mustbethetruth | don't worry it won't stay this cute

Feeling positively light-headed with happiness, Watson did laugh, because Holmes was being ridiculous, because the evening had been sublime, because he was enjoying hearing echoes of arias hummed through the streets, because things were dark and quiet and the streets were theirs, because he was in love.

"You are a madman," he chuckled, resisting the urge to catch Holmes again and dance with him, to kiss him, to do anything more demonstrative than simply look at him fondly. "You're lucky that it's one of your best features."

"You have enough sensible friends." He waltzes with himself, circling Watson, and he wishes rather desperately he could take him in his arms. They're nearly home; maybe there, he will whisk Watson around the room before they fall on the sofa and share all the kisses they can't share out here.

"Someone must help you cultivate your own madness. Lestrade would not be the ideal choice," he says with a wry twist of his mouth because it should be fairly obvious by now that he's friends with Lestrade, despite all the odds.

"I have my fill of sensible friends," Watson returned, his eyes crinkled with laughter. "I need some madness in my life. You are the perfect candidate." They were nearing home now, and being able to shut a door between them and the rest of the world was sounding like a very good idea; all he could think was how truly splendid Holmes was.

"Out of curiosity," he grinned, "how am I coming along with cultivating--"

Abruptly, he broke off into a low, sharp exhalation, a hiss of pain, in the same moment there was a distant crack, a sound of gunfire. Even before he had registered what was going on he knew instinctually what had happened; it had happened before, after all. Watson clapped his hand over his left arm, feeling the wet heat of his own blood. His knees buckled under him, not for any good reason except the shock.

Holmes processes everything in startling clarity. The sound of the gunshot; the shock and pain on Watson's face; the sight of him sinking to the ground; the otherwise quiet of the night, other than the distant rattle of carriages and echoes of conversation. He sees everything, records everything, while he stands stock still, the music dying in his throat.

He leaps into action, then, but that moment of stillness will later haunt him because for those few seconds he feels inhuman. He feels nothing -- just the stillness, the moment of suspension before falling -- and there's only the whir of his mind as it took notes.

The emotions crash in soon afterward, however, as he all but throws himself at Watson, clutching his good shoulder and cupping his face, trying to gauge the damage underneath Watson's hand.

"Watson, are you alright?" he asks, desperate, miserable, and he gives Watson's good arm a shake. "Tell me you're alright."

Watson wasn't even sure how to answer, not at first. Everything seemed so very far away, but there was Holmes, and there was pain, and he was struggling to bring himself back to the moment. He knew all too well the importance of not losing himself now, not on the battlefield, and this was certainly a battlefield.

"Had worse," he managed, truthfully. He sucked air in through his gritted teeth, and he turned to look at his wounded arm, lifting his hand. Irrationally, he felt angry about the loss of his coat. He didn't think it was too serious, but it was difficult to tell here, in the dark. There didn't seem to be an alarming amount of blood, for what it was worth. "Got to get cover," he managed.

"Yes," he murmurs, distracted, and he wishes desperately for time. He peers at Watson's arm, trying to be quick about memorizing the angle Watson was standing and the layout of the street from where they're standing. He could determine which window the culprit used when there's light, when there's time, and it kills him to think that he could find this person now.

No time for that, however, and he braces an arm around Watson's waist, holding him close as he brings him to his feet and starts them for the door, which is thankfully not too far away, especially if they hurry.

"The shot came from the empty house across the street," he says, shooting a look over at it, wishing he could see its contents.

Swallowing hard, Watson sank gratefully against Holmes's support. His breathing was hard, but he kept it even, trying to keep himself calm. It was key, he knew, not to lose himself in the pain. He was feeling alert, all his senses thrumming with excitement and intensity. With the adrenaline pounding through his veins, he felt alive.

"We should go after him," he gasped, "before he has a chance to get away." He said we because he could not bear the idea of letting Holmes go after such a dangerous gunman alone -- that was just foolishness.

