Holmes' Mistake
by Pandapony

Chapter Two

It is a strange thing being a patient in the very hospital one works at.   My own knowledge of medical science prevented my colleagues from their usual well-intended but often overly-optimistic prognoses, and I was too unfocused to pay close attention to anything other than the grim news which my fellow doctors foretold.

My throat remained swollen, and so the doctors left the cursed intubation tube in my throat.   My stab wound turned out to be less serious than originally feared, although the location made it difficult for me to move on my own.   I was kept in a drugged stupor for most of my stay at St. Bart's.   I have very few memories in all, although I distinctly recall that Holmes did not visit me once while I remained in hospital.

This bothered me immensely.   In my fevered state, I accused Holmes of fleeing his responsibilities to me out of guilt.   And then I grew despondent, realizing that guilt was not an emotion Holmes often fell prey to.   My emotions raged, heightened by the morphine, and I was in quite an unstable frame of mind by the time my colleagues had decided I would heal better in the comforts of my own home and sent me back to Baker Street for recuperation.

There was an initial flurry of activity following my return to Baker Street. Since I had been brutalized four days before, I had not had a moment alone.  

Dr. Andrews had come to call on me all the way from the Cotswolds, as did my fellow surgeons from hospital.   Mrs. Hudson sat by my side, tending to my every need.

But it was five miserable days after my experience before I saw Holmes again.

He must have come into the room whilst I had been sleeping.   Against my will, I had been placed in his bedroom to heal, as his room was adjacent the bathroom and would be easier for me to access.   I awoke to see his long, thin frame stretched on the uncomfortable wooden chair near his dressing table.   He looked completely exhausted.   Most unusual for him was the distressing state of his beard, grown at least three days' worth and giving him the air of a street scoundrel.

His eyes were ringed darkly and I could tell he had not eaten much over the last trying days.   The dim gas lamp illuminated dark scabs and blisters on his hands, as if he had been engaged in vigorous activities.  

Even in such a dishevelled state, I could not help but admire the languid body in my sight.   I had long felt a deep and unnatural attraction to my dear friend, and in rare, stolen glances such as this, I could not turn away from such beauty.   His skin was pale, and glowed faintly in the low light.   His dark lashes fluttered over his eyes in his sleep.   He had the most expressive lips, full and red, and I found myself bothered by my immediate physical reaction to such a sight as his mouth, parted softly in slumber.

I would later learn that Holmes had barely slept over the days I had been recovering.   He and Constable Chalmers had been working around the clock to track and ultimately apprehend every last member of the gang who had assaulted me.

Now I could see the ravages of this case upon him, my heart opened and I forgave Holmes at once for his lack of presence at my side.   Of course he had not sat beside me at hospital; he was too busy personally hunting down the men who had hurt me.  

But there was still a nagging suspicion within me that Holmes was also avoiding me for personal reasons.   He did not want to acknowledge his blame, or his guilt, in this affair.   My suspicions grew as I faded from sleep and woke to find him once more gone from my side, replaced by the ever-cheerful and yet less-desirable Mrs. Hudson.

Again, that evening, I opened my eyes slowly to find Holmes beside me once more.   He sat close to me, reading the paper, nursing a brandy.   I feigned sleep and watched him from the corner of my eye.   He had shaved, and looked less gaunt.   In truth, he looked stunningly beautiful.

I quickly closed my eyes and turned in my sleep, so as not to let my mind wander in such a direction.   As soon as I shifted, I heard Holmes' paper rustle.   “Watson?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.   But I had been pretending to be asleep, and so I did not answer him, instead closing my eyes tighter, listening to his regular breathing, smelling him, wishing I could read his mind, know what he was thinking at that moment.

Holmes' paper rustled once more, and I then did succumb to sleep.   And once more, when I awoke, he was gone.

 
Chapter Three