Harry: Chapter Thirteen

Clean Slate

by Liederlady

Notes

After we had finished our lunch, we took a stroll up the beach before the sun set.

“And we must not forget to dig for clams and shells,” Sherlock said.

I smiled at his serious tone.

“Was that a favorite pursuit of yours as a small boy?” I asked.

He looked over at me with furrowed brows.

“What do you mean?”

“When your family visited the shore … did you dig for shells?” I asked.

The blush returned to his cheeks again.

“No,” he replied.

“Then why …”

“I have read that such pastimes are typical when visiting the ocean,” he said.

“Read? Then you have never--”

“I have never visited the ocean until today,” Sherlock said, his eyes again darkening with uncertainty.

“Where did you learn to swim?”

“In a shallow pond at-- where I grew up,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh. And where was that?” I asked.

Suspicion returned to the grey eyes.

“In the north country,” he answered, clearly not wishing to discuss it further.

“I see.” I left it at that, not wishing to further discomfit him. But his reticence fueled my fears that his past, his childhood may have been fraught with pain. Doctor Brett’s cautioning voice echoed in my memory.

We walked along the beach in uncomfortable silence. I think that the rest of the day might have continued in that unpleasant vein were it not for the presence of a beached jellyfish obscured in the sand.

Sherlock cried out and stumbled backward.

“What is it?”

I reached out to steady him and only then noticed the pearlescent sheen of the viscous creature sunken in the sand near his feet.

“Come away from here,” I demanded, putting my arm under his to help him hobble some feet away.

“Here, sit down and let me see where it stung you.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“A jellyfish,” I said.

“What is that?” he asked in an oddly curious tone.

I glanced up at him. His color was paler than normal and his hands were slightly clenched on his thighs from the pain, but his craned-neck attention was focused on the area of beach where he was stung.

“Don’t you know?” I asked.

He looked back toward me and the grey eyes narrowed slightly.

“I already told you I have never visited the ocean until today. What is a jellyfish?” he said, this time in an unquestionably demanding tone.

I explained all that I knew of the creature while I inspected his injury and took his vital signs. His heart rate and respiration were both elevated, but not alarmingly so. I saw the tiny barb of the stinger remained in the ball of his foot. The skin there was already inflamed, breaking out in raised lesions.

“Well, its sting is certainly painful,” he said in confirmation of my explanation.

“I must remove the stinger, but if I don’t protect my fingers I’ll be stung too.”

He nodded, but his attention again turned toward where the jellyfish lay.

“I want to see it.”

“But-- ” I took one look at the determined set of his jaw and could not help but chuckle.

He looked back at me in confusion.

“What?”

“You.”

It was all the explanation I could offer.

“Stay right here, I need to get one of our towels and that bottle of wine we haven’t finished,” I said, then took off running back toward our spot down the beach.

“Don’t move,” I called back over my shoulder, hoping he would not try to hobble back toward the jellyfish.

By the time I returned to him, his pallor had gone, but he was rubbing the lower part of his leg.

“It burns,” Holmes said as I went to the water’s edge to collect some seawater in the cup I had brought from our picnic.

“I know. I was stung once when I was a boy. But this will help,” I said, lifting the cup.

Using the towel as a barrier, I worked to remove the stinger from Sherlock’s foot. Squeezing the flesh would have expelled the stinger, but I worried that might pump more venom into his foot. The towel made my fingers clumsy but I eventually removed the barb.

“This will hurt a bit,” I warned, pouring the cup of seawater on the wound. Sherlock hissed.

“This will help too,” I said, grabbing the wine bottle from the sand. Sherlock made as though to take it from me when I pulled out the cork. He yelped in surprise as I poured the wine onto his wound. I glanced up at his face expecting to see a grimace of pain. Instead I was greeted by the petulant pout for which his lips seem so well-conditioned.

“That is a rather expensive manzanilla you’re wasting,” he grumbled.

“Well, that is a rather vital foot you have and I think it is well worth the luxury,” I replied with a grin. “When I was stung, my father had only seawater to use as antiseptic. I assure you, this is far more hygienic.”

“Perhaps, but you could have spared some for my palate, Watson,” he said archly, casting a regretful glance at the nearly emptied wine bottle.

I squeezed the ball of his foot hard, encouraging the wound to bleed then poured more wine on the puncture. Sherlock flinched slightly but remained silent. I ripped the cuff from one leg of my bathing suit and wrapped it around his foot.