The doorway was at least somewhat sheltered, though it was hardly strong protection, and he wasn't sure where the shot had come from in any case. Unable to open the door himself, he risked another glance at his arm. His right hand was quite bloody by now, and he needed something better than his own palm to staunch the bleeding. He also had to work out whether the bullet had passed through his arm entirely, or whether it would have to be removed.

Focusing on the work to be done helped.

Holmes's back bristles with fear, his muscles tensing at being exposed like this; if their gunman is still there, he could easily take them out now, no matter the shelter the doorway provides. As Holmes looks back at the house, a dark, murderous need for revenge steals through him. Some blackguard shot his Watson, and if Holmes could -- if Watson didn't need him -- Holmes would charge into that building and tear that man apart. Very nearly in the literal sense.

"He's had his chance already," Holmes replies tensely, turning back to Watson, and all the murderous need for revenge melts away to be replaced with something much sicker, much more desperate, because there's quite a lot of blood under Watson's hand now. Holmes doesn't shy away from blood, but the sight of Watson's makes him sick with too many emotions to sort them all out. He tugs out his handkerchief and passes it to Watson before pulling open the door for them; he has to resist the urge to shove Watson through it and drag him up the stairs.

"Is it very serious? Should I call for Mrs. Hudson?" he asks lowly, urgently.

Wrapping Holmes's handkerchief over his wound, Watson glanced up at him as he made his way inside. The very last thing he wanted to do was inflict this mess on anyone else, let alone Mrs. Hudson, or to have any more witnesses to his injury.

"No," he said shortly. "I think the bleeding's beginning to stop." He was fairly certain that was not a lie, either. "Help me up the stairs, and I can take a proper look at it."

Watson swallowed hard again, trying to stave off a sudden wave of nausea as he climbed the stairs.

Though Holmes is desperate over the sight of Watson in pain and bleeding frustrates him, makes him eager and anxious for an immediate cure, he's glad that Mrs. Hudson needn't be involved; he doesn't have to worry about schooling his expression or keeping the love out of his eyes, and he can kiss and hold Watson all he wants.

He helps Watson up the stairs, clinging onto him, probably too tightly, and he pushes open their sitting room door. He ushers Watson through it and kicks it shut behind him -- and he locks it, for good measure.

"Sit, darling," he murmurs and directs Watson to a chair. "I'll fetch your bag. And some water?"

"Yes," Watson grunted, trying to stay focused, trying not to bleed on anything irreplaceable, trying not to think about that darling, so wonderful and so misplaced in this terrible moment. His instincts were still running high; he glanced at the windows, wondering if their attacker had a clear shot from wherever he might be hiding.

He lifted the handkerchief up from his arm, frowning at it. The bleeding was definitely slowing; he had been very, very lucky, and the shot hadn't grazed anything essential. He saw no exit wound, either; the bullet was probably still in his arm, and would have to come out.

"Damn him, this was my best coat," he growled, perhaps irrationally. "Cloths. I'll need cloths, too."

Holmes can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be an anxious plea for Watson to tell him that he's alright, so he accepts being ordered about. He fetches Watson bag, and then quickly crosses to the windows, closing the curtains. He makes quick work of acquiring the water and the cloths, though he feels like it takes far too long. He produces the materials for Watson and then hovers, standing before him with his hands hanging at his sides.

"What now, Watson? What shall I do? I'll buy you a new coat tomorrow," he blurts, and then promptly presses his lips together.

Watson flicked his gaze up to Holmes, not sure what to make of that offer. "One would almost think you hadn't seen a man get shot at before," he said. Gallows humour was a quick and easy refuge in a moment like this.

First things first. He drew out a pair of scissors, and with a slight wince at having to do such a thing to his good clothes, began to cut away the cloth from the wound. A careful probing with his fingers provoked a hiss of pain, but it confirmed two things: first, that there was no exit wound, and second, that the bullet was still in his arm.

