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“Easy now. You’re limping.”
A darkness settled over Holmes’ face, but when Watson coaxed him, he settled his arm around Watson’s shoulders for support.
“Thank you, Watson,” he said, voice short. “I would not require your assistance at all, had those ruffians not mistaken me for a…”
He cast a glance over his shoulder at the molly house where Watson had found him, his blazer torn at the collar and his knees soaked by a puddle of rainwater and absinthe spilled in the alley outside.
“Those men tempt fate in more ways than one,” said Holmes softly. Watson grunted in agreement and raised a hand to hail a hansom cab. He kept the fingers of his other hand wrapped tightly around Holmes’, where the skin was cold and the bones were delicate.
“What were you doing out this late, at a place like this?” Watson asked.
Greenish water splashed on the curb as a blindered horse pulled up to greet them. It snorted, its hooves clapping on the cobblestones, and Watson left Holmes alone for just a moment — never letting go of his fingertips — so he could open the cab door. He bundled Holmes inside as gently as he could, one hand splayed on the small of Holmes’ back to push him in.
“I was investigating a somewhat sensitive case,” Holmes said breathlessly when he was settled in. He held a stained handkerchief to his split lip. “Naturally, I cannot share the details with you at this time. You understand.”
“Of course,” said Watson. “Let me see your hand.”
Holmes blinked, a bit of gelled blood gluing his eyelashes together. He made no effort to resist as Watson hooked his fingers in Holmes’ sleeve and gently removed his hand from his face. A dark black bruise bisected the back of Holmes’ hand, between his third and fourth finger — where a nasty gash had split the skin in two.
“What happened?” Watson asked.
Holmes turned his hand over with a mild wince. “I believe I was stepped on.”
“May I ask who attacked you?”
“You assume I was attacked. Perhaps the dance floor was especially feverish tonight.”
Watson gave him a flat look. One of Holmes’ fingernails was turning purple, a blood blister pushing at the translucent shell that was meant to protect him.
“Are you injured anywhere else?”
Holmes sat back with a hiss.
“Your ribs?” Watson suggested.
Holmes flicked a noble look at him from under hooded eyes. “Right as rain, Watson.”
“If you, Holmes, are speaking in cliches, then I guarantee you’re not right as rain.” Watson shifted in his seat until his thigh pressed against Holmes’. “We’ll be home shortly. I’ll see to you then.”
The only answer he received was a low hum, a faint tenor so unlike Holmes’ usual voice that it made Watson’s heart flip. As the carriage bounced over the cobblestones, Holmes slid down in his seat a little, his posture suffering. His shoulder was a warm, firm weight against Watson’s; his head lolled, not enough to impinge on Watson’s space, but enough for him to notice.
“Don’t sleep,” Watson murmured.
“I rarely do,” Holmes said.
Watson glanced sideways, checking for blood at Holmes’ temple. Nothing. Just tired, then, but not concussed. And no wonder he was weary. He’d been chasing this case all week, sneaking out at all hours of the night. A quick downwards peek showed Watson the muddied fabric of Holmes' trousers and a hint of bruised skin underneath. He'd been beaten terribly. He held himself so gracefully that it was hard to tell from a difference — except for the mussed hair and the tears in his clothes. But up close, one could see the split in his lip and the fresh blood rimming his nostrils, the swollen flesh around his eye where he'd been clubbed. A ferric tang of blood and dirty water filled the hansom cab, emanating from Holmes' skin, from his clothes.
"They mistook me for a patron," said Holmes out the side of his mouth.
Watson's eyes sharpened. "Then your attackers ... they had nothing to do with the case?"
"No. Merely a case of mistaken identity. Or assumed identity, to be more precise."
Watson bit down on the inside of his cheek and shook his head. He stared unblinking at the pattern of the cab's wall, until his vision wavered and the faded floral vines melted together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holmes' head turn, those dark eyes studying him.
"You wish I were more careful," said Holmes softly. "I know."
"I'm not angry with you," said Watson shortly. "You were only investigating, as you always do."
Holmes shifted in his seat. His chest rose and fell in a stuttering sigh. When the cab creaked to a halt outside 221B, Holmes allowed Watson to crawl over him and lead the way out to the street. He clasped Watson's shoulder tightly on his way down the cab steps — but it was only when they were safe inside the house, limping up the staircase, that Holmes spoke.
"It was a calculated risk, Watson. I mean to say, the patrons of that establishment — this is a risk they face every night they choose to go out."
Watson glanced sideways just in time to see Holmes' nose wrinkle.
"You disapprove?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
Holmes gave him a whip-sharp look. "Don't you?"
"No," said Watson, astonished.
Holmes' fierce look evaporated. He glanced away quickly, eyes on the carpeted stairs.
"I'm surprised at you, Holmes," Watson said as he hauled Holmes to the door.
"I meant to imply no judgment," said Holmes carefully. "I only marvel at their daring."
"Meaning?"
The door creaked open. With great care, Watson deposited Holmes in his favorite chair. He went to fetch his medical bag while Holmes reached for his pipe and stuffed tobacco leaves into the basin, his fingers numb and trembling.
