thesadchicken

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Title: Bruised.
Author: [personal profile] thesadchicken
Rating: PG.
Universe: ACD.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Summary: Watson thinks it's worth many wounds - Holmes feels guilty.
Word Count: 561.

Warnings: a bit of blood, lots of hurt/comfort.

Prompt: Hurt's Over, Time to Comfort: Watson's been whumped (off-screen). How does Holmes and/or another take care of the situation afterward?

A bruise, just under his skin, blooming. A wince of pain as I touch it; and yet he won’t give in. He does not complain. ‘I can do it myself,’ he mutters, but we both know it’s a lie. I ignore him and reach for the bandages. He says nothing.

My hands soon grow cajoling. I wonder if he notices. He raises his chin, feigning disinterest, but I see the blush that paints his cheek. My chest still aches from the sight of him, beaten and bloodied, but I wear my usual smirk as I tease him, ‘Come now, Watson, this is a fight you cannot win.’

He falls back onto the bed, and I drift back into my own head. There is a distance between us that I do not quite understand. I know where he has been and what he has been doing – those are easy to deduce. But for all my observing and detecting, I cannot for the life of me understand the silence that has filled our rooms in Baker Street.

I press ice to his bruises. I feel his body relax under my touch. There is a moment of rage when I lift his shirt and see the injury – rage that consumes me, and I almost reach for my pistol; finding the man who did this to Watson would only take a few hours, and oh how I longed to see my bullet in the culprit’s head. But then Watson looks at me, and the rage fades to something else – something I cannot bear, so instead I get up and say, ‘You might need some brandy.’

He grabs me by the arm and pulls me back down to where I was sitting, on the edge of the bed. There is anguish in his eyes, and desperation, and hurt. His fingers dig into my skin. ‘Holmes,’ he whispers. The rest of his words die on his tongue.

I look away. I expect him to let go, but he does not. Instead he heaves a sigh.

‘No brandy, then?’ I try to fill that ghastly silence.

And then it all comes out, a stream of words from between his split lips. ‘There are times when I almost pray for these moments,’ he says, ‘I see the blackguard coming for me and I think, let him strike me, let my blood stain the ground.’

They hurt, his words. I shake my head. ‘Watson, please –’

‘Sometimes I find myself unwilling to fight back. Sometimes I see you running towards me and I savour the pain, because it brings you to me.’

His eyes shine. They are wet. I cannot speak, cannot move. Watson looks down at his bandages and smiles sadly.

‘I am beyond recovery. These wounds will heal but I will find a way to make new ones…’

The rage returns – this time directed at the real culprit: the man that I see in the mirror to my left, leaning over Watson’s bruised body.

I hold both Watson’s hands in mine and I look into his eyes. ‘I shall never forgive myself for leading you to this. I wish I knew how to love you.’

He shakes his head very slowly, then he brings my hands to his mouth and places the softest of kisses on my knuckles. ‘We can learn. Together,’ he smiles.

It is a promise.