"I can get this out," he decided aloud. "My tweezers. Get me my tweezers."

He realizes as he reaches for Watson's bag that his hands are shaking. His hands don't shake, never shake, not unless he's in need of cocaine or close to orgasm; this situation is somewhere nearer the first problem, maybe even somewhere beyond that, and he fumbles in his bag to produce the tweezers. He has no reply for his admonishment; he knows he's sick with worry and he really does not care.

"Here," he says, handing them over. "Brandy -- would you like some? For the pain?"

It was tempting, to be sure, but one look at Holmes right now made it perfectly clear to Watson that he had to keep his head, although that was the last thing he felt able to do. "Not yet," he said, "but I'll need one soon enough. You can pour me one. A good stiff one."

Having bared his arm, Watson gave the wound a closer look. A flesh wound, nothing serious, nothing compared to the one in his leg or his shoulder, but it was damned inconvenient, and damned painful. He prodded at it carefully, trying to locate the bullet as accurately as possible before he began digging about under his skin.

"No, wait," he corrected himself. "Light the lamp for me. I'll need the flame." Simplest way to sanitize his tools, after all. In the meantime, he reached for a cloth and began trying to clean up the wound, pressing hard to staunch the bleeding, which was steady if not fast.

His emotions might be taking him over rather embarrassingly, but he can at least snap to attention; he lights the lamp and brings it over before he pours brandy -- one for Watson, and one for himself, which he downs in two quick drinks.

He hovers, and he crosses his arms over his chest, hugging them against his body.

After holding the tweezers in the flame for a moment or two, Watson watched Holmes while he let the metal cool slightly. He was beginning to be more worried for Holmes than he was for himself.

Gritting his teeth in anticipation, he thrust the tip of the tweezers under his skin. It hurt, and he muttered curses under his breath, the sort of curse that was perfectly suited to the army.

It took some work, but he dug the bullet out from his flesh. With a small clink, he set the chunk of metal on the table, and pressed a wet cloth to his wound to staunch the fresh flow of blood. He was pale, breathing hard from the pain and the effort.

The next step was to sew himself up, but he would need to regain his equilibrium again before doing that.

"I've ruined," he said, hoarsely, "your handkerchief," and he began to laugh, with a sort of mild hysteria. He was thinking of another handkerchief, on another evening, after a successful boxing match.

That laugh is worrisome, and he tentatively reaches out a hand, too uncertain of the moment to be more confident in his touch; he lays his hand against Watson's good shoulder.

"We're even," he says thickly, and he gives his shoulder a light squeeze. "Though I think you've come out the worst. Coats are far more difficult to replace than handkerchiefs." Thin humor is the best he can offer because he's afraid to discuss the situation; he realizes neither one of them has a strong grasp on the situation, but he can't come apart too much until Watson's job is done.

"Nonsense, you replaced mine." After a moment more of vague laughter, Watson gave himself a shake. He was feeling nauseous again, vague and sick, and he shut his eyes while he waited for the moment to pass. The touch on his shoulder was reassuring, comforting.

"All right." He was doing his best to clean out the hole in his arm with the damp towel, and with a bottle of medicinal alcohol he'd got his hands on. He bit down on his lip, concentrating hard. "I need to stitch myself up." This was going to be the really unpleasant bit, and one-handed was not going to be simple, but he wouldn't ask Holmes to do such a thing. He wasn't sure Holmes was up to it. "If you could fetch me my needle and catgut?"

Feeling sick himself, he digs in the bag for the necessary items and stops just shy of handing them over. It's true that the sight of Watson like this is doing much to unsteady him, but he doesn't want that to get in the way of helping Watson; that is of the utmost importance.

"I can do this, if you'd prefer," he offers, and he glances uncertainly between Watson's arm and his face. "That angle looks... inconvenient for you to do it yourself."

