capt_facepalm | Last Train to Abergwaun

Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, assorted baddies
Summary: Respose to prompt for Watson instructing Holmes in a medical procedure (because he is incapable of performing it himself)
Warnings: See Summary; whump, of course; no slash
Word Count: 1608
Author's Notes:

Written for this watsons_woes 500!members party, by request of alone_dreaming in the fic/art meme, whose request was seconded by kcscribbler .
The author began work on this, at the time unfilled prompt, as a reciprocal request from alone_dreaming who wrote "Any Man" in my response for my sleep deprivation prompt.
Since the author writes at a glacial pace, the prompt was brilliantly filled by med_cat (See "Sound Medical Advice")
Concerned about a multiple fill, the author consulted both alone_dreaming and med_cat and received both their blessings before continuing.
Beta supplied by the long-suffering, and gracious med_cat .
The author also feels very pretentious referring to herself in the third person.

.oOOo.

Timeline: Tuesday, August 4, 1885
Setting: the night train between Bristol and Abergwaun, on the Welsh coast

“Gentlemen, this is where you disembark,” 'Inspector' Baird said with a cruel smile, sliding the door open as the train picked up speed.

Soaper signalled for Jenkins to help lift Doctor John Watson off the baggage compartment floor as Baird motioned with his revolver. The doctor struggled briefly, but as his arms were handcuffed behind his back, they were of little use; the leg-irons impeded his movements and his ability to balance in the swaying compartment.

“Well, Mister Holmes, it looks like the poor doctor is going to be shot trying to escape!” Baird taunted, addressing the remaining man on the floor. “Your friend was more trouble than he was worth!”

Sherlock Holmes smiled ruefully in memory of the energetic resistance Watson put up, necessitating his restraints. Amongst their other injuries, Soaper had a split lip and Baird would be walking awkwardly for days. If Jenkins had not pulled out a revolver levelled at Holmes' head, the doctor would have fought on. Instead, he immediately capitulated, faced their wrath, and spent the remainder of the journey lolling on the dusty floor, bound hand and foot.

Now swaying weakly between his captors, Watson flashed Holmes a quick smirk then utterly collapsed. The two men had to re-adjust their grip to pull him upright. As Baird turned to face the commotion, Watson suddenly regained his strength and lashed out with both legs, catching Baird in the chest, knocking the gun free, and propelling himself and Soaper out of the baggage car, into the night.

Jenkins too nearly slipped away, but caught himself at the last moment. The compartment’s remaining occupants were briefly stunned by the sudden, and unexpected action. Holmes and Jenkins simultaneously lunged for the errant revolver. Jenkins reached it first and, in his haste, fired a shot which narrowly missed Holmes. Before Baird could pick himself off the floor, or Jenkins could fire another shot, Holmes sprang for the opening and flung himself out of the compartment.

The train was still picking up speed and Holmes’ desperate leap was a deadly gambit. If there had been any trees, he would not have survived the impact. His acrobatic and baritsu defensive moves served him well. Instead of landing hard, he bounced, rolled, and tumbled down a shallow, grassy embankment, coming to rest at a gravel path. He examined himself for injuries and was relieved to find no broken bones, only cuts, and surely bruises would follow. Watson, shackled as he was, could not hope for such luck. Holmes had to find him, and quickly.

The problem reminded him of those arithmetic puzzles concerning trains traveling at different speeds in different directions. How fast had the train been travelling? How much time passed between Watson’s sudden departure and his own escape? The sky was still dark and it threatened to rain. Holmes regained the slope and started back along the railway tracks, looking for any visible signs.

Within half an hour, the sky had lightened marginally and an overcast day was dawning. By the dim morning light, Holmes spotted a motionless body. It was Soaper; his neck was visibly broken. He called out for Watson, who must be close at hand, hoping against hope to receive some response.

Holmes' quick search of the area found Watson in a shallow ditch below the steep embankment. His dear friend lay in an unnatural and uncomfortable position, twisted onto his side and back.

“Watson? Watson, can you hear me?” he cried, hurrying to the prone figure.

“Holmes… watch out for Soaper … he’s vicious… he’s still out there…” the doctor responded, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“No Doctor, his body is closer to the tracks. It looks like he cushioned your initial impact.”

“ …proves an earlier point… no one is… completely useless…”

“Watson, how badly are you hurt?”

“ …dunno… kinda numb… hard to breathe... ”

“I need to shift you to remove your handcuffs. Is it safe to move you?”

Watson experimented by moving his legs and ended up more on his side than his back. Any attempt to move his arms was accompanied by overwhelming pain, but his back and neck seemed to be in working order.

“Be a good fellow and stay put. I’ll see if Mr. Soaper’s pockets hold anything of use.”

Watson grimaced, determining he was not going anywhere soon as he tried his legs again. He could hear Holmes’ retreating footsteps as the detective scrabbled up the embankment, and strained to hear the sound of his return.

“Hold still. I’ll work on your leg irons first.”

Once the shackles and handcuffs were removed, and Watson’s arms were allowed to move freely, the extent of the damage became clearer.

