Holmes' Mistake
by Pandapony

Chapter Three

It had been hours since anyone had seen me.

I lay there, desperate for the toilet, my anxiety mounting as I realized the state of utter helplessness I was in.   I tried to get up on my own, but my stomach wound made it impossible for me to stand without aid.   I tried crying out for help but the blasted tube in my throat made my voice nothing more than a pitiful gasp of air.  

Mrs. Hudson had been in to help me that morning, but I knew she had planned on making a trip to the market.

And Holmes was nowhere to be seen or heard.   He had stopped in the bedroom that morning, to collect a change of clothes and a few of his personal items from his room.   When we made eye contact, Holmes did not say a word.   There was something unusual in his expression, an unreadable emotion I could not decipher.   It was very frustrating, to not be able to communicate, to not know what he was thinking or feeling.   He looked at me for a long time, speechless, and then finally, he reached over and touched my shoulder affectionately.   His long fingers were cold, I felt his chill even through my nightshirt.  

  “Watson.”  

It was all he said.   And then, suddenly, he turned away and left the room.  

Was it an apology?   Was he too overcome with emotion?   It seemed unlikely.   Holmes had never understood the way I and other emotional beings felt.   He was like a calculating machine.   And in the face of my pain, he simply turned away.   He had not been back in the room all day, nor, from what I could decipher by sound, back in the flat at all.

Determining that I was indeed alone at Baker Street, I had no choice.   I steeled my nerves and tried to scoot towards the edge of the bed.   Although I had initially protested against being put in Holmes' room, now I realized the logic in his ways.   The bathroom was only a few steps away, no stairs.   But even those few steps seemed insurmountable.  

I was near the foot of the bed, trying to crawl to the bathroom, when I had my accident.   I don't know how many times I had comforted men who had lost bowel or bladder control during my tenure in the army, and yet now here I was myself, devastated by the loss of decorum, by the hideous feeling of being soiled and humiliated, of weakness.   I used to relate tasteless jokes to my patients as I cleaned them, trying my best to ease their embarrassment.   Now I sat, growing cold in my own urine, feeling as though I wanted to die.   How could I not listen to my own advice, even now?

Just then, Holmes returned.   He entered the room with his pale cheeks flushed red from the outside cold.   He smelled like rain and tobacco.   He was smiling, and seemed to be in good spirits.   But he took one look at me, in my shameful condition, and his eyes grew very large.   His smile vanished instantly.

“Oh, Watson!   I am so sorry!” he immediately rushed to my side.

With all the strength I could muster, I pushed him away from me.   I was irrational with humiliation. He had said nothing to me in days, showing he did not care.    And now he had come too late to save me from my disgrace, and too soon for me to attempt cleaning myself up.   I sat there, cold and filthy, and began to weep.   He attempted to approach me again but I shoved him so hard he fell backwards and slammed against the wall.   Now I felt guilty as well.

Holmes sat on the floor staring as I curled into a ball and went to pieces.   He did not say a word, he merely watched me in silence.

Finally, he slid himself back up the wall and left the room.   I was grateful for the privacy, but still too depressed to figure out what I was going to do about my soiled state.   When Holmes returned, he carried with him a basin of hot water and a sponge.

He approached me once more.   He placed his hands on my shoulder and turned me to look him in the eye.

“Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?”

I pleaded with my eyes for him to leave me alone, to let someone else do it.   The idea of Holmes, the one man on earth with whom I wanted to be intimate, seeing me humiliated such, caused me to weep once more.   But there was nothing I could do.   I could not speak, and I could not wait for the physician to return, as I had no knowledge of his schedule.   With infinitely gentle hands, Holmes slowly and quietly helped me out of my dressing gown.   I winced as he moved the fabric over my wound, and Holmes froze for a moment, going pale.   But then he steadied his nerves and forced the material over my arms, ignoring my pain.

