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I only meant to close my eyes for a moment, really I did. It was simply that once I had made it up the stairs to our sitting room and all but collapsed onto the sofa, I could not summon the energy to get up again. I was too worn out from the night’s excitement. My wounded arm throbbed incessantly. I told myself I would rest for a few minutes, then get up and see to the injury properly before going to bed. I’d be in for a miserable time if it wasn’t properly cleaned and stitched.
A gentle brush of a familiar hand over my brow woke me. The room was in near-total darkness, Mrs Hudson having gone to bed hours ago, and I had to blink several times before the image in front of me resolved into something recognisable. A face I knew as well as my own was illuminated by a lone flickering candle.
“This is what you get up to while I’m away?”
“Holmes.” I smiled wearily. “I didn’t know you were back. Did I disturb you?”
“I only arrived ten minutes ago.” He set the candle on the coffee table and sat down beside me. His hair was falling over his forehead rather than slicked back, and he wore a light grey overcoat with a high collar. He looked dreadfully pale. I wondered if he hadn’t been working himself too hard again. “The first thing I saw was you, fast asleep and snoring.”
“I do not snore, thank you very much.” I smacked his shoulder playfully without thinking. The movement jostled my arm, and I winced. Immediately Holmes helped me sit up straight - I’d slumped onto my left side while I’d been dozing - and looked me over.
“Mycroft told me something of what happened,” he said. “Let me see.”
“When did you speak to Mycroft?” I struggled to remove my jacket. Both it and the sleeve of my shirt were torn and stained with blood. The blade that Winter threw at me had been incredibly sharp.
Holmes hissed out a breath between his teeth when he saw the state of me. He sprang to his feet to fetch a few things from the emergency kit we’d cobbled together over the years. It contained anything we might need for injuries sustained in our line of work, and was replenished frequently.
“From what you told me in your letters - thank you for those, by the way - I ascertained that he would go to meet the boat in hopes of catching Count Sylvius. It could only have been him.” He went into his room and returned carrying a jug of water.
“What could?”
“The one behind it all; the one who had the stone, no matter how he tried to lie his way out of it. You’d better undress, my dear fellow. I don’t think your shirt will survive much longer.” He laid out everything on the coffee table next to the candle. “Mycroft was there. He found the Mazarin Diamond.”
“Really?” I folded up my unfortunate shirt and laid it aside with my jacket and waistcoat. My arm was bleeding through the bandages I’d hastily applied at the Garridebs’ house. “Where was it?”
“In the Count’s cane. The handle had a secret compartment.” Holmes’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “A cliché, perhaps, but clichés must stem from somewhere.”
“That’s rather ingenious,” I said. “Everybody was so busy wondering where the stone was hidden, but no one would have considered he might risk carrying it around with him.”
“It was a risk the Count was willing to take.”
“Apparently so.” I shivered. The fire was out, and I was sitting in my vest and trousers.
Holmes lit a lamp so he could see better, shrugged off his coat, then sat at my side again with his knee nudging against mine. He began to gently unwrap the soiled bandages. They stuck to my arm. I clenched my teeth while he coaxed the fabric free with a pair of tweezers.
“What manner of blade did this?” he asked in a low voice as he examined the wound. I barely felt the delicate touch of his fingertips. He was being so gentle with me.
“Did your brother not tell you?”
“He only said you had been hurt.” He lifted his eyes to search my face once more. “And that you would recover.”
“It was a jeweller’s tool of some kind, a blade for cleaving the stone into pieces. We had the drop on Winter at first, but the moment I spoke aloud, he turned and threw it at me.” I shook my head at my own foolishness. “I ought to have kept my mouth shut. Then it would never have happened.”
“Perhaps.” Holmes lifted one hand to carefully turn my head to the left, raising my jaw. “And this?” I felt a tiny sting of pain under my chin as he touched a small cut I hadn’t noticed previously.
“Ah.” Mycroft really hadn't given him any of the details. He had likely considered it better - and, thinking about it, I agreed with him - for Holmes to learn the full story when I could serve as proof that I was alive and well, rather than have him hear it secondhand without seeing me for himself. I recalled the incident at The Three Gables, and how he had rushed to my side with hardly a second thought for anything else once he heard I'd been attacked. I had done the same, after Baron Gruner’s thugs had set upon him.
“I pulled the blade out of my arm and put it down,” I explained carefully. “Winter came over, pretending to be apologetic, begging me to let him help. He said it was an accident, that he’d seen the gun in my hand and thrown the blade to defend himself. He got close enough to pick it up, and then he held it to my throat.” I could not stop the shudder that ran through me at the memory of his hand forcing my head back, the point of the blade pressing into my neck. “I don't know if he intended to use it. When the sisters Garrideb brought the cellar trapdoor down on his head, he fell hard. He must have nicked me on the way.”
Holmes had gone very still. His finger slipped down my neck, just a touch, to rest over my pulse.
“It's my own damned fault,” I said. I was ashamed of myself for ending up in such a vulnerable position. I should have considered the risks more thoroughly; I should have been more prepared for Winter to turn violent; I certainly shouldn't have let him get so close as to lay his hands on me. “I ought to have been more careful.”
“Where was Mycroft in all this?” Holmes asked in a clipped tone.
“Don't blame your brother, my dear fellow. He kept Winter talking long enough to get the desired information, and you know he wouldn't have left me in that position, or let Winter take me away.”
“He could have done more.”
“Holmes, the fact that your brother was there at all is a miracle in itself.” I raised my eyebrows. “Didn't you once tell me he ‘has his rails and he runs on them’? He was only with me because you couldn't be - and can you honestly say you would have done differently if you had been there, with Winter holding me hostage?”
