - I choose, for now, to leave it undisturbed. There are questions best left unasked, and answers that may exact too high a price for their knowing.
Some mysteries, I have come to realize, are best left unsolved.
- J.W.