Watson took a moment to consider this, looking at Holmes hard. It was an inconvenient angle, to say the least, and Holmes... well, Holmes was no surgeon, but Watson knew Holmes would be able to manage a competent stitching easily enough, and it did have to be stitched. If it came to the worst, then he would be watching and he could offer guidance.

He nodded, at last. "If you feel able to," he said, slowly, looking from the bullet on the table to Holmes's face "Pass me the brandy first, if you do." He did relax fractionally; it was a relief to be able abandon a little responsibility.

He passes Watson the brandy and his glass because that, at least, he's certain he can do. He's certain he can do this too because he can do anything for Watson -- is willing to do anything for him -- particularly if it lessens his pain or will lead to a better outcome than the alternative. As troubling as it is for him to have to do this, there's something comforting in the knowledge that he'll be stitching Watson up, working to repair him and set him to rights. That's what motivates him enough that his nerves calm down; finally, he can do what he's been desperate to make happen since Watson was shot.

He pulls a chair over and sits, drowning out everything else in the room beyond Watson's arm and the catgut and needle in his hands. He pays attention too, of course, to Watson's breathing and feedback, but otherwise he's happy to focus himself on the task. After sterilizing the equipment, he sets his jaw and gets to work, carefully and methodically stitching Watson's arm; the blood is disconcerting, and the knowledge that he's inflicting pain, but the sight of the wound closing keeps his hands steady until the job is finished. Sitting back, he takes a breath and reaches for a cloth for his hands.

"Am I an acceptable nurse?"

With his teeth gritted against the pain -- familiar pain, whatever else it might be -- Watson watched Holmes stitch him up, his expression critical, approving. His breathing was unsteady, but deep. He felt positively sick, but he knew it to be the sort of thing worth struggling through.

"You'll do," he said hoarsely. He leaned his head back against his chair, trying to centre himself, trying to keep his head from spinning.

Swallowing hard, Watson tried to remember the next steps to take. "One more thing I need you to do," he said. "No, two. Two things. First, bandage my arm up. Second..."

He hesitated, weighing it out. "Second, a small dose of morphine would not be amiss."

He lifts his eyes from Watson's arm to his face at the mention of morphine and swallows thickly. That might turn out to be more uncomfortable and difficult than stitching his arm was. Taking a breath to steady himself, he nods and presses his lips together, mustering a casual attitude.

"Certainly. One moment." He bandages Watson's arm carefully, making sure that it's properly protected, before he considers his next task.

"Here," he says gently, and he reaches for Watson's good shoulder, drawing him up. "Let's take your jacket off. I could cut you out of it, but I think the poor thing's seen enough carnage for one evening, don't you?" He helps Watson slide the jacket off, carefully working it over the bandage, and he lays it aside.

"I suppose it's entirely beyond salvation," Watson sighed, shifting to help Holmes undress him. He wished it were under better circumstances. Now that he was sewn, and bandaged, it was easier to let himself let go a little, to let himself hurt. "I suppose I won't be fit to accompany you to the opera for some time."

Watson rolled up his shirt sleeve for Holmes; the adrenaline that had kept him going was beginning to fade. At least he knew Holmes could handle a needle, even if not for good reasons.

"Nonsense. We're bohemian enough to turn up our noses at such conventions as proper opera attire," he says with a lightness that doesn't reach very far. He looks in Watson's bag again and is far too relieved to find morphine there; he'd been having terrible, dark thoughts about morphine being hidden from him, about having to go to his Moroccan case.

He readies the needle, finds a vein, and tries not to think about how obviously skilled at this he is as compared to stitching wounds. Hopefully Watson's too sick with pain to be having similar thoughts.

"There we are," he murmurs once he's done, and he rolls Watson's sleeve back down. "Would you like me to help you change into something more comfortable?"

