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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 32/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2186
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Genre: Friendship, hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
BROTHERLY LOVE
“It’s all right, old fellow, just a little further, hold on...”
I had been repeating the words all the way up the stairs like an Eastern mantra, as much to reassure myself as to give comfort to my friend. He gasped with pain at every jolt, every step with which he was forced to drag his battered body upwards. We stopped for a moment on the landing so that he could regain his breath and marshal what remained of his strength for the final stretch – as we turned the corner to my surprise the sitting room door flew open and light spilled over the threshold.
“Sherlock?” called a voice both at once familiar and unexpected. A large figure was silhouetted in the doorway, his bulk taking up most of the space. I could not restrain a cry of surprise – I might have expected Mrs Hudson to be waiting up for us, but I certainly had not thought to see Mycroft Holmes in our rooms, especially at such an advanced hour. Holmes had told me more than once that his brother hated any deviation from his established routine; being away from his Pall Mall lodgings, and in the middle of the night to boot, was virtually unheard of.
Holmes raised his head with an effort and blinked at his elder sibling. “Mycroft?” he managed to croak before he stumbled and almost all his weight fell heavily onto my shoulder. It was all I could do to stop myself collapsing beneath it, my own game leg giving way, but I somehow remained standing, tightening my arm about his waist and pulling him upright. He groaned as the movement jolted his arm, his head lolling against my neck.
Mycroft was not slow witted for all his great bulk, and he was at his brother’s side almost immediately, watery grey gaze taking in the bruised and bloodied detective. Holmes was still wrapped in the rough police-issue blanket, which hid the worst of his injuries, but his right arm hung limp at his side and he cried out as Mycroft began to slowly draw it over his shoulder.
“Careful!” I said quickly, “It’s dislocated.”
The big man had paled at the sight of his younger brother, and, if possible, became even whiter at my pronouncement. Wordlessly he took my place at Sherlock’s left hand side and all but carried him into the sitting room, laying him down carefully on the sofa. By the time I retrieved my medical bag from my room he had slipped a cushion under Holmes’s head and removed the blanket – it was clear that he could not help but stare in horrified fascination at the misshapen lump beneath the black coat that should have been his brother’s shoulder. Holmes was still conscious, but his eyes were screwed up in pain, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts through his nose. I located a pair of scissors in my bag and began to snip through the fabric of his sleeve – I needed to give him some morphine if I was to reset the bones, but getting him out of the coat without causing him further discomfort would be impossible. Mrs Hudson, roused from sleep by the raised voices above her, appeared and was swiftly sent for hot water and linen.
Mycroft watched me work for a few moments before he said, “What happened, Doctor? It should have been a routine investigation. I would never have sent Sherlock if I thought that - ”
“He fell out of a window,” I replied as the right side of Holmes’s coat fell away. I unfastened his cufflink and rolled up the shirt sleeve beneath, turning back to my bag for a syringe.
“A window?” Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “How the devil did he manage that?”
“Your damnable papers,” Holmes hissed through clenched teeth as I found a vein and inserted the needle.
“One of the gang thought to retrieve them,” I explained. “He and Holmes grappled – I could see them getting too close to the window but was too far away to do anything. Before I could reach them their momentum had taken them over the sill and through the glass.” I did not add the terror I had felt when I looked down, expecting to see two bodies on the gravel below. Barely had I registered that only one lay there, his head at an unnatural angle, before my attention was drawn to something beneath the level of the window sill. I dared to pull my gaze from the dead man on the ground and saw in amazement the white-faced, shaking figure of Sherlock Holmes hanging there, clinging onto the ivy which covered the building with one hand and scrabbling at the ledge with the other, the papers still in his grasp. With the assistance of Lestrade and his men I got him back into the room, only to find that the fall had cost him dearly – his right arm had been ripped from its socket as he caught the plant, his plummeting weight, suddenly brought up short, dislocating the joint. Though I tried to persuade him the folly of such an action he refused to go to the hospital, insisting I took him home. Mycroft’s agent, now in possession of the disputed papers, must have contacted his superior about the accident. I confess I had not expected the elder Holmes to dash across town to his brother’s side in the small hours – I had always been led to believe that they were not particularly close.
