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Often, after a long day, Watson was somewhat sore. That was simply the consequence of his old wounds, something which he was quite accustomed to dealing with.
He didn’t generally mention it, or indeed do anything about it save wait for it to improve. Most often, he could hide his pain even from Holmes, at least so long as Holmes was occupied with a case and thus not scrutinizing him intently out of boredom and a desire to startle him with the dramatic results of those observations.
By the time the search party from Holdernesse Hall left the limestone cavern, however, Watson’s entire body had seized up with such crushing pain that he had no hope of hiding it. He was already limping before they even stepped outside, and although darkness had fallen, the light of the torches provided too much illumination to conceal his increasingly wavering step. Besides, Holmes could likely hear it even among this crowd.
Watson tried to hide it anyway as they headed back towards Holdernesse Hall. He had no wish to trouble anyone, or to distract them from their task of getting Lord Saltire home. As Watson had very much overexerted himself searching for the boy and then trying to protect him, he certainly wanted to complete that job properly. He always wished to help others, rather than being a burden.
But each step was becoming increasingly difficult now, his bad leg threatening to seize up completely. He could scarcely move his left arm, either, his shoulder agony. The whole rest of his body seemed to have decided to hurt too, but his old wounds were the worst of it. The hardest to hide, or even to minimize his display of pain.
He was lagging somewhat behind the search party now, even Holmes. Holmes remained with the rest, conferring now with one person or another. Watson could not help a twinge of hurt at this abandonment, although he understood it. Holmes was still on the case, and still had not heard the full facts. He had far more important things to worry about than Watson’s aches.
Besides, this gave Watson a better chance of concealment. As they had missed dinner, his slow pace might be attributed to hunger and resulting fatigue. The worsening limp, he could not hope to hide, but if he could perhaps minimize it, then—
He stumbled over a patch of rough terrain, coming down hard on his left leg. The cry of pain which tore from his throat effectively ended any hope of concealment.
The whole of the search party turned back to him, and Holmes darted out of that mass of people. “Watson?”
“I’m all right, old man,” Watson choked, although he could scarcely manage to speak at all. His vision had blurred with tears, the party before him turning into indistinct smears of light and dark. “I just…”
He ran wholly out of air. His next attempt to draw breath failed, his chest seizing up as pain throbbed through the whole of his body. His legs wobbled, and for a moment he feared he might simply collapse.
“Dear me.” Holmes caught his arm, steadying him as he swayed. “Please, the rest of you may carry on! We shall be shortly behind you.”
Watson was less certain of that. Holdernesse Hall was just up ahead, yes, but a vigorous walk still lay before them. At the moment, he felt that he might faint dead away if he tried to take one more step.
“Watson?” Holmes ducked down, trying to meet his gaze. At the moment, Watson couldn’t even raise his head to meet it. The whole of his body seemed to have locked up. “Would you be better off if we sat down here for a time?”
Watson swallowed hard, fighting to gather words. “As it is… quite cold, no.”
“Then would you like to borrow my cane to aid you in reaching the Hall?” Holmes asked, then made a quiet sound of apparent disagreement with himself. “No, no, no. That will not aid you, for you cannot bear any weight on your left arm. It is more useful to have my support on your right side than that of a cane, I presume?”
Swallowing hard, Watson nodded. As usual, Holmes was right. That would be much better than trying to lean on a cane, especially with how much the pain was spreading through the whole of his body.
“I have already arranged for us to spend the remainder of the night at the Hall. I had at first thought we might return to the Priory School once Lord Saltire had been recovered, but it was evident when you rejoined us before the final search that you would be in no shape to do so.” Holmes twitched a faint smile at him, one which disappeared in a flash. “I fear that this day has been rather severely taxing for you.”
It certainly had. Exploring the moor on foot for so much of the day had been taxing enough. Riding horses added still more strain, especially to his leg, which had objected to being in the saddle. Then he had run a great deal, fallen while following that villain who had kidnapped Lord Saltire, and then needed to crouch while walking in order to make it through the lower, cramped sections of the cavern.
After all that, just walking normally was difficult. Each step seemed to jar him as much as his horse’s bouncy trotting, and his bad leg threatened to give out more than once. Holmes had his right arm in a firm grip, helping him to hobble along, but even that became increasingly painful.
Unconsciousness sounded oddly appealing. He had fainted before, most memorably the previous year when Holmes had revealed himself to be alive. The moments of unconsciousness which followed had been wholly peaceful and free of any awareness whatsoever. At the moment, that sounded quite ideal.