With his wound cleaned, and dressed, and the numbing of the drug already taking effect, it was easy to let himself relax, finally. If Holmes was up to, well, taking care of him a little, he could let that happen. His eyes fell to the bullet still on the table; he'd had closer calls, but even so minor an incident shook him a little.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, please. Thank you." He steadied himself on the table as he rose, perhaps a bit unsteadily. "This isn't how I was hoping this evening would carry out, you know."

"I should think you hadn't hoped to get shot. Then I might really be concerned for your health." He slips a steadying arm around Watson's waist and starts them toward his room, grateful at least that they have a good excuse for once to share a bed.

"This is one thing I have good practice at," he offers ruefully, his lips twisting into a smile. "Thank goodness we're having illicit relations, eh, my dear?"

"Thank goodness," Watson drawled, laughing a little. "It's good practice for all sorts of things, isn't it?" He was already feeling sluggish and relaxed, and after everything else, it was somewhat of a relief.

Once in the safety and familiar comfort of Holmes's room -- strange, in a way, that it was such a thing now -- Watson sank down gratefully onto the bed. He closed his eyes, relaxing into the influence of the drug.

"Still," he said, drowsily, "I wouldn't mind giving this chap a little of his own medicine."

Holmes's expression shifts rather dramatically from the fond thing it had been to something darker and much more vicious. He clenches his jaw as he turns from Watson and crosses to his windows to pull the curtains shut tightly.

"Yes, well. Tomorrow you and I will investigate the house," he says, trying to sound matter-of-fact and keep the murderous feelings out of his voice. "The evidence should be mostly intact. We'll find him." And then Holmes will see to it that he's punished for hurting his Watson.

Turning back around, he undoes Watson's collar and sets it aside.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Mmm." Watson considered this question, far more seriously than was strictly necessary. He leaned towards Holmes, rather passive about having his collar removed, but enjoying the experience. "Fogged," he said at last, "but that's not entirely a bad thing."

He leaned forward, ghosting a brief kiss against Holmes's lips before dropping his head down on his shoulder. He ached, but it was removed, through a haze of morphine. Possibly he would care more about tracking down this gunman tomorrow, but for now, it was a distant concern.

"I'm sorry we were unable to go after him tonight," he said. "At least we have the bullet. It might be helpful."

Watson's presence against him is steadying and helps to chase away the dark desire for vengeance, at least for now. He lays his hand against Watson's hair, stroking it tenderly as he undoes his waistcoat and shirt.

"Yes, I'm sure it will." It's annoying, yes, that he couldn't pursue their gunman tonight, but the comforting thing about being himself is that he can be confident he will track the bastard down and make him pay. He's Sherlock Holmes; that's his job.

He pulls away from Watson to work his shirt off, being careful not to jostle him or the bandages too much; he tosses the clothes away and cups Watson's head, drawing him in for a gentle kiss, before he sinks to his knees to untie his shoes.

"If this is our snake assassin, I must detract points from his creativity."

"This is rather less unique an attempt to kill us," Watson murmured, giving a vague laugh. He smiled down at Holmes, finding a certain guilty enjoyment in having his shoes removed for him. "I'm not sure what option is better, really: that our friend has decided to kill us in a far more pedestrian way than his previous attempt, or that there's two entirely separate people out to kill us."

Was this the nature of their lives? Always dangerous, always on the edge? He had expected a safe, quiet life when he'd returned to London; it had been anything but. He loved every minute of it, truthfully.

"Perhaps the snake was a warning," Holmes murmurs, thoughtful, as he reaches for Watson's flies. "A sinister greeting that might have conveniently killed us, but was more designed to set us on edge. To give us an idea of what type of foe we're facing. Now, the more serious attempts on our lives begin."

With that fatalistic pronouncement, he lifts his gaze to Watson.

"Lie back."

"Normally," Watson chuckled, drowsily, "when you tell me something like that, it has rather a sinister connotation. Would you take advantage of me in the state I'm in now?" But he laid back, inhaling the smells he was surrounded with, smells of Holmes, of comfort and being loved. Perhaps he was a bit loopy from the morphine, but he hardly cared just now.

