What You Can't See
By Taz

A short-range, flat-fisted punch to the solar plexus, delivered below the sight-line so that your opponent can't block it, does an effective job of stopping a man in his tracks, or shutting his mouth up, without doing too much damage to him, and without breaking your own hand.

Gregson took his shot and walked out, leaving Holmes bent over, gasping and gagging, in a world of hurt without the breath to howl.

He had no idea how long it took before the shock of it subsided enough for him to be aware of anything but the pain. When it did, it was as if the world had stopped at the moment that the blow had landed, and then gone on without him. The Guinness sign in the window was still glowing, the babble of conversation was still rising and falling, the Chieftains were still playing, and the bartender was still wiping his glass and looking straight through Holmes as if he weren't there.

It came to him that he wasn't. Not a single person in that bar was looking at him. Every one of them had to have seen Gregson punch him but, If he called the police, there wasn't a chance in hell that any one of them would admit it. They were the police, or the brothers, sisters, fathers, and cousins of the police. And he wasn't. And they were Irish-American, except for the bartender whose accent placed him from Dublin. And he wasn't. Talk about Gregson choosing his ground. Get the Hell out, now, and don't let the door hit you in the ass.

There was nothing to do but hobble home, burning with the humiliation of it, and people passing him like ghosts on the way. He had to stop, once, to throw up in the gutter.

At home there was nothing to do but swallow a handful of Tylenol, drink a cup of hot milk to try, try to get warm, and be grateful that Watson hadn't waited up.

His bed would have been a desert, so he sat at the kitchen table, and considered the phone lying on it in front of him. If ever there was a time to call your sponsor... What would Alfredo make of a confession that he had deliberately trapped a killer and then stabbed the man in the gut before turning him in to the police. What was the appropriate ninth step for that? It didn't matter, Gregson had been correct and his real sin had been arrogance. It was merely delicious Irony that the throbbing below his ribs was exactly the place where he had stabbed Moran.

Thoughtfully, he unbuttoned his shirt and discovered that the shape of Gregson's fist was defined by the swelling bruises. The colors weren't fully developed, yet. They ranged from red to deep violet. By tomorrow they would achieved deep purple and black. And then they would fade: blue, to green, to yellow...and then they'd be gone. It came to him the marks might represent the last time Gregson would have ever touched him. That was when the tears started running hot down his cheeks and he had to force them back, pressing his palms hard against his eyes.

The phone was flashing when he took his hands down. Recognizing the number, he went numb as he picked it up. "Yes, Captain Gregson?"

"Open the door."

"The door?"

"I'm not going to spend all night out here on your stoop. Open the door!"

Somehow he got the lock undone.

"Believe me," Gregson put his phone away, "I'm not here to apologize. I just wanted to be sure you were all right."

"I'm fine," Holmes said. "Just a little sore."

Gregson pushed Holmes' shirt open.

"Yeah, I see." His fingers were cool. His touch was tender. "Get some ice on that."

"I will."

Gregson turned and started down the stairs. "Good night, then."

"Wait!" Holmes called after him.

Gregson looked back. "What?"

"You made your point."

"Yeah, well, my mother used to say when you can't see, you have to feel." Then he was gone.

Holmes pressed his hand over the place he had touched. "Good night, Captain."

Finis
23 March 2014