However, Watson made it to the Hall without fainting, which was likely fortunate. It was quite clear from Holmes’ expression that he felt horrible about this whole affair. There was a certain tension in his entire face, the sort which commonly only appeared when he was angry with himself.
“Here, Watson,” he said at last, bringing Watson to a bedroom which was thankfully located on the ground floor. “When I was speaking with the staff earlier, I requested this room, as it is downstairs and not too deep inside. I really am extremely sorry to have put you through this, and to have failed to realize just how badly you needed my assistance, but I shall do all that I can to aid you now.”
“You haven’t put me through anything, old man.” Watson hardly managed to choke the words out, and he essentially collapsed onto the bed when Holmes attempted to get him to sit. “I… chose to come with…”
Further attempts at speech failed utterly. Instead, a broken sob escaped, and then another, and another. He could not choke them back, not anymore.
“All right, Watson,” Holmes said softly, peeling him out of his jacket with care not to disturb his shoulder too much. It still hurt, even with all that care. “In this interests of minimizing your stress, I shall restrain from further self-castigating, at least out loud. I do not wish you to strain yourself.”
Watson also did not wish to strain himself, as he had already reached his maximum tolerance for any such strain. Despite that, he would still have liked to better reassure Holmes, and he certainly did not regret having exerted himself so greatly. They had saved a boy’s life, after all.
Unfortunately, even knowledge of that success did very little to head off the pain. It felt as if the whole of Watson’s body was being crushed, every muscle screaming in agony. As Holmes stripped him out of his waistcoat as well, and knelt to take his shoes, Watson could only just manage to even remain sitting.
“Dear me, you are in a most dire condition.” Clicking his tongue with disapproval, Holmes went to stab at the fireplace and stoke the flames higher. Then he snatched up a stack of blankets from the chair in the corner. “I requested that these be brought to our room. You are certainly in need of a great deal of bundling. Then, perhaps, dinner?”
Watson shook his head slowly. “I cannot,” he whispered. “It hurts too much.”
“Hurts too much for dinner? It seems I have greatly underestimated just how severe your pain is, and I was estimating it quite high.” Holmes wrapped two blankets around Watson’s shoulders, then coaxed him to lie back. “Easy, my boy. Just attempt to relax now.”
Watson could not help a cry of pain at the movement, and more tears escaped down his cheeks. Every breath brought on a wave of agony now, as if blows were slamming into his entire body. His leg and shoulder felt as if they had just been torn open by bullets, his blood spilling across distant sands.
The sound of cannons and rifles. The screams of the dying. Pain, so much pain, so much that he could not even reach for his own weapon to defend himself. He could only lie there, helpless, dying…
“Watson.” A familiar voice, gentle and singsong. “Watson. Come back to me, now. Come home to England once again. We are in the north, enjoying the dubious pleasures of their moors.”
Yes, that was right. Watson had been hurt not on the sands, but those moors. From running, riding, falling.
“Holmes,” he mumbled, and now became aware of the gentle hand running slow, careful strokes across his hair. “Is it you?”
“It is me, Watson. I fear you became somewhat overwhelmed by pain, and by memories of the original wounds which have now been aggravated.” Holmes sniffled, and his hand trembled as he continued to stroke Watson’s hair. “It is understandable, but I confess I am somewhat at a loss for how to help when it is this severe.”
So far, he seemed to have helped by absolutely burying Watson in blankets. The warmth certainly felt good, as did the warmth of the fire. Some of the stiffness was gone, if not the pain.
“I have sent for tea, which has now been delivered,” Holmes said hopefully. “Would you care for a drink?”
Watson wished only to sleep, but then again, his mouth was rather dry. “So long as I do not have to move.”
“Mm. I believe I can arrange that. We shall just pour a small amount of tea, and add a little cool water so it is not too hot.” Holmes’ whole expression had gone quite tense with worry again. He held the teacup to Watson’s lips. “I believe that if you are careful, you can sip this without my raising your head. However, should that prove too difficult, I will attempt to help you move with as little strain as possible.”
Thankfully, Watson did not need to move in order to sip his tea. It was quite good, and warm without being too hot. The warmth of it rushing through him made him rather crave a good brandy.
But in this instance, Brandy would not be enough. He was in need of something much stronger to relieve his pain.
“There is a way you can help me, old man,” Watson said once he had caught his breath enough to speak.
Holmes straightened to attention, eyes brightening. “Anything.”
