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Holmes and Watson emerged from the courthouse to a mass of assembled reporters and curious onlookers. “Mr Holmes!” a man shouted, and the crowd seemed to turn as a single entity to focus on the detective and his partner. Holmes raised his arm over his eyes as a dozen flashbulbs went off at the same time. Behind them Lestrade audibly cursed.
“Make way!” an officer shouted, attempting to clear a path for the people streaming from the building in single file, buffeted by the press.
“So much for Lestrade’s promise that our name would be kept out of the papers,” Holmes muttered directly into Watson’s ear as he grasped his arm for an anchor. Watson only grunted and forged ahead with the cane he’d had the presence of mind to bring. He’d told Holmes that morning that if he was going to wear a fine suit to watch him take the witness stand he might as well bring his brass-tipped cane along too. He doubted Holmes believed a word of it. By the winter of forty-three his injury prevented him from walking much further from his door than the Baker Street station without aid. Now he hesitated to make a quick stroll down to the barber shop without a trusty cane, but some part of him still resisted relying upon it too much in Holmes’s presence.
“Pardon us, excuse me, thank you, excuse us,” Holmes recited as if by rote as Watson grumbled to himself. Some blessed distraction– likely the emergence of the victim’s wife in her veiled hat and mourning dress– turned the attention of the reporters away from them for a moment. Holmes quickened his pace, steering Watson towards an alley to cut through to a side street further from the crowd.
“A shameless flock of scavengers,” Watson muttered, “and no doubt our faces in the evening papers, why if–”
He staggered and nearly collapsed as a heavy weight collided with his side. He managed to catch himself awkwardly on his hands and knees as his cane went sprawling. The bite of gravel stung his palms and a hot burst of pain shot through his injured leg all the way to his hip. Shaken, he tried and failed to stand on his own. He was dimly aware of an excited voice directing Holmes to stand still, please stand still, sir! But Holmes was at his side and helping him up in the same moment even as his cheeks warmed with shame at the humiliating fall.
Holmes did not ask him if he were alright or make a fuss for which he was grateful, so grateful. His dear companion inspected him briefly and tutted at the rip in the knee of his trousers.
“Easily mended, dear boy.”
Then the cane was in his hand again and Holmes was fixing his tie and righting his hat on his head, which made him blush anew, for wasn’t there a man right there staring at them? But when their eyes met he forgot to be embarrassed because Holmes’ expression was not one of pity or concern but of cold fury.
Watson was very glad that the thunderous look on Holmes’s face was not directed at him.
“You utter fool! Why didn’t you look where you were going?”
The young man’s face reddened. “I didn’t see you, sir!”
”Well, obviously!” Holmes took a small, sharp step forward and the photographer took a small step back. “Had you used the eyes in your head you would have seen my friend here. He’s hardly a figure you might overlook.”
The man reddened further. “But—”
”But nothing!” Holmes’s voice got louder and there was an undercurrent to it that warned Watson he was at the very edge of self-control. “This man is a decorated veteran of the Great War, injured in the service of his country before you were even born, and you tried to barge through him as if he was nothing! How dare you!”
Holmes took a breath. The lad had the sense to stay silent.
”Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”
The photographer lowered his camera, turned to Watson and bowed his head slightly. “I apologise for bumping into you, sir. I’ll pay for the mending.”
Watson puffed a laugh. “Oh, I’m quite all right. You’re forgiven, but don’t let it happen again.” He smiled at Holmes. “No harm done, old fellow. Let’s go home.”
Holmes still glared at the photographer. ”How about you take that contraption and record some real news instead of chasing people who are just going about their business. We always need news from the front.” The photographer paled. Holmes gritted his teeth. “Or swap that infernal device for a rifle and shoot at the enemy instead.”
”Holmes, my dear,” Watson said gently, taking his arm. “I think the lad has learned his lesson. I want to go home.”
Watson tightened his grip and that did the trick. He watched as anger drained from Holmes’s face, his grey eyes regaining the softness they usually held for him.
“Home, of course.” Holmes turned to the photographer, who was slowly edging away. “Make yourself useful and find us a cab.”
Before another five minutes had passed, Watson was comfortably seated in the back of an old Austin LL and on his way back to Baker Street.
Holmes remained silent for the duration of the journey but the set of his jaw discouraged Watson from attempting a conversation. It was only as he came around to Watson's door to help him out that they both noticed the bloodstain seeping into the torn fabric from the cut on his knee. Holmes whipped out a handkerchief and pressed it against the spot.
“It can wait,” Watson assured him. “Let's go upstairs and I'll dress the wound properly.”
The stairs taxed his leg terribly but he bore the pain with as much dignity as he could muster, grateful for Holmes' arm supporting him. Once in the privacy of their sitting room he was helped out of his jacket and ruined trousers and into a dressing gown.
“Now sit back and let me take care of this,” Holmes commanded.
“Pulling rank?” Watson teased, keeping his voice jovial. Holmes’s answering grunt might have been amusement or annoyance. The cut looked very bad in the lamplight, bloody and black with dust and gravel, but it hurt no worse than his pride. It was the dull ache in his wounded leg that worried Watson, having taken the brunt of damage in the fall. The relief that nothing has broken was overshadowed by the fear that he would be unable to walk on it the following day.
“Are you in much pain?” Holmes asked softly.
“A little.” Watson grimaced. “Yes. Not from that silly little cut. Pathetic, really. It’s my old injury. I must’ve tried to save myself by putting more weight on my gammy leg.”
“Watson, my dear fellow!” Holmes sank to his knees in front of Watson and peered at the abrasion. “I’ll fetch your medical bag and you can tell me what to do with this at least.”
Holmes was up and off to find medical supplies before Watson could tell him it wasn’t worth the bother. But when Holmes returned, Watson saw the look in his eyes and decided to play along.