“…good news, Holmes... my bad shoulder… is now… my good shoulder… ”

“Doctor, I by no means wish to rush you, but we must make haste. Once the train reaches the next station, Baird and company will come looking for us; either to confirm our deaths, or ensure them.”

“ …if we are pursued… promise me… you will leave me… you will flee… ”

“It will not come to that,” Holmes retorted, “But first, what can I do to help you.”

“…place me on my back… tell me what you see…”

Watson steeled himself and braced for the agony the movement would cause.

“In addition to your pre-existing injuries, your knee has sustained a nasty gash. There is a lot of blood from a shallow head wound above your ear. The handcuffs tore the flesh to the bone of your right wrist, which I assume is broken. There is some bleeding, but the artery is obviously still intact. And there is something wrong with that shoulder. Is there anything specific I should be looking for?”

“…remove my shirt… look for… abdominal… bleeding… bruising… swelling…?”

Holmes made quick work of the buttons and peeled back the garment with great care.

“I can find nothing of the sort,” he reported, “But your breathing is compromised. I can find no broken ribs, and your right shoulder is… Well, it doesn’t look right; a dislocation, perhaps.”

“…you weren’t… expecting symmetry… were you…?” Watson coughed, “…it doesn't seem broken…it’s been… dislocated… you will… have to reset it…”

“Watson, you might lose consciousness.”

“…I sincerely hope so…” he said weakly.

“What do I do if you pass out, Doctor? Tell me!” exclaimed an exasperated Holmes.

“The shoulder joint… is like a ball and socket,” started Watson and then continued to explain how the tendons, ligaments, and muscles all held the formation in place. He fought to concentrate on this information, and it was a slow process explaining in sufficient detail, with his breath coming only in short intervals. Holmes needed to know that a dislocation would require everything to be re-aligned before the tendons, ligaments, and muscles could pull the joint back together again. The main problem was that once dislocated, all of the connective tissues contract and keep the head of the humerus from moving, thus requiring sufficient traction to get the bones back in alignment.

“What happens if it doesn’t work?” Holmes asked.

“…I will scream like a wee lass… and you will have to adjust the angle… and try again… until you succeed… you need to listen for it… there will be an audible pop… and the sound of grinding bones… will cease...”

“Grinding of bones, dear fellow? I’m not sure I’m up to this!”

“…leather belt… to bite down on… keep from screaming…”

“For you, or for me!?” Holmes teased with an unsteady laugh. Watson rolled his eyes with a groan.

Despite his best efforts, the pain was excruciating and Watson could not fully stifle his cries. His face took on the pallor of ash. Sweat dripped from his brow and tears sprang to his eyes as he tried to minimise his involuntary noises. Sometime during Holmes’ second attempt, Watson went insensate and alarmingly limp. Holmes scrambled to find Watson's pulse, and fought off the panic and nausea he was feeling.

After reassuring himself that he could do this, Holmes grimaced and once more applied himself to the task. The grinding of the misaligned bones was more audible now that Watson was unconscious, so he used the sound to guide him through the traction. The fourth attempt was successful. The sound was more of a ‘click’ than a ‘pop’. The resistance to movement virtually disappeared. Watson would be proud of him, but the doctor was not available for consultation at the moment.

Watson awoke with a start, quite confused, and in pain. Then the recollection of the train and his circumstances came flooding back. It took a few moments to realise he was sheltered under a bridge, and that it was raining. Was he dressed in Soaper’s clothes? Holmes had moved him, but he had no way of telling how, or how far.

Where was Holmes? He tried to sit up but doing so made his head swim with dizziness. The dislocation of his right shoulder had been successfully reduced but the damaged flesh around the joint was still quite tender. He tentatively raised his right hand to examine his wrist, but it was immobilised and securely bandaged. Moving his fingers proved painful, but at least they still worked. He tried to move his legs, but pain flared in the one knee and there was an aching numbness in his other hip. He felt around the bump where the scab had formed above his ear.

All in all, he was still in better shape than he was after the brawl that followed the “friendly match” against the Welsh nationals. “Ah! Good times, they were! I do miss rugby!” he sighed and drifted away again.

.oOOo.

Author's note:

Should this become a full-blown case fic, or remain as gratuitous whump vignette?

.oOOo.

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From:

alone-dreaming.livejournal.com

*votes for a full-blow case fic*

I really am dying to know (a) what led them here and (b) how in the world they're getting away.

Otherwise, yet another beautiful fill for my request! First off, might I say (and I may have said it before so I beg your patience) but you have the most beautiful vocabulary. I positively eat it up. It's really on S.ACD's level of amazing, and that's so difficult to find these days.

Secondly, I love a feisty Watson and your Watson has his fair share of moxie. Beats every one up, gets flung out of a movie train, walks Holmes through repairing a dislocated shoulder. Just imagine what he could do if he had a weapon and they had no leverage. :) *squee*

Thirdly, whump. I need not say more. :D

There's so many wonderful bits to this-- rugby thoughts right there at the end for instance-- and it would do so well as a continued story. :)

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Last Train to Abergwaun

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