It had been a particularly wet week, and that was the trouble: in his eagerness to see what, precisely, had been beyond a back-garden wall Digory Kirke had fallen and badly cut his arm. To be precise, Digory had scrabbled for balance on the top of an old dog-house which was thickly shingled with wet leaves. His frantic grab for traction had dislodged the heap, revealing a sharp nail sticking out somewhat from the roof of the dog-house; as Digory's arm passed over the nail it dug quite deeply into the flesh, leaving a fantastic gash. He took quite a knock to the head on his way down, which didn't help matters: Digory tended to go dizzy at the sight of blood.

Polly, who had of course been present – and who had of course realized that climbing atop a rickety dog-house covered in wet leaves was an endeavor that could not possibly end well – had quite sensibly removed the smock from her school dress, wrapped Digory's arm in it, and led the befuddled boy back to his house. Upon their return Polly had calmly asked the maid for three things: to retrieve Digory's Aunt Letty (who Polly knew as Miss Ketterley) as soon as possible; she also wished to ensure that said retrieval did not include the more excitable Aunt Mabel (for this was what Polly was required to call Digory's mother) or Digory's Uncle Andrew (who Polly did her level best to never need to address in any way, though when absolutely necessary she said Mister Ketterley). She also suggested that the maid bring in some wrappings for Digory's wounded arm, which was quite quickly bleeding through her now-ruined smock. Lastly, Polly requested a drink of water. It was tiring work to half-lead and half-carry an injured friend home, especially when said friend could seemingly grow an inch a week.

Polly had a full minute – she noticed this because the grandfather-clock in the parlor made a curious schlack-ing sound upon hitting fifty-seven seconds – before the uproar started. Fortunately, the maid had already brought the water, so Polly was well set to sit back and watch the show.

Miss Ketterley chivvied the maid off to call for the physician, and then lectured Aunt Mabel about the fact that her boy was 'running absolutely wild,' and was 'as like to put his eye out next' as anything else. Polly was not entirely sure this was inaccurate. Aunt Mabel, meanwhile, spent her time fretting over Digory – wrapping and re-wrapping the nasty gash on his arm with a succession of ever-larger towels, and smoothing the damp hair back from his brow. This was made more difficult by the fact that Digory who, due to a curious physical trick common to young male mammals, felt more excitement than pain and kept trying to get a good look at his injury. Other than that Digory lay obediently on the couch, with his head resting on a pillow in his mother's lap. The scene was made complete with Uncle Andrew, who pontificated grandly about the dangers of city life – conveniently forgetting that it had been his choice to purchase the London row-house to begin with – and seemed wholly unconcerned that nobody saw fit to respond or even to listen.

Polly had begun to weigh the odds of whether Aunt Mabel would replace the current dressing with a bathing-towel or a tablecloth when a clatter at the door announced the return of the breathless maid with the physician in tow.

"I've brought the doctor," the maid announced, but – to Polly's amusement – not a single member of the clan even noticed. Polly looked from one person to the other, more amused at the scene than concerned about Digory, who'd survived far worse trouble.

The doctor stood in the doorway, assessing the chaos. Polly took the time to study the man. He was dressed nicely but not expensively, which she thought seemed fitting for a doctor. He was tall and somewhat thickly-built in a way that reminded Polly of her cousin who played rugby at university – or, perhaps, what said cousin would look like in another ten or fifteen years.

"I'm sorry, sir," the maid said to the doctor. "They do like to fuss."

"I can see that," the doctor said, divesting himself of hat and coat. The maid took both articles out of the chaotic parlor, with a decided look of relief. The doctor cast another glance about the room before decisively crossing it, stopping in front of Polly's chair. He dropped to one knee on the floor before her – so as to put his head on the level of her own – and smiled charmingly.

Up close the doctor was quite handsome indeed, with well-groomed whiskers and brilliant blue eyes. Polly couldn't help it; she smiled back.

"Hello, miss," the doctor said, taking Polly's hand in his own and giving it a very grown-up shake. "You seem best fit to tell me what has happened."

Polly nodded, feeling a bit dazed, which truly wasn't fair. She hadn't gone the least bit faint at the sight of all that blood – unlike Digory – but a doctor with kindly eyes could put her aflutter. She released his hand and cleared her throat.

"Digory was trying to cross a wall, sir," she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. "He'd climbed on an old dog-house when—" Polly reconsidered and changed tack mid-sentence. "–there wasn't a dog in it, it hadn't been used for years. He wasn't bitten." Polly wasn't entirely sure what happened when one was bitten by a dog, but she'd heard horrid things about rabies.

"Not a dog bite," the doctor repeated gently. "Go on then, what did happen?"

