Complicated

"Watson!"

Confound it... where is the man?

The villain apprehended, the house crawling with constables, and the good doctor nowhere in sight. Holmes comes to a downward spiral of wooden steps. He peers into the darkness of the cellar.

"Watson! You down there?" his voice falls flat as though swallowed up by the gloom.

Is that a groan? Holmes quickly runs down the steps, catching himself just in time as his feet skitter on their treacherous surface.

And there the man is, sitting up against the cellar wall, illuminated weakly by the dim half-light filtering through the floorboards above.

"Well... Watson... shall we depart?" Holmes looks from the doctor to the staircase and back again eagerly.

And then he notices: The doctor is tense, his face is pinched and pale. The detective's eyebrows lift questioningly.

"My arm... it's broken" comes the voice of the physician.

For a moment, Sherlock Holmes simply considers the facts. Then he asks:

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure" says the doctor, his voice reflecting a tight smile. Stepping closer, Holmes can see the doctor's face is gray and shiny and the smile playing upon his lips is forced. He holds his right arm motionless against his body, Holmes can easily see the pale right hand stark against the dark overcoat.

Holmes makes a swift and most obvious deduction.

"Wait... did you fall down these steps, old man?"

The poor doctor manages to appear even more discomfited as he replies with an embarrassed, "Yes."

"Bad luck, old boy, but you shouldn't feel too dismayed, I almost came a-cropper myself..." he begins to commiserate, but is interrupted by a slightly breathless voice.

"Listen, Holmes, it's... complicated. My hand is cold, I can't feel it. I need - we need - to set the bone - now."

"We'll get you back to a hospital... you'll be as right as rain..." and immediately he is on his feet, ready to race back upstairs, after all, half the Force is up there trampling about the crime scene.

But Watson shakes his head slowly, his eyes seem to close of their own volition and he whispers "No..." Swallowing he goes on. "Has to be done now... circulation, you see... c'd lose my arm, old boy..."

Watson's eyes are still closed, his head drooping. Holmes hears muttered words like fracture and reduction. Suddenly a white face looms up. Holmes stoops and lays a questioning hand upon his friend's shoulder. Watson gives a puzzled look and says, "I think I have to-" and then he is pitching unsteadily to one side and vomits into the corner.

"My dear Watson... " breathes Holmes, worry creasing his brow. Kneeling quickly at the doctor's side he supports his trembling companion, then, leans across and pulls the man back into a sitting position being careful not to touch the injured arm. Watson is breathing heavily, his arm still clasped against his body.

"What must I do?" Holmes asks, his face sober and his voice low.

Watson looks relieved and softly replies "Thank you."

"Should we remove this?" Holmes motions to the overcoat.

"I'm afraid so" replies the doctor and their eyes meet with grim understanding.

Holmes holds the injured arm steady as if it were made of glass, and asks, "Ready?" as Watson begins to shrug the overcoat from his left shoulder all the while screwing up his face and panting. A good deal of scrambling and Watson has managed to haul the coat from beneath himself. And then all that remains is to slide off the coat's right sleeve, a process done with much gasping from Watson and gentle encouragement from Holmes.

Slowly he helps Watson lower the limb to rest on the dirty floor at his side. Holmes scuffles around to be within easy reach. He looks into the face of the medic. Watson, in a thin linen shirt, is shivering. Holmes can see that his right arm, where the sleeve is pushed up, is mottled and bruised blood-red in parts. There is an odd twist to the limb and the wrist and hand are white and lifeless.

"Hold here.." Watson instructs and, with his one functioning hand, he first takes Holmes left hand and then his right and places them close to his right elbow.

"After-" and then Watson swallows thickly. "After we are... done, I will most probably vomit again." His glance is apologetic. "And pass out." He chuckles without humour. "Not necessarily, of course, in that order."

"And what must I do then?" asks the detective.

"Just keep me warm and get some help... I will be fine"

With his eyes closed again Watson takes a few long but unsteady breaths. Holmes readies himself as best he can.

The detective watches as Watson's long fingers ghost over the skin of his injured arm, hardly touching but nonetheless, competently discerning the position of the damaged bones. Then, without any warning and taking Holmes by surprise, he calmly grasps the wrist and pulls. It is Holmes who makes the only sound, a little hiss of what must be sympathetic pain. The doctor jerks upright, inhales hugely and then releases the breath in several short and painful gasps; his eyes are wide and blinking.

There is a short silence.

"Watson, you have neither vomited nor passed out - should I be concerned?" asks the detective with absolute seriousness.

But Watson does not answer his enquiry, his fingers, though they tremble terribly, expertly search out the radial pulse.

" 'Salright... it worked... 'sfine.." pants the doctor, relieved, a real smile now on his face.

Holmes watches as Watson's body relaxes, his head tilts to the side, and he happily tells the detective, "Passin' out now, old boy... Thank you, Holmes."

"Any time, my friend, any time..." and he pats the shoulder of the now unconscious doctor.