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Watson really ought to have just risen, to have dragged himself to his feet. He most certainly did not want Holmes to worry. Unfortunately, he couldn’t bring himself to move.
“Watson!” Holmes hurtled to him, vaulting over a gate without breaking stride. He landed easily and kept running. “I have hurled the man who attacked you into the river, where he will keep nicely until the police arrive. How severe are your injuries?”
They felt deadly, but that was no doubt an exaggeration. Watson’s old wounds had flared up as badly as the new ones, which worsened the impression. “I’m—”
“Clearly in considerable pain,” Holmes interrupted, words almost tripping over each other. He had been speaking increasingly quickly these past days, and in fact doing everything increasingly quickly. “As the would-be murderer is now in police custody, I shall tend to your injuries, and then we shall return to the inn.”
Watson smiled a little despite his pain. “I thought you said the would-be murderer is in the river.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I did. I fear my thoughts ran ahead of my actions.” Touching a finger to his lips, Holmes turned back towards the river which ran past the village. “Well, at any rate, the cold water has him in custody. He is not unconscious, Watson, so you need not worry that I am attempting to outright murder him. Even if he did shoot you.”
A chuckle slipped from Watson, although he immediately regretted it. Any movement hurt terribly. “Well, we shall just have to ensure that you remember to notify the local police.”
That is, Watson would have to remember that. Holmes’ brilliant mind was racing far too quickly for him to keep track of anything he deemed a petty concern, particularly when he had another problem to absorb him.
At the moment, it was Watson’s injuries which absorbed him. Holmes was quite skilled at treating wounds, and he flung himself into doing so now. In seemingly no time at all he had Watson out of his jacket, shirt cut away from the wound, and was examining the furrow of the bullet which had torn through the outside of his shoulder.
“There is nothing which shall require surgery,” Holmes said, neatly picking Watson’s pocket for bandages. “However, you must receive treatment, and then rest. I shall propel you back to the inn with all haste.”
“Just don’t propel me too fast, old man,” Watson said, blinking away tears of pain as Holmes applied pressure to his shoulder to stop the bleeding. “The gunshot wound isn’t my only injury.”
Holmes gave him an almost offended look. “I was aware of that, Watson.”
“Just checking, Holmes.”
The gunshot wound was certainly unpleasant, and it was what had caused his other injuries. The gunshot wound had caused Watson to stumble and then fall down a hillside. The impacts with the ground alone would have caused injury, worsening Watson’s recurring pain.
But in addition to his shoulder, which was still bleeding vigorously despite the first layer of bandages, Watson had a number of smaller cuts as well. He had crashed through at least three separate thorny bushes on his way down the hill, sharp points ripping into his flesh. He was reasonably certain that some of the thorns were still embedded, given the stinging and throbbing in his hands especially.
“Dear me.” Holmes snatched another roll of bandages from Watson’s pocket and began to wrap more linen across that which had already become soaked with blood. “This really does look most unpleasant. Will you be able to reach the inn?”
Watson managed a vague noise of assent. At present, he did not feel like moving, but he would be able to do it when necessary.
Holmes secured the bandage and helped him to sit up, wincing when Watson groaned. “Oh, Watson. I really am extremely sorry. I ought to have been able to prevent this.”
“It’s not your fault, old man.” Watson tried to blink away the haze, his eyes clouded with pain. “And it’s not that bad.”
“Any injury to my Watson is quite horrible,” Holmes said, tearing up rather abruptly. Just as abruptly as, he seized Watson in a hug.
It was a very careful hug, despite the sudden nature, and Watson closed his eyes as he leaned into it. Holmes had taken care not to put too much pressure on any of his injuries or indeed his aches, and the steadiness of it was most soothing after the fright.
Watson found himself rather teary as well, but he choked those tears back. If he let himself fall apart now, he would never have the fortitude to return to the inn.
Holmes at last released him and helped him up. Watson leaned into the support, very much in need of it. His left leg, wounded so long ago in war, had seized up completely. He would most certainly be in need of Holmes’ help to walk.