"They would be wiser to stay home," Holmes said in a murmur.
"So would everyone," said Watson. He set his bag down on the table next to Holmes' ashtray. "But we pity those who do. We call them shut-ins."
"Touche." Holmes tried and failed to light his pipe. The match sputtered out and burnt his fingertips, but he kept the stem between his lips and tried again.
"Let me see your hands," Watson said.
"Oh, alright." Holmes placed them both flat on the table, long-fingered and clever, already scarred a thousand times over from his experiments and fights. Watson prodded gently at the bruise, and Holmes' lips tightened on the pipe's stem. "It doesn't appear you've broken anything," Watson said. "What did you mean, they were unwise?"
"Gaudy," said Holmes at once. "Reckless. Anyone who's spent some time in the underground know the Crown's got its fingers in establishments like that. Only a fool would attend those balls and expect to escape unscathed."
His palm was warm and dry against Watson's as he bandaged it. He wet a cloth in a basin of hot water and held one corner to Holmes' split lip, pushing the pipe sideways. Holmes raised his chin and held still, his breath coming out in shallow puffs of air against Watson's knuckles.
"I can't fault them for a bit of fun," Watson murmured.
Holmes couldn't answer right away. But when Watson moved on to the swollen eye, Holmes snatched his pipe away with his bandaged hand.
"The Crown can fault them for it," he said simply. "Sometimes that's all that matters."
"You really think so?"
Holmes closed his eyes, letting Watson work at the dried blood on his lashes. It was delicate work, slow and soft, with just enough pressure to wash the blood away, and not enough to hurt Holmes' bruised eye.
"I've seen you disregard the Crown's laws once or twice before," Watson reminded him.
"You exaggerate."
"I don't think so. Let me check your ribs."
Holmes sat back. Pain flashed across his narrow features and then disappeared just as fast, walled up behind a stoic mask. He sent his eyes far away as Watson picked at his buttons. One of them had been torn straight off, leaving just a trail of frayed thread behind. His waistcoat was stained with dust and polluted water, and when Watson's knuckles brushed against his chest, Holmes closed his eyes tight, the color draining from his face. It was because of this mild flinch that he didn't see what was stuck to the inside of his jacket — what fell to the floor in a slow, fluttering spiral when Watson pulled his lapels open and pushed the jacket down Holmes' shoulders.
But Watson saw, of course. It was a single petal, wet from the puddles Holmes had been tossed in. A carnation petal, dyed an emerald green. And Watson was no great student of deduction, but if this petal had been stuck to the inside of Holmes’ jacket, then that meant there had been a whole bud pushed through his buttonhole at some point during the night. He couldn’t have picked it up from contact with someone else.
Quietly, Watson shifted his feet to cover the petal with his shoe.
"Now then," he said softly, "let's see what we're working with."
Holmes' eyes opened, his face still drained and weary. He made no protest as Watson opened his shirt, but he stopped talking entirely, and perhaps that was close enough. His eyes shifted sideways, reflecting firelight but giving nothing else away — and the bruises on his chest and stomach indicated he'd been kicked, thrown to the ground, perhaps even beaten. If it were Watson injured, if it were Holmes studying these bruises, he'd be able to pinpoint exactly how many men there were, the size of their shoes, whether they beat him with a pipe or with a club. But Watson only saw the damage and did his best to soothe it. With gentle fingers he rubbed a salve into Holmes' skin, the medical scent of ointment clearing his sinuses — and his head. He saw now the feverish flush of embarrassment on Holmes' chest and throat; the tightness in his jaw; the shame in his eyes.
When Watson pulled back, he reached for the nearest blanket and wrapped it around Holmes' shoulders to cover him up.
"I don't think those men are stupid," Watson said firmly.
"You're entitled to your opinion," Holmes said, still staring at the fire.
"But I do question your intelligence from time to time," Watson said, kicking the green petal under Holmes' chair, where it couldn't be seen. Holmes glanced up at him with a hesitant smile. "I understand there's not much you can tell me about this case," Watson said. He took a deep steadying breath. "And I won't ask you to invite me along. I know you can't."
Holmes' smile fractured and faded away. He was staring at the fire when Watson took his bandaged hand. Their fingers hooked together, cold skin against warm.
"I'd just like you to know, Holmes," said Watson, his voice stilted, "that I'll be waiting here to patch up your latest wounds when you return."
"Of course," said Holmes softly, his eyes sliding closed. His lashes cast dark shadows on his cheeks; the blood from his split lip had smeared his mouth a vivid red. "Watson. I—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He squeezed Watson's fingers weakly, unable to do much more than that. And Watson squeezed back, knowing that anything else would be unwelcome.
"Sleep, Holmes," he said.
He turned back to his bedroom, gathered his medical bag, forced himself not to look over his shoulder. Not even when he heard what might have been a quiet laugh. Not even when Holmes scraped his chair back to see what Watson had kicked beneath it, what Watson had tried to spare him from seeing.
Another laugh. More choked this time. And one long bandaged finger scraped against a split lip, and dark intelligent eyes tightened as they stared into the fire.
And Watson was careful not to see.