"Well, he'd climbed to the top of the dog-house to get over the wall, and -- I guess I should explain that this was in Mrs. Hearn's garden. She's not one for gardening. I'm not sure if she can walk. So things were a bit of a mess. Digory climbed onto the dog-house to look over the wall. I think he was going to climb the wall, next. The dog-house had leaves all on the top of it – dead ones, from a tree." Polly paused, trying to figure out how to put the next events in order – Digory had slipped, but Polly wasn't sure precisely why.

"After a week of rain," a new voice interjected, "those leaves would be as slippery as ice. Young Digory here lost his battle with gravity, as boys of his age often do. Tell me, was the dog-house of solid craftsmanship?" Polly startled: she hadn't heard the newcomer, or noticed him at all until he'd spoken.

The doctor chuckled softly to himself and shook his head. "Johnston, honestly – you make me absolutely useless." He turned back to Polly. "This is my manservant Johnston."

"Hello," Polly said politely to the pair. "I'm Polly Plummer. And no, the doghouse wasn't made well – it was falling apart, and I told the idiot as much before he climbed onto it. I'm surprised he didn't come back wearing it."

"You see, Johnston, how much better our lives would be were we to always follow the advice of females. And I know where you're going, sir," the doctor told the other man. "He's most likely caught an old nail on his way down. We'll clean things up and give him a shot so he doesn't develop tetanus."

The rest of the room, meanwhile, had quieted during this discussion. By the end of it everyone was silent save for the good doctor, though his manservant possessed a certain mocking grin that spoke volumes. Polly wondered at that but thought it best not to mention it. The doctor shared introductions with the Kirkes and Ketterleys, then drew a chair up next to the sofa where Digory lay with his head in his mother's lap.

"Johnston, if you would please—" the doctor said, and swallowed the rest of his sentence as he was handed a large leather bag. "Thank you. Now I'll need some boiling water – where's that maid got to?"

By now the rest of the family had come to attention, which Polly thought was unfortunate. Aunt Letty began to explain that Digory had come tottering home "holding to that that poor dear girl like a walking-crutch," but got no further in the comparison of Polly to inanimate objects before Andrew began to explain, again, that it was simply the natural tendency of the Archetypal Boy to be wild and no rules or civilization could curtail it.

Johnston, who'd found the maid and given all instructions, came back on the tail-end of Uncle Andrew's proclamation, which he seemed to find fascinating. He drew the other man aside. "Do you think that there is a general wildness in Men?" Johnston asked Uncle Andrew.

"He is going to be all right, isn't he?" Aunt Mabel asked.

"There'll be no harm done," the physician said. "He'll not even need stitches – a good bandage should do, as long as he keeps it clean. Though I'm afraid, Miss Plummer, that your pinafore is ruined."

"I certainly do," Andrew said. "It is the nature of a man to be a wild thing – woman, you know, is the civilizing force. But too much of that influence will do a boy ill, as you can see with my nephew here."

Polly shrugged at the loss. "My mother will be dreadfully cross, but it was for a good cause."

"While I shall accept the generalities," Johnston told Uncle Andrew, "I must disagree with the particulars – especially in the case of women. They too can have a wildness about them."

"Indeed," the physician smiled. "That was smart thinking, by the way – he'd have bled much more without this to stanch the wound." He balled the ruined pinafore in his capable hands and dropped it in a metal basin the maid provided. "I'll write up a note for you, shall I, to assure your mother that it was lost in the pursuit of medicine."

"I'm sure they can," Uncle Andrew said, his face a curious mixture of remembered fear and admiration. "Too true they can. I've known a wild woman or two in my day – some of them just can't be tamed."

"I think she'd like that," Polly said, unable to look away from the physician's blue eyes. "She'd believe a doctor much easier than she'd believe me, though things like this happen around Digory." A faint blush chased its way across her cheeks. She sternly ignored it. Doctors did not invite blushes, even if they had brilliant eyes and offered to prevent the wrath of a mother.

"You think women need taming?" Johnston asked. "Or was this particular one something of a sport?"

"She was in every way," Uncle Andrew beamed. "A superb creature, sir. A foreign dignitary, at that."

"A dignitary?" Johnston asked. "I'd inquire further, had we not met due to your nephew's injury."

"Thank God," Aunt Mabel said to Miss Ketterley. "No stitches – can you imagine what that'd have done to him?"

"Nonsense, it's well in hand," Uncle Andrew said, clapping Johnston on the back and leading him away. "We'll take a drink and stay out of the business. Never could abide the sight of blood."

"I rather wanted stitches, actually," Digory whined.

"Trust me, son, you don't," the doctor said, sponging iodine on the cut. Digory winced. "It's much worse than this."

"Have you had stitches, then?" Digory asked with interest.

"Indeed I have," the physician said. "Twice – on my shoulder, and here on my leg. I found myself in the way of a few bullets during the war." The doctor finished with the iodine and pressed a length of gauze along the gash, then wrapped it deftly with cotton binding.