“In my jacket pocket, there is a hypodermic of morphia.” Watson did not always carry one, but often. “As we seemed to be dealing with a cunning, dangerous foe, I thought it best to be prepared. I did not expect the foe to be my own body.”
He had intended that as a joke, but a few tears rose again. Holmes twitched an understanding smile. “It may be more accurate to say that the countryside and extensive activity are the foes, and your body the victim. I do believe that morphine is a wise idea, and then likely a nap. Perhaps when you awaken, you shall feel able to eat?”
Watson gave a noncommittal noise. At the moment, pain quite thoroughly obliterated even the fantasy of having an appetite anytime soon.
“Would a hot water bottle be of use?” Holmes asked after administering the morphine. “I am certain that so grand a household must have one somewhere.”
“Not unless it is large enough to cover the whole of my body.” Watson gave a weak chuckle, letting his eyes close. “This will do.”
The morphine soon took effect, both relieving the pain and making him quite thoroughly fatigued. Watson did not fight the fatigue, not this time. Instead, he surrendered to it, and dozed off almost at once.
It was not the most peaceful doze. Watson had not expected it to be, of course. He never slept well when in pain, and the fogginess of morphine only worsened the similarity to all the time he had spent in an army hospital, sick and injured, barely clinging to life.
He dreamed of those days, of the fever burning through him, of the agony in his wounds, of the fear that he might never be of any use again. He had once been a doctor, a healer, someone who helped people. If his health was ruined, and if he could no longer practice medicine, what good was he?
But in the dreams, Holmes was there, in the hospital with him. Sitting beside his bed, stroking his hand, holding his hand. His rich, resonant voice washing over Watson, driving back the fear. He could not be afraid so long as Holmes was with him.
And so long as Holmes was with him, Watson could be certain that he was still of use. Even when Watson was ill, and even when he was in pain, Holmes found ways for him to help, to contribute.
To be of service was all that Watson had ever wanted. Secure in the knowledge that he would be given a chance to continue doing so, he sank into a deeper sleep.
When Watson awoke again, this time fully rather than a mere brief escape from dreams, Holmes was still beside the bed. He had been sitting back, bundled in a blanket himself, but he straightened now and flashed a smile. “It’s all right, Watson. It is still night, and you have not missed breakfast.”
Watson chuckled at that, and was startled to find that it did not pain him nearly as greatly as he had expected. His stomach growled, and he returned Holmes’ smile. “I confess, I do not think I can wait for breakfast. I’m hungry.”
“Fortunately, you do not need to wait. I ordered a late supper for you, and the Duke’s cook has provided quite a selection.” With a long exhale, Holmes stretched out his hand for the covered tray beside the bed. He looked thoroughly exhausted himself, moving much more slowly than usual. “How do you feel?”
“Better than earlier, certainly.” Cautious, Watson tried to raise his arm. Pain wrenched through his shoulder, and he grunted. “Not so much better that I can move, it seems.”
“That is no matter. I shall be happy to feed you.” Rubbing his hands together, again rather slowly, Holmes regarded the tray. “Now, let me see. I believe something easy to eat without much exertion would be best. Would you like something such as cheese or a little roast beef sandwich? Or do your present tastes run more towards shortbread and tarts?”
Watson’s tastes ran towards a full meal, now that his appetite had returned. But he was certainly not capable of moving enough to eat one right now, and furthermore had no wish to rouse anyone else to cook for him.
That did raise another point, however. “A sandwich, but… You look exhausted, old man. If you would prefer to go to another room to get some rest, I’m quite sure I could manage to feed myself.”
“No,” Holmes said, a little too quickly. He flicked an apologetic smile in response, although his gaze dropped. “No. After tales of lonely boys crying in the cold, unanswering night, I confess I am not inclined to be by myself. I should be grateful if you will allow me to remain and tend to you.”
“Yes, of course. I shall be glad of your help.” Watson manage to move just a little, enough to offer his hand from beneath the blankets. “In that way, I may feel that I am helping, too.”
Holmes’ expression softened, and he took Watson’s hand in a gentle grasp. “You are always of the utmost help, Watson. Not only to myself, but to many others. You have done excellent work on this case, my boy, and I am most proud of your fortitude.”
The earnest conviction in his voice sent a rush of warmth through Watson. To serve, to be of help, was what he always longed for. He had managed to do so on this case, and indeed on many others at Holmes’ side.
Watson would be in a great deal of pain for some time, his body pushed beyond its limits. But it had been well worth it, and now he could simply rest and recover, and let himself be helped.