“Wats-- why did you do that?” he asked incredulously.

“It will suffice until we get back to the cottage. Then I’ll properly bandage it. Here, I brought your boots as well,” I said as I handed them over.

“You ruined your suit,” Sherlock said as he donned his boots.

“Physician’s prerogative,” I said with a grin then stood. “Come now, I’ll help you back to our picnic spot.”

He finished lacing up his boot then looked up at my outstretched hand.

“I would like to see the jellyfish,” he said quietly.

“What?”

His eyes dropped to the ragged leg of my suit then wandered toward the spot where the creature lay. In profile, I saw the muscles of his jaw flexing in nervous agitation.

“Come on then,” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. He took it and I helped haul him to his feet. “Lean on me and we’ll have a look at the blackguard.”

He grinned and I helped him hobble over to the creature whereupon he knelt to inspect it.

“Careful of it,” I warned.

He ignored my caution and leaned very close to it, eyes wide. He sniffed at it then reached out a finger as though to poke it.

“No! Do you want another sting?” I shouted, leaning down and grasping his wrist.

“I want to see what it looks like underneath,” he said without tearing his gaze from it.

“Well don’t touch it for bloody sake, let me find--” I looked about and spotted some driftwood farther up the shore. “Wait, I’ll get you a stick or something.”

When I returned he was prone, belly down in the sand next to the jellyfish, long legs stretched out, chin propped on crossed arms, gazing at the creature that had just dealt him a painful sting as though it held the answer to every question he’d ever pondered. For a moment, I just stood there watching him, mesmerized by his boyish curiosity.

His head turned in my direction and he scowled at me.

“What’s taking you so deuced long, Watson? Bring me the stick,” he shouted imperiously.

I hurried forward and handed him the stick which he immediately shoved into the sand next to the jellyfish. With a deft upward motion, he flipped the viscous creature onto its back … or was it the head ... its tentacles writhing in a futile effort to right itself. Holmes used the stick to restrain the tentacles while he inspected the animal.

“Interesting, only one orifice ... do you think it feeds and evacuates through the same opening?” he asked.

“Does not sound hygienic to me,” I mused. His lips pursed.

“I see no evidence of a brain,” he continued.

“That explains it,” I replied.

Sherlock glanced up at me with a withering glare.

“Watson, you are not entering into the scientific opportunity for study which this creature presents,” he drawled.

“It is a jellyfish. It has tentacles with stingers. If the stinger comes into contact with human skin, pain ensues. What else must I know?”

He grinned at me then continued to examine the beast. I crouched, far more interested in watching Holmes than the jellyfish.

He poked gently at the creature, observing its reaction.

“How do you think it mates?”

I was a bit taken aback. He looked up at me and smirked.

“It would seem an important function,” he reasoned.

“To another jellyfish, perhaps,” I said dryly.

“Undoubtedly,” he chuckled.

He continued to examine it for a few moments then appeared to lose interest. He rose to kneel in the sand.

“Now we can return it to the sea,” he said dismissively.

“What?”

“It will expire if left here. Perhaps we can push it on a large section of driftwood and carry it down to the water,” Sherlock suggested.

“It will likely just beach itself again,” I said.

“Perhaps, however we shall still have made an effort to assist it Doctor,” he replied.

I glared at him but he turned on that rare, charming smile that rendered some inner portion of me as quivery as the jellyfish. I resignedly turned back toward the pile of driftwood.

Five minutes later, I was in waist-deep, bracing sea water holding a large and rather heavy piece of driftwood above my head upon which the jellyfish was perched. I was fighting against the ebbing tide, attempting to gauge the waves so that when I submerged the driftwood, the animal would not be tossed against me.

From the shore, Sherlock was shouting encouragement. I swore I could detect a lilt of amusement in his voice. I was confident that I appeared spectacularly idiotic.

“Manipulative, spoiled, overbearing … ‘however we shall still have made an effort to assist it, Doctor’ … hmph, assist the ugly beast so it can sting me senseless,” I muttered to myself.

At that moment, I was far from charmed with Sherlock Holmes.

When I had waded to above shoulder-level, I managed to tip the driftwood far enough into the water to submerge the jellyfish. It instantly revived and began moving off the wood to the right just as backwash from a wave caught it and sent it floating back toward me. I used the driftwood as a shield and tried backing away.