“Good God,” Mycroft said as I finished my preparations. He sat down heavily in my armchair and pulled a huge paisley handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop his brow. “Good God.”
Holmes had opened his eyes, the morphine already bringing him some small measure of relief, and he raised his head a fraction to observe his sibling. “Don’t look so scared, Mycroft. I live to fight another day.”
“You very nearly didn’t,” Mycroft snapped. “How can you be so casual about it? This is that damned oak tree in the garden all over again. You thought you could climb to the top, that you wouldn’t fall! Dear Lord, when you hit the ground I thought you were dead – you just laughed when you opened your eyes, until the pain hit and you realised you’d broken your arm!”
“It is not the same at all. Injuries are an occupational hazard in my line of work.”
“The for the sake of everyone’s sanity may I suggest you find yourself a less dangerous profession!”
Such was the heat behind Mycroft’s words that even Holmes looked surprised. “Brother mine, I never knew you cared,” he said in wonder.
The elder Holmes snorted. “Someone has to, since you apparently have no concern for your own safety.”
I decided it was time to intervene, before Holmes made the waspish comment that I could tell from his expression was on his lips. “I need to reset the joint,” I said, and both brothers looked at me. “It will hurt, Holmes, even with the morphine, but if I don’t you might never use that arm again.”
He wearily laid his head back on the cushion. “Do whatever you must.”
I glanced at Mycroft and he nodded. Between us we raised Holmes until he was sitting upright. I slid behind him, holding him against my body for support, and gently took hold of his right arm. He flinched, showing me that I was right in my diagnosis – the small dose of morphine I had injected had numbed the edges, but any movement of the limb was still extremely painful. Holmes had studied anatomy, and he evidently knew what I was about to do for his breathing quickened.
“Are you ready?” I asked. I received a terse nod in reply, which I interpreted as ‘Get on with it!’. I tightened my hold on his arm, holding him still with my other hand. Mycroft hovered behind, ready to provide assistance should I need it. “Very well. On the count of three, then. One...two...three!” I gripped Holmes’s injured arm and pushed it quickly upwards, gritting my teeth against the horrendous cracking and grating of the bones as they slid reluctantly back into place. I heard Mycroft’s exclamation of shock as a howl was ripped from his brother’s throat; the shoulder slotted back into its socket and Holmes turned wave cap white, his eyes rolling up into his head. He slumped against me, mercifully unconscious at last.
I laid him back down on the sofa, turning to Mycroft, who was visibly shaking. It was quite obvious that such injuries were not commonplace within his sheltered Whitehall existence. “Was that really necessary?” he asked.
“It was the only way,” I told him firmly. “If the joint remained dislocated he would have been crippled for life. In truth, I could have administered stronger pain relief but...”
He noticed my reluctance to finish the sentence. “His recreational use of such drugs renders the dose required too hazardous. Oh, yes, I know about Sherlock’s little habits, Doctor,” he added, my surprised expression evidently a question in itself. “I deplore them, but there is no use my berating him for his weaknesses. He would take no notice of me if I did.”
There was little I could say in reply, so instead I went to the sideboard and poured him a large whisky. While he was drinking it, I fetched Holmes’s nightshirt from his room and the two of us stripped him of his ruined clothes and tended to his other injuries. He had been hit by flying glass when the window shattered and there were any number of small cuts over his face and hands. The bruising over his shoulder was quite spectacular, and would be for some time until the injury healed. I bound it up and immobilised his arm in a sling – he would chafe against the restriction but it was imperative that the joint and ligaments be allowed to heal properly. Eventually he was tucked up in bed, carried there by Mycroft, who was apparently as strong as he was large, and I could at last sit down myself.
