Mary Crawford's Vices

The Unexpected Affair of the Injured Detective

Author: Mary Crawford
Fandom: Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series.
Rating: PG
Warning: I don't do warnings.
Posted: January 1st, 2007
Email: marycrawford@squidge.org
URL: https://www.squidge.org/~marycrawford/
Notes: Written for Am-Chau in the Yuletide 2006 challenge, aka the Obscure Fandom Secret Santa Project. Feedback will be treasured.

One evening in the winter of 1894, I sat in my old armchair, my legs propped up on a low footstool, glancing over the newspapers and awaiting Holmes's return from the docks, where he had been pursuing a new counterfeiting gang for several days.

The hour was late, and even the account of the Griffin murders in the Illustrated Police News failed to hold my interest. Rain lashed the windows, the fire burned low, and in the dim light, all the old, familiar furnishings looked strangely altered, throwing their long, dream-like shadows into the corners of the room: Holmes's violin abandoned carelessly in a corner, the acid-stained table, the untidy bookcases, and the empty chair opposite mine.

It seemed so long ago that I first moved into Baker Street, intending to leave as soon as I could buy my own practice, only to find myself hopelessly intrigued by my fellow-lodger. A man of extraordinary gifts, yet so removed from common experience that he professed not to be aware that the earth travelled around the sun -- which, as I later found, was an example of his peculiar sense of humour, for he had himself written a small treatise concerning the origins of the solar system.

I had grown to know my friend very well indeed in the years that followed, yet Holmes still prided himself on his ability to amaze and surprise me. And indeed, not so long ago he had given me the greatest shock I have ever sustained in my life. At the mere memory of his sudden, dramatic reappearance, a thrill of warmth and joy flooded through me, and I gazed into the fire with unseeing eyes, feeling both elated and ashamed.

My reverie ended abruptly when the door to the sitting room swung open, and a broad-shouldered, bearded man stalked in, flung his dripping-wet greatcoat onto the floor, and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the fire.

"Evening, Holmes," I said.

"It is no use, Watson," said he, sinking down into his chair with a groan. "There is no more originality to be found in the criminal world than in the music-halls, and no more sense of the history of their trade. Before dawn, every member of that gang will be in prison, and by next month another gang will have succeeded them, using the same feeble methods as before."

He presented a rather incongruous sight as he sat there, his lean features half-hidden by a beard and grizzled sideburns, and his linen shirt showing traces of the padding that added some bulk to his spare frame.

"Not a case for your files, in short. But I met Hopkins on my way, and he believes he may have something more interesting for us soon." Those keen eyes glanced my way, and his gaze softened with concern. "I perceive that your old wound has been troubling you, my dear Watson. If you should prefer to be spared any future excursions--"

"Certainly not," I said with some heat, and he smiled.

"I thought as much." He stretched his long, thin hands towards the fire, exposing a torn strip of linen wrapped around his forearm.

"Holmes, what is this? You are hurt."

"It is nothing, my dear fellow. One of the forgers took exception to my remarks about his skill, and expressed his objections in the crudest fashion."

"Let me see."

"Really, Watson--"

I had already struggled out of my chair. "You know very well that it is of no use to protest. Now, please roll up your sleeve."

With an exaggerated expression of long-suffering, Holmes did as I asked, and I unwound the rather dirty linen to find a long, narrow gash, clotted over with blood, the skin around it inflamed and hot to the touch.

"A clasp-knife," said Holmes, leaning back in his chair as I bent over him, "and, I may add, a very lucky hit. I know what you are thinking, Watson, but I assure you that there was no need for your presence or your service revolver tonight."

"All the same, I wish you had let me come." I could not remember Holmes showing such consideration in the old days, and I must admit it grated on me a trifle. "I may be an invalid at present, but even so--"

"My dear fellow, you mistake my meaning." Holmes's intent gaze arrested mine. "I would not waste my Watson on mere amateurs."

I shook my head and tried to look severe, rather than absurdly touched and pleased, but I fear it was no use; Holmes had told me many times that he could read my features like a book.

When I returned from my bedroom, black bag and fresh bandages in hand, I found the sitting room deserted and the door to Holmes's bedroom standing open.

As I walked in, Holmes was just removing the last traces of spirit gum with a cloth drenched with alcohol, the beard and whiskers discarded upon his dressing table.

At my request, he sat down upon the bed, and I began to clean the wound with some fresh water from the washstand. The gash was deeper than it looked, and dirt and lint had been carried into the wound. I did not remonstrate with him, knowing full well that he did not consider his own health of the slightest importance, and that he used it as he might use a tool that came to his hand, only to discard it when the job was done.

