Title: Henna
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Gen
Length: 520
Content Warnings: Watson/Holmes; hurt/comfort; writing on the body; takes place during “The Illustrious Client,” with references to “The Three Garridebs,” reference to Biblical passage 1 Corinthians 13:7
Summary: Watson visits Holmes after his attack.
Author’s Note: Follow-up to Voice.


I have mentioned the fact that in many of my chronicles of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, I have editorialised, that is to say, I have altered names and dates and locations. In the story known to the public as “The Illustrious Client,” I expunged several hours, not to shield client, victim, or the relations thereof, from public scrutiny but rather Holmes and myself.

I stood in the door, studying Holmes as he studied me, by the one slant of daylight that penetrated the heavy-curtained room.

My eyes widened at the bandages and bruises, though in the short time between my learning of his attack and my arrival at his door, I had imagined much worse. Holmes had angered some foul villains in his time and, until now, had, to my knowledge, survived all threats and machinations unscathed. I drew in a sharp breath at what this Baron Gruner had accomplished through his blackguard associates and snarled at the thought of personally meting out the hide-thrashing they so richly deserved.

The shock and the fear and the anger were fleeting, however. The predominant sentiment was guilt. I had abandoned my friend, and this was the consequence: crimson-soaked linen, bright and accusing.

“John.”

Morphine was a curious creature, I thought; it rendered the impossible only highly improbable.

I sat beside him and bent my head and what followed was nothing short of a confession.

Words poured out of him, how ashamed he’d been at his outburst when Evans had shot me, how he connived to put distance between us by covertly promoting my medical practice, how injured he was at my departure for the Queen Anne Street lodgings, how relieved at my appearance at our usual appointed day and hour at the Turkish bath on Northumberland Avenue.

The soliloquy lasted for more than an hour, with moments of silence and coherent statements interspersed with poetic ramblings, much of the latter with a dancing motif.

He seemed to be addressing a Watson inside his mind as much as the one by his side.

I listened with my eyes fixed on a corner of the rug, and only when I felt he had finally concluded, did I raise my head to respond.

He was asleep.

Curious, indeed.

After half an hour’s thought, I had decided on my course of action and went hunting for the necessary implements amongst Holmes’ trove of scientific trinkets and curiosities.

I found brush and ink, or to be more precise, skin-stain, of a kind I’d first seen during my time in India. Then carefully, without waking the patient, I inscribed four words on his inner forearm.

I was still by his side when he woke some hours later. The slumber had done him much good, for when he spoke, his voice was much stronger.

“All right, Watson. Don’t look so scared. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Thank God for that!”

And so the tale went on as I have recounted.

I saw much, much later that my temporary inscription had been made permanent, but the story of that revelation and its consequences is for another day.