Fortunately, even when Holmes was in a somewhat less than organized condition, his mind racing, he was quite reliable in the face of any task. Chattering about the case and about his chain of evidence connecting their criminal to the attempted murders, he aided Watson in walking back to town.
Watson lacked the energy to respond to any of this chatter, far too overwhelmed by crushing pain. But his responses weren’t necessary, not really. Holmes was simply thinking out loud, and did so best when Watson was there to listen to his thoughts.
It did require another reminder from Watson, but Holmes also notified a constable as to the man he’d thrown in the freezing river. Then, he helped Watson into the inn.
By that time, Watson rather felt that he’d been flung into ice water himself. It was a frigid day in general, and he’d broken out into a sweat from the pain. The combination left him very badly chilled.
“We shall place you beside the fire,” Holmes said somewhat imperiously as he took Watson into their rented sitting room. “The fireplace, one might say.”
He burst into laughter at his rather unusual joke, and Watson could not help a chuckle in response. Holmes had a very strange sense of humor at times such as this, and it never failed to amuse him.
Amusement quickly failed in the face of pain, however, and Watson lost control over a choked cry as Holmes eased him onto the settee. His head spun, and a few tears slipped loose even as Holmes helped him to take laudanum.
Watson tried to bring himself back under control, but it was too late. Those few tears seemed to have opened the floodgates, and broken sobs tumbled from him. He could not stop shivering, cold, but each wave of shivering increased the pain.
“Ah, dear me. My poor Watson.” Holmes snatched up several blankets. One, he settled very carefully around Watson’s shoulders, ensuring it was not too tight across his injured arm. Then, he sat on the settee too, and piled the other blankets around them. “There. I shall now attempt to both warm and comfort you.”
He put his arms around Watson again, holding him close as he cried. Watson would have preferred to thank him for this, but he had wholly run out of the ability to do anything other than cry. It seemed that he had simply reached the limits of his tolerance, and had no hope of regaining control until his emotions had run their course.
Holmes held him through it, murmuring occasional reassurances. The two of them had long been the best of friends, and knew precisely what the other needed when there was trouble or distress.
Neither of them had the least interest in relationships other than friendship, finding the very concept of such love quite baffling. Once, both of them had expected to end up very, very alone. But instead, they had found each other, and devoted themselves to learning how to best support one another’s needs.
Sometimes, learning that had been complicated. What Holmes needed was quite dependent upon his mood, whether it was up or down. As for Watson, he had something of a habit of ignoring his own needs to the point of being wholly unaware of them.
But after so many years of friendship, it was easy to know how to support each other. And with Holmes’ determined care, Watson soon found himself much calmer, as well as warmer.
“Thank you, old man,” he managed, drawing back somewhat. Not much, just enough that he could lean back against the settee. “Dear me. I’m quite exhausted.”
“Yes, I would imagine so. You are rather battered.” Keeping one arm around Watson, Holmes rummaged in the medical bag. “Would you care to have me remove those thorns from your hands now? I have observed that a few remain embedded.”
Watson nodded his permission, and Holmes bent over his hands with utmost attention. Although Watson would not say so, it would actually be rather good for Holmes to have something to focus on these next days. When his mind was racing this quickly, the end of a case tended to result in a severe crash. Tending to Watson would certainly distract him.
“There.” Holmes dabbed the wounds with disinfectant, twitching an apologetic smile when Watson winced at the sting, and then drew him close again. “How is that? All right?”
“Yes, indeed.” Watson let out a long, tired sigh and turned to lean his brow against Holmes’. The laudanum left him somewhat dizzy, and the steady contact helped. “All I wish now is to rest.”
Holmes took that as an invitation to launch back into chattering, and Watson smiled. The warmth of the fireplace crackling nearby drove back the chill, and so did snuggling so close together. Listening to Holmes talk would be a wonderful way to rest and recover.