Work Text:
For all of the years in which I had lived with Sherlock Holmes, he still managed to surprise me. In this instance, when I picked up a plate on the sideboard, and found a bag of poison darts underneath.
I yelped, jerking my hand back. These were not the darts which had long ago been involved in the case of the Sign of Four, and not nearly as deadly, but I still had absolutely no wish to prick my finger on them. Particularly as Holmes was presently confined to bed, and needed my care.
Delicately, I collected a selection of snacks, keeping a careful eye out for other mementos of past cases. Holmes’ mementos had a habit of wandering, although I had not expected them to happen across them now.
“My dear Holmes,” I said as I pushed my way into his room. “How is it that you have not been out of bed in three days, and yet your little tokens of past cases still manage to meander through our rooms?”
Holmes opened his eyes, although he could only open the left one partway. He’d been in a fight earlier in the week—a fight which he had won, despite his injuries—and he had yet to fully heal. “Well, well, you are not the most observant of men, Watson. It is entirely possible that you have missed whatever has so offended you.”
“It has mystified me, not offended me. I am primarily confused as to how they got there, although I must confess that it is possible I missed them until now.” I set down the plate on his bedside table, unable to help a smile. “But really. Poison darts on the sideboard?”
Although Holmes was so battered as to hardly be able to move, he gave a shrug, his eyes twinkling. “It is a mystery to me as well, Watson.”
“That is not wholly encouraging.”
“Did you expect me to be encouraging?”
I chuckled despite my alarm at the unsafe nature of our living space, for Holmes had an ability to make anything sound sarcastic no matter how quiet his voice. It had been extremely quiet of late, his energy badly depleted by his injuries. “I suppose I did not. I do, however, expect you to eat something, for nutrition is necessary if you’re to heal in a timely fashion.”
That seemed to persuade Holmes, although he gave the plate of food a somewhat less than interested look. He chafed at inactivity, and as any movement was painful, he had not been very pleased about trying to chew.
He was certainly not in any shape to feed himself, and so I cut up the assorted snacks into small pieces. I had chosen things which could be easily chewed—mild and reasonably soft cheese, buttered bread, a banana—and despite Holmes’ general lack of interest in the food, he ate without protest. He had closed his eyes again, wholly exhausted by just eating.
Once he was beginning to chew so slowly that I wondered if he was dozing off, I set the rest of the plate aside and examined him with as little disturbance as possible. For him to eat had been more important than a precise temperature reading, and so I merely rested my hand on his brow. I found no alarming heat, and moved on to checking his pulse.
There was nothing of concern there either, thankfully. I did not wish to subject him to any serious movement, and would wait to examine most of his wounds until later. He had a number of abrasions which had not needed any bandaging, but I was keeping an eye on them for any signs of infection. Thus far, the wounds were healing well.
He had rather more serious cuts on his hands and arms, some of which had required sutures. I carefully unwrapped the bandages, studied his injuries, then dressed them again.
“You’re healing well, my dear Holmes,” I said softly, securing the bandages on his right hand. “How are you feeling?”
I attempted to lay his hand back down on the bed, but his long, thin fingers tightened around mine. “A little bored,” he said in a too nonchalant tone. “I would be greatly obliged if you would sit beside me for a little, Watson.”
Holmes’ eyes remained closed, but his lip trembled just a little. He was not merely bored, but likely upset about that boredom, as well as his worries about how long it would be before he could resume his work. He did not wish to be alone.
I would never dream of pointing out such a thing, for I knew of his pride all too well, and so I simply squeezed his hand. “I should be delighted to sit with you, Holmes.”
He smiled, just a little, and squeezed back. His expression relaxed, becoming much more peaceful.
As he had not spoke again, neither did I, but simply sat with him and held his hand. Conversation was likely too tiring for him right now, and as I had slept little of late, I was tired too. For now, it was enough for both of us to be together, taking comfort from one another’s presence.