He reached for my nightshirt.   I could feel my cheeks blush hot red in embarrassment.   I tried to convince myself that there was nothing to be ashamed of.   How many men had I myself undressed, and helped wash, in Afghanistan?   How many times had I convinced patients to allow me to conduct far more invasive inspections of their person, in order to help them in the long run?   It was no different than this.

And yet it was Sherlock Holmes who was undressing me.   I could not get the idea out of my mind.   I was so desperately in love with the man, and I had lived in my mind so many fantasies of us coming together.   This was not how it was supposed to be.   I did not want his first glimpse of my naked body to be this – wounded, weeping, filthy, humiliated.

Holmes looked at my face, obviously deducing my discomfort from my blush.   He smiled briefly, and then quickly lifted the soiled nightshirt off of me.   He was very businesslike.   He said nothing, and kept his eyes hooded under his thick lashes.   He helped me lay flat.   I instinctively grappled for a blanket to cover my nudity. Holmes watched me but did not say a word.  

“I was caught up at Scotland Yard.”   Holmes was trying to apologize for leaving me alone, I saw that.   He did not make eye contact.   He rolled up his sleeves and squeezed the sponge.   Then he lifted the blanket slightly to wash off the outside of my leg.   Despite the embarrassment, the warm water felt wonderful, and I was relieved to be clean of my mistake.

“Do you remember Clarkson?   The small balding chap who assisted us last year?”   He looked into my eyes briefly and smiled.   Then he looked back to his cleaning.   “You would be surprised to find out, my dear Watson, that the man has been promoted to inspector.   The state of our police force in this country is really quite appalling.”

Holmes launched into a discussion of the conclusion of the kidnapping case. Although I was pleased with the conclusion, the mere mention of the men who had tormented me made my stomach clench.   Holmes seemed to detect this, and therefore quickly switched subject to discuss Scotland Yard gossip.   I felt myself begin to relax. My breathing had returned to normal, which was a relief on my throat.   Holmes gently and efficiently washed my legs and belly.   His cheeks took on a slightly pink tinge as he then moved to my crotch.

“Excuse me,” he said breathlessly, interrupting his own story to lift the blanket and sponge my genitals.   I was torn between hugely conflicting emotions – relief at being clean.   Humiliation.   And, worst of all, desire.   This was as close as I had ever come to having Holmes touching me intimately, and I could feel my cheeks blaze once more as I began to think arousing thoughts regarding his ministrations.   I looked down and, to my utter horror, I saw my body was reacting to my thoughts.   I groaned under my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, so I wouldn't have to see the look of disgust on Holmes' face when he realized his kind-hearted nursing of my condition had given me a completely unacceptable erection.

Holmes did not stop cleaning me, even after my member began to throb and grow.   It almost seemed as if he slowed down his gentle cleansing.   I kept my eyes clamped shut. My breathing grew ragged.

And then he pulled his sponge away, and quickly covered me with the blanket.   I was both relieved and suddenly saddened by the lack of attentions.   I felt him get up off the bed and opened my eyes.  

Holmes was by his bureau.   He returned with one of his clean nightshirts.   He helped me into it, saying nothing about my indiscretion.   But I noticed a wild look to his features, his face tinged a very noticeable pink, his eyes strangely liquid.

“Now to the sheets,” he said.   He deftly changed them from under me.   I would have remarked on his impeccable bed-making abilities if I had been able to speak.   Where he had learned such housework was beyond me.   But then again, Holmes was always full of surprises.

Once the bed was back to normal, and all signs of my accident had been disposed of, Holmes helped tuck me back in the bed.   He left with the water and returned with a hand bell.

“Here you go, my dear,” he said fondly, placing the bell on the bedside table.   “I had meant to give this to you yesterday, but with the conclusion of this case, I have not had a moment to spare. I apologize for this.”   He reached out and gently laid his hand on my head.   “For everything.”   And then, without looking back, he left the room.

 
Chapter Four