Work Text:
After that awful attack on Mr. Holmes by Baron Gruner’s men, Mrs. Hudson had kept a sharp eye out for trouble. She kept the door locked even more consistently than she once had, and at night, she listened carefully for any disturbances.
When she heard the first thumping from upstairs, her heart about stopped. Chest tight, she rushed right up with a broom in hand. If anyone had broken in, she’d deal with them straight away.
“Easy, Holmes, easy,” Dr. Watson said from inside the sitting room. “It’s going to take time.”
“Time? I do not have time, Watson!” Mr. Holmes gave an annoyed huff, and Mrs. Hudson relaxed a bit. If he could sound that annoyed, he must be all right. “I cannot leave the house if I’m incapable of defending myself, and it has already been two weeks.”
“Two weeks after a serious, grievous injury, not to mention subsequent illness. You were beaten nearly to death, old man.”
“Well, as I did not die, I ought to be perfectly fine.” Silence for a moment, and then quick, waltzing footsteps over to the door. “Mrs. Hudson, are you listening in again?”
Blushing, she opened the door and stepped inside. “Well, I just heard a bit of thumping. I— Oh dear, oh dear, what are you two up to?”
Dr. Watson pulled off a pair of boxing gloves and tossed them down. He and Mr. Holmes were both in just their shirtsleeves, which revealed an awful lot of yellowed bruising on Mr. Holmes’ arms. “We are sparring, Mrs. Hudson. Or rather, we were sparring.”
Breathing hard, Mr. Holmes hugged an arm across his stomach. “I am perfectly fit to continue, Watson.”
“You are nearly in too much pain to stand, Holmes.” Dr. Watson took him by the arm and steered him to sit in his armchair. Mr. Holmes was terribly pale again, his breathing now labored. He’d gotten a bit of fluid in the lungs from lying down so much, and was still rather ill. “Where is it? Just your ribs?”
Groaning, Mr. Holmes pressed a hand to his temple, then flinched and lowered it. “I am admittedly a little sore everywhere.”
“What was that flinch?”
Mrs. Hudson picked up Mr. Holmes’ waistcoat, examining a small tear beside one seam. She ought to fix that before it got worse. “I believe his hand is hurting him, Doctor.”
“Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson is prodding me entirely enough without your help,” Mr. Holmes snapped. He had been getting awfully irritable at the drop of a hat lately, swinging between that, melancholy, and cheerful determination to pretend he wasn’t hurt or sick at all. “You need not make him more hysterical about my health. I— Ow!”
“Mm.” Dr. Watson carefully manipulated Mr. Holmes’ still-bruised fingers. They’d been terribly swollen even a few days ago, badly injured in the fight. “Yes, that’s the trouble. Mrs. Hudson, could you bring up some ice?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Being encased in ice is hardly how I wish to spend my evening,” Mr. Holmes muttered. “I wish to play my violin.”
Leaving them to argue about whether it was a good idea to play the violin with badly injured fingers and an inability to breathe easily, Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. She fetched a bag of ice and carefully wrapped it in flannel. Mr. Holmes was awfully sensitive to cold, and he’d be terribly unhappy if the ice was too uncomfortable.
She took it back upstairs and found Mr. Holmes coughing. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, carefully settling the ice on his sore hand. “That cough does sound awful.”
He flicked a faint smile at her, still pale. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson. I shall be perfectly all right.”
“Mm. Well, you will get if you rest.” Dr. Watson pressed a glass of brandy into Mr. Holmes’ good hand. “I keep warning you, you can’t push yourself too hard or it’ll just slow down your recovery.”
Mr. Holmes gave a soft growl of irritation, then took a drink. He finished off the whole glass in a few gulps, likely eager for some relief to his pain. “Rest is dull.”
Sighing, Dr. Watson topped off Mr. Holmes’ glass, then poured some brandy for himself. He took a slow sip, exchanging a knowing look with Mrs. Hudson.
She chuckled softly and patted Mr. Holmes on the shoulder. “You listen to the doctor and rest now, sir. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“I believe you have tortured me adequately with the ice,” Mr. Holmes muttered, but there was a fond twinkle in his eye. “You may vanish now, Mrs. Hudson.”
She exchanged another look with Dr. Watson, who rolled his eyes with similar fondness. Mr. Holmes could be quite fussy and moody, but they both loved him dearly. They’d see to it that he was well taken care of, no matter how cranky he got.
“Very good, sir,” Mrs. Hudson said, managing not to laugh at Mr. Holmes’ continued indignant glaring at the ice. “You just ring if you need anything else.”
Reassured that all was well, or at least as well as it could be, she returned downstairs and settled in her favorite armchair. Digging in her sewing basket, she found black thread and a needle, and set to work stitching up Mr. Holmes’ waistcoat. His injuries and illness would take time to mend, but at least she could help a little by repairing something right now.