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“My God, Holmes!” Stomach twisting with panic, Watson rushed across the field to the crumpled form. There was no mistaking the grey traveling jacket or the cloth cap lying in the grass beside him, even if Watson had not been able to easily recognize Holmes anywhere, or over any distance. “Holmes!”
Holmes didn’t move, but why? What had happened to him?
Last time Watson had seen him, he’d been whisking out of the inn early in the morning with his usual enthusiasm for a case, saying that he would work faster alone. He’d been gone all day, which was not unusual.
Watson, engaged in helping with some minor injuries in the village, hadn’t worried. As he had recently told someone, Holmes disappeared without trace at regular intervals. But it seemed that this time, it had indeed been cause for alarm.
“Holmes, can you hear me?” Watson dropped to his knees beside Holmes, flinging down his medical bag, and inhaled sharply. Blood soaked through Holmes’ clothes in dark patches and puddled on the grass. “Holmes, for God’s sake, answer me!”
“I can hear you perfectly well, Watson,” Holmes mumbled without opening his eyes. “And I can hear the horse who is… likely about to steal your hat.”
Watson had not noticed the horse approaching curiously, and did not bother rescuing his hat when the creature did indeed knock it off with a snuffle of a whiskered nose. He was too busy taking out a pocket watch and pressing his fingers to Holmes’ carotid artery.
He did not like what he found. “Pulse rapid and thready, skin clammy. Breathing rapid as well. Holmes, where are you hurt?”
“Several… deep cuts. A very nasty one on my leg.” Holmes drew a long, unsteady breath. His eyes briefly flicked open, and he smiled as the horse nuzzled his shoulder. “I had a little encounter with some rather unpleasant men. Assassins, I think. I… fought them off, but…”
Watson pushed away the horse as it investigated Holmes’ hair. “Go on, get out of here. Holmes, I’m going to turn you onto your back and examine your wounds.”
He turned Holmes over as gently as possible, but the change in position still drew a sharp cry. Holmes shuddered, going even more pale. “Watson.”
“Easy, now. Easy. I’m going to take care of you.” Watson jerked a pair of shears free of his bag and cut open the thigh of Holmes’ trousers. Blood trickled from a deep, vicious cut that ran for several inches down the outside of Holmes’ leg. “This is the most serious cut.”
“Hmm?” Holmes tried to reach out to pet the horse, his expression dazed. It was well out of reach, and he tried to stretch for it.
Watson caught his hand and lowered it. “Holmes, are any of your other wounds this severe?”
Holmes did not answer at first, and Watson concerned himself with wrapping bandages around the bleeding thigh. He had moved on to examining a serious slash in Holmes’ forearm before an answer came. “Ah. Forgive me, Watson. I am a little distracted. My arm is quite hurt.”
“Yes, I see that.” This was likely a defense wound, caused by Holmes blocking a blow. Watson bandaged that as well, and then proceeded with his examination.
The cut on Holmes’ leg was certainly the most dangerous, but he had four other serious cuts on his arms, one on his chest, and another on his stomach. He also sported several bruises and smaller scratches. He must have tussled with at least two opponents to have received so many wounds, for he was an excellent fighter.
He would fight just as hard to stay alive, too, and Watson tried to concentrate on that fact while he bandaged the other wounds. His hands were covered in rapidly cooling blood, red soaking into his shirt cuffs, but he could not let himself panic.
But oh, God, what if he lost Holmes again? He could not possibly bear it.
“Holmes, I’m going to give you some brandy to strengthen your heart,” Watson said, pulling out his flask. He helped Holmes drink, then checked his pulse again. It was no weaker than it had been, at least. “Just lie still. The wound on your leg has already bled through the bandages, and I’m going to apply pressure.”
He clamped one hand across the bloody bandages as he pulled another roll of linen from his bag. This might not be enough bandages to deal with so many wounds. He had more back at the inn—he always brought more than he needed—but no more with him at present.
None of the locals were about so that he might call for help, either. It was getting into the evening, dinner time for most. He and Holmes were on their own, at least for now.
