After the Explosion

By Hazelmom

A/N: I just saw Sherlock Holmes, and as longtime fan of both Downey and Sherlock Holmes, I knew I was going to love this to death. The Holmes/Watson dynamic is superb. After the explosion on the dock though, I felt like my beloved angst was lacking. This is how I would have done it.

Incessant ringing in his ears and the taste of soot in his mouth were the first sensations he experienced. As he stirred, the soreness of his muscles erupted and he groaned. He attempted to roll himself over onto his knees. His hand landed on the delicate ankle of Miss Irene Adler, He could feel her tense, and it calmed him. She flet strong, she would be okay.

He shook his head of soot and squinted. All he could see off into the distance was thick smoke and charred wood. A terrible panic rose in him, and he tried to scramble to his feet, but he stumbled and landed, splayed over charred and smoking debris. He was getting ready to start yelling for help when a dark figure arose in the smoke, pounding wood.

"Thank God, Watson!" he croaked. He reached up an arm to greet him. He sensed his mistake the moment Constable Clark pulled him to his feet. The boy was yelling into his face, but he could hear nothing. Then the constable pushed him against the building and screamed at him again.

Noise exploded suddenly through his ears. "There is a warrant for your arrest, Holmes."

Holmes shook his head. It made sense. He had become a liability to those supporting Blackwood.

"Inspector says you need to run."

His panic returned. "Watson!"

"Please go, Sir. You've only got a minute."

"Watson!"

The young constable refused to look him in the eyes. "Please go."

Holmes grabbed the boy's face in his hands. "Did you find him?"

The constable looked down and nodded slightly.

"Clarky, is he alive?"

"No," he said softly.

Holmes pushed him away and started toward the smoke. Clark grabbed him by the arm and swung him around. "They're coming, Sir! You'll do no one any good sitting in jail."

Holmes struggled with him. "I have to see him!"

The constable was as strong as an ox, and pushed him back against the door. "Inspector says the city's gone mad. Looting, rioting, it's all about to start. He says you're the man who can fix this. Please Sir." Unceremoniously, he shoved him through the door as the wharf planks behind them sounded with hordes of police.

Holmes stumbled through the streets. Clark was right. A kind of hysteria was beginning to take hold. Some streets were as silent while others were punctuated with screaming and shouting. He pulled himself down back alleys until he was in the darkest part of London. Finally, he found a door as dirty and stained with coal as all the other doors. The woman who opened it to him was gaunt, a single tooth hanging perilously from her upper gums.

She led Holmes to an attic room and left him. Holmes paced the wooden floor, ignoring the bed and the chair available to him. His great mind felt as chaotic as the streets below. The facts and observations, his razor sharp logic had abandoned him. He was flooded with a grief he never knew existed.

The old woman knocked on the door and appeared with a tray of tea. Among the chipped cups lay the works for his seven percent solution. This old friend had soothed him in ways no mortal ever could, the chalky powder that would bring him to an immediate place of calm. It would take him away from the chaos, away from a life without Watson. He felt relief flood through him.

"Seems like the world has gone crazy," she chortled at him as she arranged his tea. I don't blame you a bit for wanting to dream away the next few days."

Her voice felt like the screeching of crows to his ears and he advanced on her suddenly. He grabbed the tray from her and flung it against the wall. The powder snowed everywhere, landing amidst broken bits of china. "Leave me!"

The woman was too stunned to do anything but turn and scurry down the ladder. Holmes sat on the floor and hung his head. Watson would have disapproved of the drugs. It was surely some brand of blasphemy to use them to soothe the enormous hurt in him.

It was late at night when he woke and found himself still on the floor in the attic.

He shifted himself to the chair and put his head in his hands. He had run, and was in a place no one would likely ever find him, but, in his pain, he placed himself somewhere only suitable for hiding. Facts and evidence were nowhere in sight. A man of his talents only came to a place like this to give up and let the dark forces take over.

Holmes left the drug den, promising to himself and to his dear Watson that he would never again darken that doorstep. The night had been quiet, but Holmes knew that it wouldn't last. The dawn of a new day would bring the fears of Blackwood to a rise again.