I took my habitual seat at his bedside almost without thinking. A moment later I became aware of a presence at my side and Mycroft pushed a glass into my hand. “I think you could use a drink too, Doctor,” he said, and I could not deny that he was right. Now that the adrenalin was leaving me I was beginning to feel shaky and a little sick – if I closed my eyes I could see again the awful moment when Holmes went over the edge. For a moment he hung in empty space, before his own weight and that of his assailant combined carried them out into the night. I shook my head, trying to banish the memory.
When I opened my eyes it was to see Mycroft bent over the bed, one flipper-like hand brushing over his brother’s dark hair. Sherlock did not even move, shock having finally overtaken him. The elder Holmes touched two fingers to his throat as if to make sure for himself that the pulse there was strong, and then straightened, turning to me.
“I should be going,” he announced. “My landlady will be wondering what has become of me.”
I started to scramble to my feet, but he motioned me to stay where I was. “Thank you for coming tonight,” I said, and meant it. “I am very grateful for your assistance.”
“Think nothing of it, Doctor. He is my brother, when all is said and done, even if he is headstrong and foolish. I am glad that he has someone upon whom he can rely, for he will take no favours or support from me. Had you not been there in that house with him - ” Mycroft shut his eyes briefly and shuddered. “Well, I do not like to think what might have happened. He will not thank me for saying so, but he needs you, Watson, more than he probably realises.”
This little speech took me be surprise, I must confess. “Don’t worry, Mr Holmes,” I said, “I have no intention of abandoning him.”
“Good. Well, I must be off. No, don’t get up, Doctor, I can see myself out.” He moved through to the sitting room, gathering up his coat and hat. Briefly he paused on the threshold. “Do let me know if Sherlock becomes difficult during his recuperation – if necessary I shall come and knock some sense into him. Such an action is long overdue. Goodnight.”
And then he was gone, the door quietly clicking closed behind him. I shook my head and glanced at my patient, who was sleeping peacefully. Checking that his pulse and breathing were normal, I settled myself in my chair for a familiar vigil.
I had known for some years that I would never get the measure of Holmes - on the evidence of the past couple of hours it seemed his brother was also full of surprises.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2186
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Genre: Friendship, hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
BROTHERLY LOVE
“It’s all right, old fellow, just a little further, hold on...”
I had been repeating the words all the way up the stairs like an Eastern mantra, as much to reassure myself as to give comfort to my friend. He gasped with pain at every jolt, every step with which he was forced to drag his battered body upwards. We stopped for a moment on the landing so that he could regain his breath and marshal what remained of his strength for the final stretch – as we turned the corner to my surprise the sitting room door flew open and light spilled over the threshold.
“Sherlock?” called a voice both at once familiar and unexpected. A large figure was silhouetted in the doorway, his bulk taking up most of the space. I could not restrain a cry of surprise – I might have expected Mrs Hudson to be waiting up for us, but I certainly had not thought to see Mycroft Holmes in our rooms, especially at such an advanced hour. Holmes had told me more than once that his brother hated any deviation from his established routine; being away from his Pall Mall lodgings, and in the middle of the night to boot, was virtually unheard of.
Holmes raised his head with an effort and blinked at his elder sibling. “Mycroft?” he managed to croak before he stumbled and almost all his weight fell heavily onto my shoulder. It was all I could do to stop myself collapsing beneath it, my own game leg giving way, but I somehow remained standing, tightening my arm about his waist and pulling him upright. He groaned as the movement jolted his arm, his head lolling against my neck.
Mycroft was not slow witted for all his great bulk, and he was at his brother’s side almost immediately, watery grey gaze taking in the bruised and bloodied detective. Holmes was still wrapped in the rough police-issue blanket, which hid the worst of his injuries, but his right arm hung limp at his side and he cried out as Mycroft began to slowly draw it over his shoulder.
“Careful!” I said quickly, “It’s dislocated.”