He frowned. I could see he was thinking, so I waited quietly for him to speak again.
What he said next shocked me to my core.
“If I had been there,” he whispered, looking down at my bleeding arm, “Winter would not have gotten anywhere near you. If he had killed you, he would not have left the room alive.”
“Holmes!”
“What? It is the truth.”
He raised his head. I could not fathom the depth of sheer emotion in his gaze. I saw it so rarely, it was shamefully easy to forget; all the loyalty and love I felt for Holmes was in fact reflected, reciprocated. At that moment I felt pinned to the sofa like a butterfly under glass, unable to look away from my friend's face. The lamplight made his pale eyes shimmer like something ethereal.
“I hate to see you hurt, Watson,” he said in the softest tone imaginable.
“Holmes.” I cupped his face with my left hand. It took me a long time to think of anything else to say. “I will be alright. There’s no need for you to hunt anyone down, for goodness’ sake.”
“If he -”
“It will do neither of us any good to get caught up in what-ifs and might-haves, my boy.” I stroked his cheek. “The cut is painful, but not serious. If you are able to clean and stitch it for me, it will heal well enough in no time at all. I cannot do it properly myself, and perhaps if you hate to see me hurt, it will cheer you to be the one who helps me heal. You know you always have been.”
Holmes took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “As usual, Watson,” he murmured, “you speak wise words.” He turned his head and pressed his lips to my palm, then set to work.
We fell into silence. The only sound I made was a slight groan of discomfort when Holmes began to clean out the cut with iodine after flushing it with cold water. In answer, he placed my left hand on his knee and squeezed, encouraging me to clench my fingers if the pain was too much. I was able to grit my teeth and stay quiet while he applied a neat row of stitches with fastidious care. I think he must have observed me doing the same to him - he used exactly the same technique that I did, right down to the way he tied the knot.
“Do you want to take anything for it?” he asked, wrapping a fresh bandage around my arm.
“It’s not so painful as that,” I said. The throbbing had subsided into more of a dull ache by that time, though I could not move my arm very much. I wondered how I would sleep comfortably. “I would not mind a drink. Your brother partook in some sherry at the Garridebs’ house, but I didn’t join him.”
Satisfied with his handiwork, Holmes got to his feet. “Allow me to wash my hands, doctor, and I shall pour us each a brandy. I hear its medicinal properties are incomparable; so much so that it may be recommended for any and all ailments.”
If he was teasing me, he was feeling better. I tugged a blanket off the back of the sofa to wear around my shoulders, as my clothes were ruined and I didn’t particularly want to traipse upstairs to fetch a clean shirt. It was almost one in the morning by the mantelpiece clock, anyway. Nightclothes would have been more appropriate.
Holmes appeared, wearing his dressing gown, and presented me with a glass which I sipped gratefully. “Would you care for a cigar?”
“If you wouldn’t mind lighting it.” He did so, and I set down my drink so I could smoke instead. “Thank you.”
He collapsed onto the sofa beside me and stretched one arm across the back while he puffed on a cigarette. I leaned into the cushions, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for his arm to drop down and rest around my shoulders. He pulled me a little closer.
“Do you know,” I said thoughtfully after a few minutes, “I almost feel sorry for Winter.”
Holmes snorted. “Of course you do. Why?”
“I was just thinking that he went to prison for five years, for a murder he didn’t commit. Then when he was released he got involved in another scheme and was double-crossed. He hasn’t exactly had a good run of luck.”
“He deserved it,” said Holmes viciously. I gave him a look, and he blushed. “He made the choices that led him to that cellar. He trusted the Count - highly inadvisable. He was blinded by greed. See how quickly he turned to threats when put on the back foot.”
“I suppose so.” I sat forward to stub out my cigar. When I settled back again, Holmes tucked his arm more securely around me, carefully avoiding my injury. “Perhaps taking a life did not seem so daunting, when he’d already served time for it.”
Holmes tutted. “I have said before,” he intoned, “precious stones are naught but trouble. The Blue Carbuncle, the Mazarin Diamond, the Black Pearl of the Borgias. They hold a certain beauty and are assigned a certain value, and men will go to incredible lengths to possess them. For what, I ask? To become the target of others who would do the same. No gem is worth a life, my dear Watson; certainly not yours.” He sighed heavily, then flicked his spent cigarette into the ashtray on the table. “I should have been with you.”
“Why weren't you?” I turned my head to face him. “What on earth were you doing up in the Highlands? You never said.”
He shook his head. “It does not matter now.”
Well, if he did not wish to tell me the particulars, I would not force them out of him. “Have you laid your ghosts to rest, at least?”
“I believe so - enough that I felt satisfied to return to you. At just the right time, apparently.”
“I'm glad you did.” I smiled up at him. “I shall need your assistance for the next week or so. It would be my right arm that was injured, of course. I may not even be able to write properly.”
“Woe to your adoring public,” he said with a little quirk of his lips. “I would be honoured, my dear fellow. And who knows, it may be good practice should I ever need to take on the role of gentleman's gentleman.”
“Very good, Holmes. Carry on,” I said in a haughty tone, which made him chuckle. It was nice to hear him laugh again. He'd been distracted and quiet for a long time before his sudden departure for the Highlands, and then of course our only contact had been infrequent letters with days of nothingness in between. I had missed him.
We sat for a while, smoking and sipping our brandy, neither of us feeling the need to say any more. Eventually my eyelids began to droop, but I could summon no energy to get up and go to my bed. Instead, Holmes pulled the blanket off my shoulders and laid it carefully over both of us.
I think we were both extremely tired, for it did not take long before Holmes's head settled on top of mine. I fell asleep with him holding me, as if I, too, were something precious.