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Holmes' Mistake	By : pandapony Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 17371 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
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The next morning, Dr. Andrews removed the intubation tube.
The process was startlingly painful. It diminished the agony of my stab wound with its searing intensity. As much as I tried to stay calm, by the end of it I was thrashing about on the bed and knocking over Holmes' possessions in my wild attempt to get the doctor and Holmes to stop. Holmes sat beside me, holding me down with a grim expression as the doctor used his forceps to pry the tube from my throat. I could feel the coarse rubber scrape my raw throat on its way up, and I swallowed blood.
As soon as the tube was removed I leaned over and retched. Thank God, Mrs. Hudson had prepared for all sorts of emergencies, and had placed a bowl beside the bed for just such an incident. I allowed Andrews to tend to me, but I pushed Holmes away. After our strange and silent intimacy during my washing the day before, I was ashamed to have him near me now.
“Can you speak?” Holmes asked anxiously. He sat back down, ignoring my hand-gestures for him to leave me alone. He reached out and brushed the hair off my sweaty forehead.
I opened my mouth and tried to tell him I was all right, but speaking was agony. My throat was on fire. I tried to form a word beyond the pain but I could only moan.
“It may take some time for his voice to return,” Andrews said calmly. He patted my shoulder. “No worries, old man, I'm sure you will make a full recovery.”
I frowned at the doctor, knowing full well that there were too many contingencies for him to so confidently claim such a positive prognosis. However, it would do neither myself nor the doctor much good to harp on all the other possible, negative side effects of such trauma to my esophagus. Since I could not speak, I slipped down under the covers instead, closing my eyes and wishing my audience would go away. The doctor and Mrs. Hudson quickly responded to my silent request. Only Holmes lingered afterwards, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at me with a look of blank shock.
I believe that, even at that point, Holmes had managed to convince himself that no long-term, serious damage had resulted from his miscalculation. But now I could see the darkness in his eyes, a sudden haunted expression. He understood, at that moment, the full implications of his mistake.
That evening, I lay morosely in bed. I rang the hand bell constantly. I wrote notes, demanding water, demanding tea, complaining the fire was too low. Poor Mrs. Hudson arrived every time I rang the bell.
However I wanted Holmes to be the one to do my bidding. For the first time since the incident, I was furious at him. This was his fault. His egotism had led me to this fate. The idea that I may not be able to speak for the rest of my life was so appalling, I could not dwell on it longer than a few seconds before I would tear up and start raging against the man. I rang the bell and demanded that Mrs. Hudson call Holmes to me. She informed me that he had been out all day. Probably avoiding me I wrote on a paper to her. She simply patted my hand and then left me alone in that infernal room once more.
I slept on and off until dark. After a fitful sleep, I was roused by the sound of the grate being pushed back on the fireplace. I opened my eyes and saw the object of my anger, quietly stoking the fire.
Holmes was in his formal attire, and looked stunning. I don't know where he went that evening, but he was obviously trying to impress. When Holmes wanted to, he could take people's breaths away with his languid beauty. The grey of his silk tie, the fine cut of his suit, the purple and grey patterned waist coat – it all complimented his grey eyes, his raven black hair, which had been slightly tousled from wearing a hat.
I watched him move silently about the fire place, and my heart filled with tenderness. It seemed that every move he made now was slower, weighed down with the guilt of my injury. For every moment I blamed Holmes for my disaster, I deduced he blamed himself ten times more. He did not need me to remind him who was at fault. He carried the truth in his eyes, the way they looked at me with such piercing regret.
Holmes turned and jerked slightly when he saw I was watching him. He recovered quickly with a flash of a smile.
“Ah. You're awake, then.”
I nodded.
He washed his hands briskly in the water basin, and then sat beside me on the bed. He smelled slightly smoky, as though he had spent the entire evening in a gentlemen's club.
“Can you speak yet?” he asked hesitantly.
For the hundredth time that day, I tried forming a word and failed. Only air escaped. I began to suspect that my larynx had been crushed from the hanging, and I would not be able to talk again.
Holmes winced as I tried to form a word and a breathless gasp came out of my mouth. He turned away from me.
Even if my larynx is crushed, it may heal, I wrote on a note to him. He held it in his hands and stared at the note long after the time needed to read it. He seemed frozen.
I decided to change the subject. My anger had fled in the face of his sadness. Where have you been? You smell like expensive cigars. And you look good enough to win a lady's heart .
Holmes laughed, his eyes finally lifting from the scrap of paper and smiling at me. He reached out and squeezed by arm affectionately.
“Good old Watson,” he said. “Always finding the best of every situation.” He stretched dramatically, his limbs shaking with exhaustion. “I have been on a wild goose chase, in the Cavendish Estates. I took the part of a guest at a ball this evening. It presented a singular opportunity for exploring the depths below.”
I immediately wished I was in better health. It sounded like just the adventure I would have loved to accompany him on. Few things brought a shine to Holmes' eyes like breaking and entering, and I loved the thrill of danger that accompanied such missions.
But I realized, with a frown, that circumstances had changed. Before, I had never worried about capture, or the police, or what would happen if things went wrong, simply because things never did go wrong. Events rarely followed Holmes' plans exactly, but he was always astute enough to get us out of any situation. No matter how hopeless or precarious a predicament we found ourselves in, I always had complete and utter faith that he would get us out safely. Therefore, the danger was simply a delectable additive, but never a threat.
