"You're not a client," Watson said, and for the first time his voice broke a little. "You're... you're... damn you, you're..." He wasn't sure how to finish that sentence. Feeling choked, feeling frightened, he unloaded Holmes into the bed. "Stay put," he ordered, and fled out into the sitting room for his bag, for supplies.
He had to pause, breathing, his eyes shut and his hand against his forehead. He knew it was paramount that he kept a clear head, absolutely essential, but he felt about ready to fly to pieces. He wanted to scream, to weep, to pray. He scarcely believed in God anymore, not after Afghanistan, not after what he'd seen and what he'd done there, but he was willing to pray now on the off-chance that there was someone to hear, to beg that this was not some horrid punishment for a sin against a God he doubted. Holmes was everything. He wanted some other doctor to take over so he could fall apart; he didn't trust anyone else with Holmes's life.
When he returned, he was attempting to be calm again, though there was a pucker of worry in the middle of his forehead. "Let's get this properly cleaned out, first things first," he murmured, his voice steely (he had to be steely, the alternative was hysterics) but quieter. He sat down on the bed, taking Holmes's leg in his hands, and began dabbing at the inflamed skin. At least he saw no signs of gangrene, not yet, no signs that would suggest the quickest and surest cure was amputation.
no subject
He had to pause, breathing, his eyes shut and his hand against his forehead. He knew it was paramount that he kept a clear head, absolutely essential, but he felt about ready to fly to pieces. He wanted to scream, to weep, to pray. He scarcely believed in God anymore, not after Afghanistan, not after what he'd seen and what he'd done there, but he was willing to pray now on the off-chance that there was someone to hear, to beg that this was not some horrid punishment for a sin against a God he doubted. Holmes was everything. He wanted some other doctor to take over so he could fall apart; he didn't trust anyone else with Holmes's life.
When he returned, he was attempting to be calm again, though there was a pucker of worry in the middle of his forehead. "Let's get this properly cleaned out, first things first," he murmured, his voice steely (he had to be steely, the alternative was hysterics) but quieter. He sat down on the bed, taking Holmes's leg in his hands, and began dabbing at the inflamed skin. At least he saw no signs of gangrene, not yet, no signs that would suggest the quickest and surest cure was amputation.