"If the snake was a warning," he said, looking up at the ceiling, "it was a rather oblique one."

"My darling, normally I would love to distract you with sex, but we're in the middle of a serious conversation here," he teases and reaches for the waist of Watson's trousers. "Please, do try to keep your focus."

He tugs Watson's trousers off, mulling over this idea of a warning and a proper assassination attempt. Yes, the snake is a rather ridiculous and eccentric warning, but what other type would you send to Sherlock Holmes, if you knew him to be your enemy? The attempt on their lives tonight was dull, yes, and straightforward, but it'd been utilitarian. The attempt was on Watson's life, and once Holmes crowded Watson's space, shielded him, got too near, then the assassin didn't try to finish the job.

Someone wants to get through to Holmes.

"Perhaps its meaning will become clear," he murmurs, and he stands back to start shedding some layers of his own. "Would you care for anything else, my dear Watson? More brandy, a cigarette?"

"Yes. I require you, here, where I can be assured that we're both still alive and in one piece. More or less."

Watson shifted comfortably, pulling the covers over himself, and settling into a position that did not put undue pressure on his latest injury.

"And I will try to stay focused as best as I can, but for the official record, you started it." He gave a small, throaty chuckle. "If someone is suddenly making a serious effort to kill us -- and that isn't anything new to me, for what it's worth, I've had thousands of Ghazis out for my blood, what's one more man? -- if someone is, what shall we do now?"

"Avoid dying, for starters." He smiles at Watson and shrugs out of his shirt. "Whoever wants us dead didn't do a very good job tonight," he points out, as he steps out of his trousers. "He could have easily shot me, or finished you off, and he didn't even fire again." He drifts off into the sitting room to get his pipe and tobacco, and he returns packing it before he sets it between his teeth.

"These attacks are as much communication as they are serious attempts." He slides under the covers and reaches for Watson's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I," Watson said, burrowing close against Holmes's side without releasing his hand, "am very good at not dying. I've managed it several times already. I hope you're as good at it." He gave a funny sort of laugh. "I could provide some helpful hints, if you wanted."

The idea that this person, whoever he might be, might successfully manage to kill Holmes was unbearable, far more unbearable than that Watson himself might die. Whatever that said about Watson, well, he wasn't keen on examining it too closely. He draped himself over Holmes's legs, savouring his warmth, the smell of his tobacco, everything.

"You think it was another warning, then? I can't say I care much for his methods of communication."

"Difficult to say, but it's a possibility." He threads his fingers through Watson's hair, gently strokes them down his neck, and back up again. "Whoever it is has a very dramatic flair for telegrams," and as he says it, he only convinces himself more that this is about him, and that he's dealing with someone who's clever.

"Don't jostle your stitches," he chides, looking down at Watson. "And I don't know about dying, but I'm very lucky when it comes to avoiding imprisonment. Maybe my luck extends to staying alive, as well."

"For your sake, I hope so," Watson said. "And don't tell me how to care for my stitches. Which one of us went through medical school, again?"

He stroked his fingertips over Holmes's thigh gently, letting his eyes close. He was still drowsy, still feeling an artificial happiness from the morphine. At the moment, he could hardly complain about that. "I promise to avoid dying as much as possible."

"See that you do. I prefer you alive. And you may have gone through medical school, but I'm your doctor tonight, at least in part. I can tell you what I like." He ruffles Watson's hair at that and smirks down at him. "Now go to sleep. You need your rest."

"Who do you think you are?" Watson protested, though his voice was full of good-natured humour. "Telling me what to do, how dare you."

Still, he was genuinely drowsy, if in part because of the drug running through his veins. He settled himself comfortably, grateful beyond words for Holmes beside him. Perhaps they weren't safe, but together, at least, they were strong.

"I love you," he murmured, rather sleepily.

don't worry it won't stay this cute

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