Something hard and rough painfully scraped against my lower leg and my abrupt effort to move away from whatever it was made me lose balance in the strong current. I splashed down into the water, my rump hitting bottom as I submerged, seawater stinging my eyes and flooding my nose. I had only to stand up, but feared emerging among the jellyfish’s tentacles. Instead, I tried to turn and swim underwater toward what I believed to be the shore.

The hard, rough object slid past my thigh, scraping the skin there as I swam. After several strokes, I felt it was safe to stand and righted myself. When my head broke the water’s surface, to my right was Sherlock … head up, eyes crazed … swimming hard toward where I had fallen in the water.

“John, John,” he sputtered as he caught sight of and headed toward me.

“Turn around and go back. I’m all right,” I yelled as I struggled toward him, parallel to the shore.

“No, there is … it is large … in the water,” he spat out, along with mouthfuls of water as he neared me.

His hand gripped my outstretched arm and began pulling at me. I needed no encouragement to reach shore, but welcomed the assurance he was right next to me as I was doubtful of his ability in the current.

I reached over and filled my fist with the front of his bathing suit to pull him closer. After only a stroke or two with one arm, I stood dragging Sherlock to his feet with me.

“It was near you,” he gasped.

“Well, let’s see to it that it’s no longer near either of us,” I growled, pulling him along as we slogged through the water. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and saw a fin splitting the surface of the water. It was large, the creature’s back clearly visible just breaking the water’s surface.

When we were clear of the water I flopped down on the sand, shivering from the cold more than fear. Sherlock slumped down next to me.

“Was it … was it ...” he was gasping between breaths.

“A shark, yes. Damnation! Why did you jump in the water?” I shouted.

“It was … near you. I thought … you submerged … it submerged …” he stammered excitedly, his eyes wide as he peered out over the water.

I didn’t need for him to finish.

“Well, thank you but I was fine,” I snapped. I was grateful that the boy had jumped in to rescue me, but felt equally enraged that he would endanger himself so impulsively.

“You are not fine. Your leg,” he gasped, his hand grasping my lower left thigh which was scraped raw. My left ankle bore a similar patch of abraded skin. “You’re hurt! Did it …”

“It just rubbed me when it swam past,” I said, my voice far calmer than I felt. The shark had come perilously close to me. “Its hide alone is rough enough to scrape the skin.”

The boy’s hand was trembling. When I looked up at his pale face, his eyes were wide with concern.

“I should never have asked you to go in the water. I’m sorry. I had no idea there was such danger,” he said, his eyes darting away from my gaze then returning to my abrasions.

“You didn’t ask me, I just went in.”

“It’s my fault you’re hurt.”

“Sherlock, I’m not hurt. It’s just a few scrapes,” I said. “I should have known better at this time of day. Nothing has happened and nothing is your fault.”

“It is …”

“Besides, we saved the jellyfish, didn’t we?” I cheerfully interrupted.

He was not amused. His head lifted slowly; there was something brittle, vulnerable within his gaze.

“I’m all right. But I say, dear fellow, I don’t know many people who would have jumped in to rescue me. I’m flattered,” I said. The guilty glint dimmed, replaced by innocent bewilderment.

“You would have done the same for me,” he said. “You have done … with Edwards.”

It was only then I noticed Sherlock was shivering.

“Well, I suppose the slate is clean between us now,” I said gently. “I’m freezing. Let’s get back to the cottage, shall we?”

He nodded. I spotted his boots a few yards down the beach where he had thrown them off before plunging into the water. I retrieved them for him and he knotted the laces and slung them over his shoulder.

“Here, lean on me. I don’t want you bearing weight yet on that foot,” I told him. He hesitated so I slipped my arm under his. He stiffened, but said nothing.

Our walk back to the picnic site then to the cottage was a silent one. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, apparently still trying to blame himself. For the moment, I allowed him to ponder. Once we were both warm and comfortably settled by the hearth, we could talk.

Notes

shark: Most likely a basking shark, so called because they swim so close to the surface of the water as to appear “basking” in the sun. Large, gregarious and generally harmless to humans, plankton-feeding basking sharks are common visitors to England’s coastal waters during the spring and summer months.

Chapter Fourteen: Of Toxins And Tempers And Tales