“I need you to try to stay conscious, old man,” Watson said, as much for his own steadiness as for Holmes remaining conscious. Speaking forced him to breathe rather than yielding to the fear that battled against all his training. “Can you tell me more about what happened? When did it happen?”
“The wounds are recent,” Holmes said, a little too slowly. “My investigation… into the supposed kidnappings… yielded nothing. The facts did not add up.”
Watson swept off his jacket and laid it across Holmes, then shook out the bandages. They stuck to his bloody hands, and his stomach twisted at the awareness of just how much had bled through that first bandage. “You believe we were lured here under false pretenses, then.”
“Excellent, Watson.” A shiver rippled through Holmes, and his teeth chattered. “The still-lingering remnants of…”
He cut off with a sharp noise of pain as Watson pressed down on the leg wound. Watson made a soft shushing noise. “Easy, old man. The remnants of Moriarty’s gang, no doubt?”
Holmes managed a weak nod, then a twitch of a smile. “I won.”
Watson looked at the blood slicking his own hands. “I see.”
“If I had lost, I would not be alive.”
It was a fair point, but Watson still cast a nervous glance around at the field. Other than the horses, there was no one around. It seemed that they were safe enough for the moment.
He would need to get Holmes inside, though, and most likely without any help. He had left Holmes alone when there was a threat against his life once before, that horrible day at the Reichenbach Falls. He had no intention of making that mistake again.
When no more blood soaked through the thick pad of bandages on Holmes’ leg, Watson pulled off his tie and carefully secured them in place. Holmes stirred, giving him a bleary look. “How is it, Watson?”
“It is in desperate need of sutures, Holmes.”
“Dear me.” Holmes gave a heavy sigh. “I am a little tired. Perhaps that is due to my case being a hoax.”
“Personally, I think the blood loss is a more likely culprit.” Watson wiped his hands on a cloth, although the blood was too tacky for any real success at cleaning. “I am going to have to make you more tired, I’m afraid. I must get you into the inn.”
“Ah.” A faint smile twitched onto Holmes’ face again. “Presumably I shall be drifting peacefully on clouds of morphine at the time?”
“That is my intention, yes.” And with daylight fading, he ought to inject it while he still had light.
He did so, then collected his scattered medical supplies. Next, with difficulty, he got Holmes to his feet and supported as best he could manage. Pain flared through Watson’s bad leg and shoulder as they stumbled across the field together, and Holmes seemed hardly able to lift his feet.
They made it out of the field with only the occasional horse-related obstacle, and Watson half carried Holmes into the inn. Thankfully, there were men of the village inside the attached tavern, and he employed some of them in helping him get Holmes up to the bedroom.
He had only just sent them off for more bandages and hot water when Holmes seized his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Watson.”
“I’m here, Holmes.” Watson patted his hand, then gently pried it loose and laid it on the blanket. “It’s all right. Going to get you stitched up now.”
Holmes winced, then waved a hand at the door. “Lock that door first.”
“Holmes, I’m waiting for more bandages.”
“Then lock it after!” Holmes let out a shaky breath and flashed a brief, apologetic smile. “I do not believe we are in danger now. Nevertheless.”
Watson nodded his understanding as he elevated Holmes’ legs with pillows to reduce the effect of shock. It was unlikely that there were more members of Moriarty’s old organization in the village, for they would have been involved in the ambush. Still, it was best to be cautious. Dealing with another assassination attempt while he was cleaning and suturing wounds would be appalling.
Once he had all the supplies he needed, he carefully locked the door. Holmes was humming softly, one of his favorite concertos. For a brief moment, Watson just listened to him, and savored the relief that his dear companion was alive.
Once he had caught his breath and was sure that his relief would not lead to tears, he washed and dried his hands. Gently, he touched Holmes’ cheek, and was rewarded by a flicker of a smile. “Holmes, I’m going to clean and suture your wounds now. Your body is… quite well-practiced when it comes to processing morphine, so there may still be some pain.”
“It’s all right, Watson.” Holmes opened his eyes, looking up at Watson with affection. “I can endure a little pain.”
“Yes, I see that.” In awe, Watson shook his head. “I have no idea how you made it back here while so injured. Each step must have been agony.”