The big man had paled at the sight of his younger brother, and, if possible, became even whiter at my pronouncement. Wordlessly he took my place at Sherlock’s left hand side and all but carried him into the sitting room, laying him down carefully on the sofa. By the time I retrieved my medical bag from my room he had slipped a cushion under Holmes’s head and removed the blanket – it was clear that he could not help but stare in horrified fascination at the misshapen lump beneath the black coat that should have been his brother’s shoulder. Holmes was still conscious, but his eyes were screwed up in pain, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts through his nose. I located a pair of scissors in my bag and began to snip through the fabric of his sleeve – I needed to give him some morphine if I was to reset the bones, but getting him out of the coat without causing him further discomfort would be impossible. Mrs Hudson, roused from sleep by the raised voices above her, appeared and was swiftly sent for hot water and linen.
Mycroft watched me work for a few moments before he said, “What happened, Doctor? It should have been a routine investigation. I would never have sent Sherlock if I thought that - ”
“He fell out of a window,” I replied as the right side of Holmes’s coat fell away. I unfastened his cufflink and rolled up the shirt sleeve beneath, turning back to my bag for a syringe.
“A window?” Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “How the devil did he manage that?”
“Your damnable papers,” Holmes hissed through clenched teeth as I found a vein and inserted the needle.
“One of the gang thought to retrieve them,” I explained. “He and Holmes grappled – I could see them getting too close to the window but was too far away to do anything. Before I could reach them their momentum had taken them over the sill and through the glass.” I did not add the terror I had felt when I looked down, expecting to see two bodies on the gravel below. Barely had I registered that only one lay there, his head at an unnatural angle, before my attention was drawn to something beneath the level of the window sill. I dared to pull my gaze from the dead man on the ground and saw in amazement the white-faced, shaking figure of Sherlock Holmes hanging there, clinging onto the ivy which covered the building with one hand and scrabbling at the ledge with the other, the papers still in his grasp. With the assistance of Lestrade and his men I got him back into the room, only to find that the fall had cost him dearly – his right arm had been ripped from its socket as he caught the plant, his plummeting weight, suddenly brought up short, dislocating the joint. Though I tried to persuade him the folly of such an action he refused to go to the hospital, insisting I took him home. Mycroft’s agent, now in possession of the disputed papers, must have contacted his superior about the accident. I confess I had not expected the elder Holmes to dash across town to his brother’s side in the small hours – I had always been led to believe that they were not particularly close.
“Good God,” Mycroft said as I finished my preparations. He sat down heavily in my armchair and pulled a huge paisley handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop his brow. “Good God.”
Holmes had opened his eyes, the morphine already bringing him some small measure of relief, and he raised his head a fraction to observe his sibling. “Don’t look so scared, Mycroft. I live to fight another day.”
“You very nearly didn’t,” Mycroft snapped. “How can you be so casual about it? This is that damned oak tree in the garden all over again. You thought you could climb to the top, that you wouldn’t fall! Dear Lord, when you hit the ground I thought you were dead – you just laughed when you opened your eyes, until the pain hit and you realised you’d broken your arm!”
“It is not the same at all. Injuries are an occupational hazard in my line of work.”
“The for the sake of everyone’s sanity may I suggest you find yourself a less dangerous profession!”
Such was the heat behind Mycroft’s words that even Holmes looked surprised. “Brother mine, I never knew you cared,” he said in wonder.
The elder Holmes snorted. “Someone has to, since you apparently have no concern for your own safety.”
I decided it was time to intervene, before Holmes made the waspish comment that I could tell from his expression was on his lips. “I need to reset the joint,” I said, and both brothers looked at me. “It will hurt, Holmes, even with the morphine, but if I don’t you might never use that arm again.”
He wearily laid his head back on the cushion. “Do whatever you must.”
I glanced at Mycroft and he nodded. Between us we raised Holmes until he was sitting upright. I slid behind him, holding him against my body for support, and gently took hold of his right arm. He flinched, showing me that I was right in my diagnosis – the small dose of morphine I had injected had numbed the edges, but any movement of the limb was still extremely painful. Holmes had studied anatomy, and he evidently knew what I was about to do for his breathing quickened.