"You were hurt in the war?" Digory asked admiringly. "Where were you stationed?" Digory, like most boys, was frightfully fond of war in the abstract – it made for fantastic stories, after all, with lots of courage and heroism.

"I was stationed in Afghanistan," the doctor said. "Have you heard of the battle of Maiwand?" He shook his head. "Dreadful defeat for the English army. Grab that end, there, and see if you can shift it."

While Digory busied himself tugging at the end of the bandage – which was well-wrapped and did not give way – the doctor surreptitiously removed a syringe and a bottle from his bag. "Penicillin," he whispered to Polly, whose eyes had widened at the sight of the needle. "The wound looks clean, but better to be safe."

"I can't move it," Digory said. "Am I supposed to? Were you hurt? Have you got scars?"

Polly nodded, wondering how in the world the physician would get a needle into Digory, who could lay his arm open with nary a complaint but yelped at injections.

"No, you shouldn't," the doctor said, holding the syringe well out of Digory's view. "That means I did the thing rightly. If you're curious, feel here, above my knee." He took Digory's hand and placed it on his leg, above the knee. "No, press down, it doesn't hurt – that thing you feel beneath the skin is a Jezail bullet."

"Brilliant," Digory breathed, pressing the doctor's knee and completely missing the fact that he was also receiving an injection to his bandaged arm. "What's a Jezail?"

"It's a sort of musket," said the doctor, who had honed this trick to perfection. He replaced the syringe in his bag, caught Polly's eye, and winked. Polly winked back. "It was a fearsome sight, to see a man coming at you astride an angry camel with a flintlock under one arm…."

Digory, Polly was sure, would re-tell this story for the next month. Perhaps more. She paid close attention, so that she could later correct him when he inevitably got it wrong.

--

After that was an awful lot of discussion with Digory's mother about Digory's need to rest quietly; they also saw to the Settling of the Account, which Polly always found a dreadfully boring business. Then the good doctor wrote a note to Polly's mother on his prescription-pad while his manservant Johnston helped the maid clear up the mess. With more handshakes and a pair of doffed hats, the pair left as suddenly as they had come.

"You ought to get home now," Aunt Mabel told Polly kindly. "I'll come by and speak to your mother tomorrow – the doctor was quite right, you know. If you hadn't wrapped his arm it would have been much worse. You should be proud of yourself, Polly. You've a good head on your shoulders."

Buoyed by all the compliments – and the memory of the doctor's infectious smile and blue eyes – Polly slipped out the front door without bothering the maid, who was still wiping the floor where a drop of blood may or may not have hit the boards. Polly quietly shut the door behind herself, and before she took a step she heard jocular voices. She froze in the shadows, watching as the doctor and his manservant clambered into a waiting hansom.

"I doubt the family had anything to do with it," the doctor said.

"I agree," his manservant – Polly quite doubted his name was Johnston – replied. "Though they are an odd lot, all the same. Especially that uncle. If he's not involved in the disappearance of this cab-driver I'll give up my pipe for a solid year."

"I'd hold you to that, old fellow," the doctor laughed, "but you'll never prove it."

Polly stood stock-still until the cab rolled away. One more interesting element to the doctor's story – though she rather thought she'd keep this part to herself. Some stories were better when not shared. She and Digory had never again spoken of Narnia, after all. She had a funny feeling that this doctor would understand – not the story itself, never that – but the fact that some stories can't be told. Polly unfolded the prescription-slip and read the name and address at the top.

"John Watson, two-twenty-one B, Baker Street," she repeated to herself, until she remembered it without looking at the paper. Only then did Polly Plummer go home.

NOTES:

This was done in one sitting, with copious reference to things like the treatment of tetanus and rabies around 1900, the Narnian timeline, and the Wikipedia entry on Dr. Watson. Anything I've got wrong is entirely my fault for not letting this story sit for a few days; anything I got right I owe to whichever one of the Muses presides over short-form fiction.

I've been fond of the Holmes stories for ages, and often thought it'd be entertaining to write a crossover. It was the recent movie that gave me the urge to finally combine the two – said movie is also why Watson's eyes, here, are blue. Anyone who has seen Jude Law will understand why Polly was struck with a case of butterflies. That smile at point-blank range must be overwhelming.

Doyle fans will be familiar with the fact that our good detective is fond of disguises and assumed identities. I'm not sure what it took to get him to persuade Watson to put up with this – likely the fact that Holmes, on the trail, is an unstoppable force and it really is easier just to go along with it.

I have no idea what Andrew is going on about, with Archetypal Boys and Civilizing Women and all that nonsense. I was going to have him repeat some outmoded and archaic theory – probably involving phrenology – but I decided that was giving Andrew entirely too much credit. He's a Great Magician who is Descended of Fairies, after all; he'd only be proud of his own ideas. Holmes, of course, just wants to get the old twit talking – which is far too easy.