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In Holmes’ opinion, it was absurd to be dizzy at the moment. He had only been shot, and the bullet had passed straight through his shoulder. He had even managed to use his scarf to bind the wound before anyone noticed.
And thus, he should be fine. It was perhaps some small blood loss, and granted, there was pain. But it was hardly an unreasonable amount of pain, and not the worst that he had ever experienced by far.
Keeping his expression perfectly calm, he strolled down Baker Street with Watson and Lestrade beside him. The other two were quite deep in conversation about the body-snatcher and would-be murderer that had just been apprehended. As much of the conversation involved medical matters, Holmes could plausibly refrain from taking part.
Which was fortunate, because the dizziness was getting somewhat worse. Holmes leaned on his walking stick a little more heavily, and tried to keep breathing. At least thus far, no one had noticed his condition.
“I think we’re due for a celebratory drink once we get back to Baker Street.” Watson turned a bright grin on him, and Holmes managed a brief twitch of a smile in return. “Perhaps Lestrade might join us?”
“I would be glad to. It was a remarkable capture, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said with considerable admiration. “I suppose I have to admit that you’ve bested me this time, even if most of your theories were a little far fetched.”
All of Holmes’ theories had all been firmly founded on observation and logic. Ordinarily, he would delight in explaining his chain of reasoning to an attentive audience. At the moment, he simply wished to properly bandage the wound, and then lie down. “Well, all’s well that ends well. I may perhaps postpone drinks, however, as I have not slept for some little time, and—”
As they came to the doorway of 221B, the street went into a spin, and Holmes lost his train of thought. He lost his footing next, legs giving out, and crashed to the ground in a heap.
“Holmes!” Watson scrambled to him, fingers curling around his wrist. “My God, your pulse is faint. Where are you hurt?”
“I am… perfectly fine,” Holmes mumbled, vision dimming. It was very cold.
“You are not perfectly fine. Lestrade, your jacket.”
“Here, Doctor.” Lestrade passed his jacket to Watson, who quickly threw it across Holmes. The fabric was warm. “There, now. I’ll call for a cab and have you both to hospital in—”
“I shall not go to hospital.” Holmes managed to snap the words. “I wish to stay here.”
Watson cradled his cheek in one warm hand. “Then tell me what is wrong.”
“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang with panic, and Holmes winced. She must have just opened the door. It seemed he had managed to collapse in front of practically everybody that he knew. “Oh, Doctor, what’s wrong with him?”
“My left shoulder.” As little as Holmes wished to admit it, there was little point in hiding it any longer. “I have a little scratch.”
At once, Watson peeled layers of fabric away from the wound. He inhaled sharply, resting his hand on the center of Holmes’ chest. “For God’s sake, Holmes! You’ve been shot!”
“As I said, a little scratch.”
“It is a hole that penetrates all the way through your shoulder, and is bleeding heavily.” Watson let out a frustrated sigh, pulling bandages from the inside of his jacket. He did tend to be prepared for such instances. “You should not have concealed your injury from me.”
Holmes grunted. “I fear I have something of a habit of doing so.”
“You do.” With another sigh, Watson packed linen around the wound, then gestured to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. “I will need your help to get him upstairs to his bedroom.”
For a moment, Holmes considered insisting on the settee, where he would be closer to the things he needed for his work. It was unlikely that Watson would let him work with his current injuries, however, so perhaps it was best to conserve his strength for the journey to bed.
Movement hurt horribly, and Holmes briefly feared that he might faint as his friends helped him inside. He leaned heavily on Watson as they struggled up the stairs, his vision going darker with each step. It seemed that he had perhaps underestimated the extent of his injuries, and indeed the amount of blood lost.
Once Holmes was settled in bed, he tried to catch his breath while Watson spoke with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was dispatched to boil water and fetch medical supplies, while Lestrade was banished completely from the house.
“I had intended to… explain my reasoning to him, Watson,” Holmes protested feebly once Lestrade left. “About the case, I mean.”
“Well, you can explain it to him when you’re not bleeding profusely.” Watson sat beside the bed, digging in his doctor’s bag. He shook his head and gave Holmes a frustrated look. “I will never understand why you insist on lying to me.”
“All my apologies, Watson.” Holmes gave a quick smile. “As I said, it is a habit, at least when it comes to my health.”
“It is a habit that I wish you would break. I cannot properly care for you if I do not know that you’re injured.” Gently, Watson removed the bloody bandages and dropped them beside the bed. “Just lie still, old man. Let me take a look.”
Holmes lacked the strength to move at this point, but he resisted the urge to point that out. He had little wish to worry Watson more, and so remained both silent and still.
As always, Watson tended to him with gentleness, competence, and speed. In no time at all, Holmes’ wound was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. Tending also involved a dose of something for the pain, which was a relief as the injury did hurt rather a lot.
“There, old man. That’s better.” Letting out a long breath, Watson turned to wash his hands in a basin that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. “I presume this happened while you were pursuing the body-snatcher?”
“Mm. The factory that I pursued him through had a great deal of machinery at work, which masked the sound of the gunshot.” Holmes flicked a tired smile at his long-suffering friend and doctor. “I had intended to take care of the wound myself once we returned home, Watson. It was not as if I intended to simply let myself bleed out.”
“You were well on your way to bleeding out. If you had not collapsed when you did and had simply kept losing blood, the result might have been much more serious.” After toweling his hands dry, Watson smoothed Holmes’ fringe off his brow, then ran light, careful strokes across his hair. “I do not wish to lose you, Holmes.”
The pain in his voice made Holmes’ stomach twist, and he nodded as he caught Watson’s free hand. “I really am sorry. I did not realize the extent of the injury, nor how much it would grieve you.”
“I know. You have never had much care for your own safety.” Watson sighed again, then gave him a fond smile. “Just don’t do it again.”
“I will attempt not to.”
“And you must follow my instructions while you’re recovering.” Smile widening slightly, Watson shook a finger at him. “No rushing off to chase more criminals.”
Holmes rolled his eyes, but he could not help smiling in return. Despite what a terrible patient Holmes was, Watson had always been endlessly kind and forgiving. “Very well, Doctor. I shall behave.”
Or at least, he would try. It was difficult to rest, even when he was injured. But although he doubted whether he could remain in bed for long, he would try not to leave the house. Recovery would be dull, but at least he had an excellent—and very understanding—doctor.