“Are you ready?” I asked. I received a terse nod in reply, which I interpreted as ‘Get on with it!’. I tightened my hold on his arm, holding him still with my other hand. Mycroft hovered behind, ready to provide assistance should I need it. “Very well. On the count of three, then. One...two...three!” I gripped Holmes’s injured arm and pushed it quickly upwards, gritting my teeth against the horrendous cracking and grating of the bones as they slid reluctantly back into place. I heard Mycroft’s exclamation of shock as a howl was ripped from his brother’s throat; the shoulder slotted back into its socket and Holmes turned wave cap white, his eyes rolling up into his head. He slumped against me, mercifully unconscious at last.
I laid him back down on the sofa, turning to Mycroft, who was visibly shaking. It was quite obvious that such injuries were not commonplace within his sheltered Whitehall existence. “Was that really necessary?” he asked.
“It was the only way,” I told him firmly. “If the joint remained dislocated he would have been crippled for life. In truth, I could have administered stronger pain relief but...”
He noticed my reluctance to finish the sentence. “His recreational use of such drugs renders the dose required too hazardous. Oh, yes, I know about Sherlock’s little habits, Doctor,” he added, my surprised expression evidently a question in itself. “I deplore them, but there is no use my berating him for his weaknesses. He would take no notice of me if I did.”
There was little I could say in reply, so instead I went to the sideboard and poured him a large whisky. While he was drinking it, I fetched Holmes’s nightshirt from his room and the two of us stripped him of his ruined clothes and tended to his other injuries. He had been hit by flying glass when the window shattered and there were any number of small cuts over his face and hands. The bruising over his shoulder was quite spectacular, and would be for some time until the injury healed. I bound it up and immobilised his arm in a sling – he would chafe against the restriction but it was imperative that the joint and ligaments be allowed to heal properly. Eventually he was tucked up in bed, carried there by Mycroft, who was apparently as strong as he was large, and I could at last sit down myself.
I took my habitual seat at his bedside almost without thinking. A moment later I became aware of a presence at my side and Mycroft pushed a glass into my hand. “I think you could use a drink too, Doctor,” he said, and I could not deny that he was right. Now that the adrenalin was leaving me I was beginning to feel shaky and a little sick – if I closed my eyes I could see again the awful moment when Holmes went over the edge. For a moment he hung in empty space, before his own weight and that of his assailant combined carried them out into the night. I shook my head, trying to banish the memory.
When I opened my eyes it was to see Mycroft bent over the bed, one flipper-like hand brushing over his brother’s dark hair. Sherlock did not even move, shock having finally overtaken him. The elder Holmes touched two fingers to his throat as if to make sure for himself that the pulse there was strong, and then straightened, turning to me.
“I should be going,” he announced. “My landlady will be wondering what has become of me.”
I started to scramble to my feet, but he motioned me to stay where I was. “Thank you for coming tonight,” I said, and meant it. “I am very grateful for your assistance.”
“Think nothing of it, Doctor. He is my brother, when all is said and done, even if he is headstrong and foolish. I am glad that he has someone upon whom he can rely, for he will take no favours or support from me. Had you not been there in that house with him - ” Mycroft shut his eyes briefly and shuddered. “Well, I do not like to think what might have happened. He will not thank me for saying so, but he needs you, Watson, more than he probably realises.”
This little speech took me be surprise, I must confess. “Don’t worry, Mr Holmes,” I said, “I have no intention of abandoning him.”
“Good. Well, I must be off. No, don’t get up, Doctor, I can see myself out.” He moved through to the sitting room, gathering up his coat and hat. Briefly he paused on the threshold. “Do let me know if Sherlock becomes difficult during his recuperation – if necessary I shall come and knock some sense into him. Such an action is long overdue. Goodnight.”
And then he was gone, the door quietly clicking closed behind him. I shook my head and glanced at my patient, who was sleeping peacefully. Checking that his pulse and breathing were normal, I settled myself in my chair for a familiar vigil.
I had known for some years that I would never get the measure of Holmes - on the evidence of the past couple of hours it seemed his brother was also full of surprises.