But now, Holmes had failed me. He had been wrong. And the results had been disastrous. I had nearly died, and would probably be mute for the rest of my life. And even if I regained enough strength to be of some benefit to him on his cases, I wondered if such perilous pursuits as those we used to take without a thought would have the same thrill for me. Now I knew Holmes was fallible, and would not always save me. We could get caught by the police. We could get injured, or even die.
Holmes was watching me, his intense stare so powerful I had to look away from him as soon as we made eye contact.
“It was exceedingly dull,” he said finally. “A search for a single document that proved not to be housed at the estate at all.” He rose, as if suddenly disturbed.
I reached out and touched his arm, briefly. He turned to stare down at me.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked softly.
I shook my head.
Holmes swallowed. He looked momentarily nervous. “Would you like some assistance getting cleaned up for bed?”
I studied his face before I answered. There was a nervousness under his features, but otherwise, he schooled his expression stoically into blank neutrality.
I did not know what he had in mind, but I was curious. Besides, I had wanted him to personally help me all day, as restitution. So I nodded.
Holmes smiled briefly. “All right. Give me a moment, I'll return shortly.” He left the room with the basin of now-cold water.
I lay in bed, anxiously awaiting his return. When he came back, he had removed his coat, waist coat, and was in his shirt sleeves. He rolled these up. He brought with him several towels and a clean night shirt, and a basin steaming with hot water.
“I remember you did this for me when I was ill several years ago,” Holmes mused as he set up his work space beside the bed. “I never thanked you properly. You know how I prize cleanliness.”
I would have chuckled if I had the breath. Holmes' version of cleanliness verged on obsessive when it came to his person. But the rest of his life – his belongings, even his prized possessions – were strewn everywhere, trampled on, forgotten, left in drawers, in disarray. I smiled and shook my head at him as he helped me sit up. The movement pulled at my injured stomach and made me wince.
“Slowly, then,” he said, seeing my pain. He helped me, but sitting up was very painful, and I began to go pale and clammy at the discomfort.
Holmes shook his head. “This will not work. Let us try it some other way. Are you capable of laying down flat? I will simply do what I did the day before.”
I blushed at the memory of our intimate washing, the embarrassment of my accident. But Holmes was not embarrassed. He helped me lay down again, and then efficiently pulled my nightshirt from me before I could protest.
There I was, naked before him, on top of the covers. The fire was roaring now, and so I was not cold, but I was uncomfortable, with him dressed for the opera and me nude.
“Here.” Holmes draped his old favourite blanket over me, and immediately began sponging my exposed leg clean. There was a terribly uncomfortable moment, as he worked, when both of us looked away from each other. And then Holmes broke the tension by launching into a recounting of his evening.
“Scotland Yard contacted me this morning regarding a smuggler who has been operating along the docks. His connections are too good to be one of the dock workers, and so my initial research led me to a man by the name of Arthur Cavendish. He owns a small estate outside of London, and he scheduled this evening's ball in honour of his daughter. I managed to break into his private suites whilst he was engaged with his guests.” So Holmes began, discussing his latest case with me, as he slowly but thoroughly gave me a sponge bath.
I finally relaxed as he reached my upper torso. This was no different than the countless times I had given such care to my own patients. And indeed, I had given such a bath to Holmes himself, when he had been too ill to stand. My discomfort at the previous day's sexuality was gone from my mind. I listened and laughed silently as Holmes amused me with his tale.
But after he had completed most of my body, he casually and confidently raised the blanket and began to clean me once more between my legs.
This in itself was normal procedure for any sponge bath, I realized, but given yesterday's inappropriate reactions on my part, I assumed Holmes would forego this territory. And yet here he was, nonchalantly discussing the aging process of acid-based papers while gently cleaning my genitals with warm water. He did not look at me as he spoke. He kept his eyes focused on his task. And this is what did me in at the last. Knowing he was looking at me, his intense stare focused on my groin, once again had the horrid repercussion of making me aroused.
I swallowed and looked away. He continued to speak, even after I could feel my shaft twitch and stand upright before him. I began to curl up and move away from him, but he steadied me with a hand on my thigh, holding me in place.
“It is all right, Watson,” he said smoothly. “It is perfectly natural. Now relax, and let me finish.”
It was the only time he mentioned my inappropriate reaction to his touches. He stroked me with the sponge, moving my legs slightly to reach to my backside. As he sponged the highly-sensitive region around my perineum, I let out a breathless moan.
And then he stopped. He pulled the blanket down and put the water on the counter. “Feel better?” he asked cheerily.
I looked at him as though he were mad. He had just given me the most powerful erection, and my whole body quivered for his touch. But he just stood there innocently, unfolding a clean nightshirt for me, acting as though nothing had happened.
I nodded, staring at him intently.
He flashed me a smile. “Good. Now, let's put this on you.” He helped me struggle the long shirt over my body. For a brief second, I was once again exposed, my erection standing upright between my legs, engorged with need. He looked at it briefly but did not bother to acknowledge it. Indeed, his hand even accidentally brushed the tip of my erection as he pulled the hem of the garment down over my waist, but he did not flinch or comment.
The only unusual feature of his expression was his pink-tinged cheeks, and the enlarged size of his pupils. He looked flushed. But by the time I was back under the covers, tucked up and ready for bed, he was back to normal, his face schooled in neutrality, all heightened colour gone from his face.
“Good night, Watson,” he said softly. And then he turned down the gas lamps, leaving me to ponder what it all meant.
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Holmes' Mistake