”Gauze and antiseptic. Look for the iodine bottle. Wipe from the centre outwards. Clean gauze each time.”
Holmes followed Watson’s instructions exactly, and soon Watson’s cut was clean and dressed.
”Hah. I should make you my nurse, old man.” Watson laughed at the thought of Holmes in a starched uniform. He gestured around his head with his hands. “You’d look pretty in one of those hats.”
Holmes laughed in reply. “Any time you want to play doctor and nurse just let me know.”
Watson went quietly pink. Holmes lowered his voice. “Sorry old chap. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward.”
”Oh, you didn’t,” Watson replied with a wink. “I just don’t think I’m quite up to it after all that fuss.”
Holmes smiled up at him from his place on the rug between Watson’s knees. “What can I do for you instead?”
“Well,” Watson said, leaning back and puffing out a breath. “A hot bath would help my old wound, but I need to keep that dressing dry.”
“Then up you get.” Holmes patted his good knee before standing and helping him up.
It took a bit of work to get Watson situated in the bath while keeping his knee out of the water but they managed. Holmes sat on the edge with a cigarette in hand, watching as Watson scrubbed the day’s grit away and leaned back into the hot water with a sigh.
“Blessed heat,” Watson muttered. “One cannot underestimate the healing properties of a bath.”
Holmes merely nodded and tapped his ash into an empty glass.
As if noticing the darker turn his thoughts had taken, Watson spoke.
“Come now, pet, this is nothing to worry about. I’ve been through worse.”
The corner of Holmes’s mouth twitched at the familiar endearment but it did not chase the darkness from his mind.
“I should have smashed that bloody camera.”
“You don’t mean that,” Watson admonished, looking stricken; as though a chill had run through him despite the warmth of the bath.
“I meant to do worse the moment I saw you stumble.”
“Really, Holmes! Why, I’m not even angry at him, merely angry at myself.”
The detective’s eyes snapped up to properly hold his gaze. “What can you mean by that?”
“Only that I’m a bumbling old fool.” Watson closed his eyes. “Used to be I had enough strength to carry you to bed. Look at me now, one bad fall would do me in.” His words held a touch of self deprecating humour but they fell flat.
Holmes stubbed out his cigarette and placed a hand on Watson’s shoulder. He forced his features to relax out of their scowl.
“My dear boy, I cannot possibly overstate how much I depend upon your support, and how loyal you are in providing it. Whether I need you at home to see that Baker Street is secure or by my side with your revolver in your hand, or simply as a friendly arm to guide me on a walk when my mood gets the better of me. You are always there when I need you, even when I don’t realise it until later. And when you state the obvious or get your deductions all turned around, you make all the pieces of the puzzle fit together better in my head.” Holmes smiled. “Bumbling old fool, indeed! I’d rather have my bumbling old fool by my side than the entire British army and all the professors in Oxford.”
Watson patted Holmes’s hand and ducked his head under the bathwater. He resurfaced a second later, sweeping his hair back from his face, rubbing his eyes and stroking the water from his moustache.
Holmes’s heart warmed at the sight. “Let me top up the hot water for you and I’ll ask Mrs Hudson for a hot water bottle. When you’re finished, I’ll help you out of the bath and this time I’ll carry you to bed.”
Watson scoffed but he couldn't hide a smile at the promise.
Despite Watson’s protests Holmes did manage to carry him part of the way and he laughed so loudly that Holmes had to shush him with a kiss before setting him down on the bed.
“My bonny lad,” Watson murmured as they broke apart, “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”
“Plenty of time for that later,” Holmes reassured him, eyes lidded and voice husky. Watson swallowed, momentarily overwhelmed by the affection in his words. Holmes helped him into his pyjamas and donned his own.
“What are you looking at?” Watson joked as his partner stared at him intently from across the room while fastening the row of buttons on his nightshirt.
“The fetching way your hair curls when it’s damp. What are you looking at?”
“The loveliest eyes in London.”
“Watson…”
“Come here, old fellow. We don’t need a hot water bottle to keep warm.”
Watson shifted over to make space for Holmes. Holmes only paused for long enough to ask if Watson was absolutely sure he would be comfortable enough before slipping between the sheets and curling against his side. He felt Holmes sigh against his shoulder.
“You know, my dear old boy, looking back on it, I believe I may have overreacted a little earlier.”
Watson huffed a laugh. “You don’t say, old bean.”
He put his arm around Holmes and stroked his back. Holmes took a deep breath and settled closer against him.
“I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt.”
Watson squeezed Holmes closer still. “What, and you think I do? You silly old thing. You’ll be fussing in case I trip over a loose paving stone next.”
Holmes smiled. “You hate it when I fuss over you.”
“I don’t need looking after, pet.”
“Nevertheless.” Holmes raised his head and kissed Watson. “I like taking care of you.”
Watson grinned into another kiss. “I say, the hot bath really has worked wonders. I can think of something I might want you to take care of after all.”
Holmes favoured him with a wicked grin before disentangling himself and sliding down to work the tie of Watson's pyjama bottoms.
“You’ll want to remove yours too.”
“My dear,” Holmes said, “much as I appreciate the offer you shouldn't be exerting yourself in any strenuous manner.”
“Oh no, you'll still be doing the lion’s share, but if you bring that pretty bum up here and sit just so…”
He indicated with his hands an act of mutual gratification so indecent that Holmes blushed a lovely shade of crimson.
“Naughty!” the detective finally managed in a tone of genuine surprise.
Watson only waggled his eyebrows in a way that made Holmes laugh aloud.
“Very well, let it never be said that I denied my Watson anything.”
“You spoil me dreadfully, my dear.”
Holmes pressed a kiss to his brow. “And I always will.”