As I worked, he discoursed upon the history of forgery, from the infamous Bank of Fleet's issue of twopenny banknotes to the forging of land grants in America, for all the world as if we were sharing a meal at Simpson's.

"This will require stitches, Holmes," I said.

He gave me an absent nod, which frankly was more than I had hoped for, and I began my preparations, until a thought occurred that gave me pause. In a case like this, I would generally dose my patient with laudanum, but Holmes was no ordinary patient; any sedative I could give him would require a much higher dosage than I was willing to administer.

Holmes interrupted my deliberations. "Perhaps a glass of brandy?"

I was accustomed by now to Holmes breaking in upon my thoughts in this fashion, and merely nodded. Brandy was not ideal, but it would do, though I rather suspected that he was humoring me. I was more reassured by the fact that I had not found any needle marks upon his arm.

With one of his sudden displays of energy, he sprang up and was back with a bottle and two glasses before I could say a word.

I poured him a tot of brandy, and he drank it off carelessly, looking rather disreputable as he sat there in his shirt-sleeves. Not allowing my thoughts to stray in any improper direction, I sat down next to him and laid his forearm across my knees.

Holmes was as silent as a sphinx the while; his eyes were half-closed, his breathing a little faster than usual. When the work was done, I dressed the wound in fresh linen and stood up to rinse my hands at the washstand.

When I turned, I found him examining my handiwork with fascination. "Upon my word, Watson, your stitches would do a seamstress proud."

"I doubt it will scar. Still, you have a slight fever; I would advise bed rest, and I intend to examine your arm again in the morning."

"I would not dare to dispute you," he said, with his ironic smile, and I left him in possession of the last word.

I carried a glass of brandy back into the sitting room with me, and settled myself in my chair again.

It was close upon midnight, but I was curiously reluctant to go upstairs. I had intended to work on my notes for one of our recent cases, the dreadful affair of the Horsell Common meteorite; instead I listened to the rain beating upon the windows and the wind howling in the chimney, and let myself dream.

I was startled fully awake by a muffled noise from Holmes's room; a cry, perhaps, or a groan.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would not intrude upon Holmes's rest, knowing how he valued his privacy; in this case, however, I felt myself responsible, and so I lit a candle and took it into his room, treading quietly.

Holmes had thrown off half the covers, and his nightshirt clung to his lean shoulders. He did not wake when I entered, which was a symptom in itself, as Holmes was a very cat-like sleeper. I set down the candle on his night table, then bent over him and felt his forehead, which was fairly hot.

A small rust-red stain showed upon the sleeve of his nightshirt, and I pushed up the sleeve to examine the bandage.

At this moment Holmes woke. His hands gripped my shoulders, bruising-tight, and his grey eyes pierced me; then he fell back with a groan. "Watson," he said, sounding relieved, even pleased.

"I am sorry to disturb you," I began, but Holmes shook his head, then coughed, and I gave him some water from the carafe.

"There are worse midnight visitors, my dear Watson," said he, when he could speak again. "For a moment I thought I saw the late Professor standing at my bedside, waggling his head at me in that peculiar way of his, and beckoning me to join him in his private compartment of Hell."

He spoke lightly, but his hand trembled when he set down the water glass, and I felt a rush of sympathy for him that I tried not to betray. "No more than a fever dream, Holmes."

"No beeswax and belladonna needed now, eh, Watson?"

"Indeed." I looked away, having no wish to call that particular memory to mind; even if I had no cause, now, to fear for him as I had then.

"I do not think a similar deception would pass muster with you now, even at a distance. You have grown to know me far too well. In any case, I would not subject you to such an ordeal again."

There was a note in his voice which I had not heard before, and it took some effort to meet his gaze. I had long known that I could not hide myself from Holmes, but I had hoped that he would, at least, spare me a discussion that would surely be as painful to him as to me.

"Holmes, I do not think--"

The look he gave me took my breath away. I had never seen such open tenderness in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth.

"As always, you underestimate your own worth, my dear fellow," said he. "Perhaps you will allow me to demonstrate."

For a moment I felt myself standing on the edge of a precipice, trembling.

"You are not a well man, Holmes," I said; a remark not at all to the purpose, but he seemed to understand me.

"I am alive, however," said he, and reached out a hand; I took it in both of mine, my heart singing with joy, and let him draw me down.

Of what followed then I will not speak, even in these private notes that will likely never see the light of day. I will say only that it was quite some time before Holmes turned his head and blew out the candle, and that no dreams of Moriarty returned to plague him in the night.