“It was a little uncomfortable,” Holmes said, words slightly slurred. “But I certainly had no intention of succumbing to such an ill-planned assassination attempt, or leaving my Watson alone again.”
This time, Watson did tear up despite his best efforts. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, unable to risk shaking hands. “I cannot describe how glad I am that you’ve returned to me once again, old man. Rest now, and let me tend to you.”
Holmes lapsed into silence after that, pale and exhausted. Watson helped him take another sip of brandy to strengthen him for what was to come, then returned his attention to the wounds.
The one on Holmes’ leg had bled through the bandages again, which was no surprise after the struggle to get back to the inn. Watson peeled away bloody bandages and rinsed the area, meticulously cleaning away any contaminants, then turned to his needles.
Holmes groaned occasionally as Watson drew the cut edges of skin together, hands moving in well-practiced motions. He had certainly stitched up patients in worse conditions than this, and so long as he did not think too much about the fact that this was his dearest friend and companion, he remained calm and steady.
Once he had sutured the leg wound, he attended to the other injuries. Holmes had managed to fight off his attackers, and none of the wounds would likely cause serious complications. Even the cut on his stomach had not nicked anything vital. So long as they could avoid infection, Holmes ought to recover.
Holmes seemed to be almost dozing, or perhaps deep in thought despite the morphine. It was not always possible to tell, especially when Watson’s attention was elsewhere. Only the occasional tension in Holmes’ expression provided any data. Most likely, he was thinking.
It was not until Watson had washed his hands again and was dressing the wounds that Holmes confirmed his consciousness by suddenly speaking. “You were not harassed here in any way, Watson? I feared that you may have been attacked simultaneously.”
“No, old man.” Watson secured the last bandage, then took his limp hand and held it gently. Holmes was still speaking more slowly than usual, and looked utterly exhausted. But it was a relief that he felt well enough to speak. “I was completely safe, no trouble at all. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were in danger.”
“My dear Watson.” Weakly, Holmes squeezed his hand. “You could not have known. I myself was a complete fool, however. I ought to have realized the situation as soon as we arrived.”
“I do not see how you could have known.” Watson held up a warning finger. “And you should not explain it all now. I have no doubt that there are any number of things that are clear to you now that you’ve nearly been murdered, but you have lost too much blood to think about them now. You must rest.”
“Nonsense.” Holmes gave a faint smile, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the bed in his usual restless fashion. “We have been apart all day. I wish to tell you of my observations.”
Watson snorted, and then teared up again. “Your observations must wait. Still, it’s good that you’re feeling yourself, Holmes. I admit, I was terrified when I saw you lying in the field.”
“Dear me.” Sighing, Holmes glanced up at him. “My apologies for that, Watson. I had intended to return to the inn before collapsing, but I fear my legs gave out.”
“Well, you still made it back to me, and that is what matters. You are alive, and with me.” A tear escaped, and Watson let out a long, shaky breath. “I have no intention of letting you out of my sight anytime soon, granted.”
“Good old Watson.” Holmes squeezed his hand, then frowned. “My dear fellow, you seem to have neglected to rescue your hat from that most charming horse.”
Watson laughed, more tears escaping. But they were tears of relief, and of joy to be together. “I am happy to let the horse keep my hat so long as I have you, Holmes. And as I’m sure you still wish to pet the ‘most charming horse’, we shall pay a visit to the paddock when you feel well enough.”
“Excellent.” Although Holmes was still pale and winced as he adjusted, he gave Watson another quick twitch of a smile. “Thank you for taking such excellent care of me, John. You are always utterly reliable in a crisis.”
Watson had not felt wholly reliable earlier while his hands were covered in Holmes’ blood, but he had managed not to panic. And although there would still be recovery time ahead, he was quite certain that Holmes would be all right now.
“It is a great privilege to be trusted with your wounds, Sherlock,” Watson murmured, brushing a kiss to his companion’s brow. “Rest, now, and I will watch over you.”
He simply stayed beside Holmes’ bed for a time, clasping his hand. Soon, it would be necessary to rise and clean up both himself and the room. But for a moment longer, Watson simply savored the relief of not being alone.