Chapter Text
The burst of steam erupts from the damaged valve with a split-second piercing wail and Holmes cries out to match it when the steam sears his hand. Across the room, Watson feels his heart clench in his chest. He is useless once more as the coward Lord Ivins turns to run.
Holmes is barely slowed by his injury, dashing forward to counter the contemptible lord. As Watson rounds the large laboratory table lit by the brilliant blue flame of a Bunsen burner, Holmes knocks Ivins clean out with the butt of his gun and the criminal falls to the floor with a thud. The detective stands over him triumphantly, but Watson is possessed by the sight of Holmes' burned hand and the clearly painful way it is held.
He reaches out for it, for Holmes. He has allowed his friend to be hurt yet again. Why is he seemingly always just a few too many steps behind when he is most needed? At the very least, he should have been there to put down that dog Ivins for him once he was hurt. The only thing he can do at this point is address the injury and quickly. Burns are nothing to be trifled with, particularly on a hand, especially when the hand in question is one of the extraordinary hands of the world's only consulting detective.
At the barest touch of Watson's fingers, Holmes yanks his arm away and turns back to address the figure on the floor, clearly annoyed at the continual unreliability of his companion. A dismissive wave from his good hand is all that Watson receives from him.
"It is nothing, I assure you."
The doctor has no intention of being so easily dissuaded, especially not when he thinks of the possibility of Holmes' hand, scarred and damaged, unable to detect the hidden clues that unlock their unusual crime scenes, unable to make the Stradivarius sing out with such devastating beauty. The thought chills him to the bone.
"A burn like this is not nothing. For God's sake, man, it's your hand!"
There is no response from Holmes. Watson's mind will not relent with thoughts of the violin and the hideous concept of Holmes possibly never again able to play it so elegantly during those dark wordless nights in their sitting room together. It is an unbearable notion and he lowers his voice for another plea.
"It's your bow hand, Holmes. You must let me see it."
The detective remains maddeningly silent. There is no denying at this point that he is beyond exasperated with his so-called friend. To even ignore the potential loss of his extraordinary abilities!
"Holmes. Please."
Finally, finally, Holmes sighs and with great reluctance extends his arm toward the waiting doctor without turning his head.
"Oh, if it will satisfy you, Watson. I am certain you will find it is of no real concern."
Watson wastes no time to reach for Holmes' arm. "Let me be the judge of that."
With great care not to touch or move the injured area, the doctor lifts Holmes' hand and winces. A thankfully relatively small second degree burn stands out angrily against flushed skin just below three knuckles. It surely must be quite painful but Holmes' hand is utterly still in his own. The man himself keeps his head down, watching for any motion from tonight's prey on the floor.
The unnatural warmth from Holmes' palm is sinking deeply into Watson's in a rather distracting manner. He will not allow himself to be distracted. This is serious and he is a professional. He is addressing a painful wound as a medical doctor, not holding hands with a young lover in the park!
But Holmes' nimble fingers still sit there, nestled underneath his own thumb. Without intending to, Watson rolls large slow circles with that thumb onto those fingers. And just like that, he is lost. Just as lost as he is every time his calling gives him an excuse to put his hands onto Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Lost in the sensation and lost in the thought, 'he is mine.'
Watson knows he should start dressing the wound with the gauze in his pocket. He knows that, but he is simply captivated by the scene before him. He is holding Holmes' hand. Tearing his eyes away at the moment would be impossible. In the end, it is only the detective himself breathing quite raggedly in obvious pain that finally catches away his attention.
The doctor could kick himself. All the while he has been indulging himself, admiring the view, absorbing the touch, Holmes has been suffering in silence with his rather nasty burn. Absolutely nothing has yet been done to address it. Some doctor Watson has been. In the next instant, the salve and gauze are out and Holmes' hand is carefully bandaged. Watson doesn't linger as he dabs cool healing salve on hot red skin. He doesn't dawdle as he wraps clever slender fingers together in a protective layer of cloth. This is serious and he is a professional.
"There you are. Keep it clean and wrapped. Tell me if you see any signs of infection, will you?"
Holmes, still quite annoyed, sighs again as his arm drops to his side. "Yes, yes, of course, Doctor, as you wish. Now, shall we take our quarry and be on our way?"
Watson could not possibly want anything more in that moment. He has been of so little use today that he is simply relieved Holmes still wishes his presence. They leave with their captive and continue as they always do, the detective and the doctor.