Heading back to Baker Street was sure folly, but it was the kind of bold move that wouldn't be expected. Once he got to his rooms, he prayed that he could cut through his pain thick enough to find the logic that was so desperately needed at this hour.

A boy not more than 12 years old jumped off a stoop and followed him as he neared his digs. He stiffened, sure that this signaled a trap of some kind. He turned on the lad and growled, "Go home, Boy. This is not a game for children."

The boy stopped. "Hey mister, a fella' paid me six quid to stay here waiting until a man with dirt all over his face and smelly clothing tried to get in at Baker Street."

Holmes frowned. This approach had none of the earmarks one would expect from Blackwood. "And just what are you supposed to do if you find such a man?"

The boy handed him a note folded stiffly. "Said I was supposed to give this to you and tell you to get out of here."

Holmes snatched the note from the boy, and waited while the sound of his feet running home started to fade. He opened it and found an address. He knew straight away that it was the hospital, and a surge of hope rose in him, but then he remembered Irene, and imagined that she was there, hoping for his company.

Holmes sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Irene, while important to him, could not possibly fill Watson's void. For whatever her heart could give, she would always be searching for her next conquest, a new challenge. In many ways, the two of them were too much alike for any real harmony between them.

Going to Irene would solve nothing yet he felt a strange compulsion. He carefully slipped through the streets as dawn began to break. Roosters crowed and women started fires in their kitchens. The exhaustion of the last day had become heavy on him as he climbed the hospital stairs. He did nothing to conceal himself, walking past police and nurses; his only ruse to show a confidence born of someone who belonged there.

He expected to find Irene. He expected he should comfort her. He expected that he would leave again as soon as he could. What he didn't expect was Mary Morstan slumped on a bench outside her room. He stopped and stared. Her eyes didn't open, but a corner of her mouth curled up. "I'm so glad you came."

She got up and reached for him. "Constable Clark told me what happened. I was hoping you would come."

The great Holmes found himself momentarily confused. "Do you know Irene?"

She smiled and led him into the room. "Constable Clark was wrong. John didn't die."

It was as if she suddenly sucked all air out of the room and Holmes drew in breath sharply. A familiar form lay on the bed, a new sun creeping into the room. She patted him lightly on his back. "I believe you love him as much as I do. And, certainly, you've loved him longer."

She walked him over to Watson's bedside and set him in a chair. "Clark left a message with a boy. He feels terrible. He saw the carnage and John's still form. He didn't stay long enough to find out if he was breathing or not."

Holmes looked up at her, his dark eyes wide. "I should have seen for myself. I should have never left."

"And you'd be sitting in a prison yard right now. You did what you had to do."

He started to rise. "I can't stay."

She pushed him back down. "I'll stand watch, Holmes. Spend a little time with him. He needs your strength right now."

She nodded to him and then slipped quietly out of the room. Holmes sat there, incredulous. A groan rose up from Watson and he leapt to his feet, smoothing his blanket and patting his shoulder. "It's okay, Old Dog. You're going to be just fine."

Holmes reached for his chart and began scanning it. He let out a ragged sigh. "From the looks of this chart, you'll be up and around in no time."

Watson groaned again in his sleep. Holmes sat beside him and squeezed his arm. "You rest now. No need to get up. Save your complaints for later."

His vision blurred and Holmes rubbed at his wet eyes. "Never quite had a scare like before. Don't know quite what to make of it."

Holmes reached for the edge of the blanket and scrubbed all of the grime and dirt and tears off his face. He reached for Watson's hand and squeezed it.

"I gotta' tell you, Old Dog. That Mary, she might not be so bad afterall. Maybe, we'll find a place for her yet…Got a bit of dirt in my eye. Can't seem to get a handle on it. …Gotta' save London from Blackwood, you know. And I'm going to do it too. Just need to clear out these eyes…Just give me a minute…Acted a bit of the fool tonight. Have to tell you about it sometime, or maybe not…I'm laying my head here for a bit. …Gonna' close these eyes for a few minutes. Don't mind me…Get your rest, Old Friend. We have plenty of road yet to travel, you and I…"

The End