Abducted - Chapter I
by ElenaC
I have often had occasion to relate the many almost inhuman qualities by which my friend Sherlock Holmes is distinguished. Being a mere mortal in comparison to him, I fear that, especially during the early days of our intimacy, I tended to raise him upon a wholly unrealistic pedestal, that of the cold calculating machine and heartless reasoner. He himself was fond of claiming that human sentiment and any weaknesses resulting thereof were alien to him, and certainly his conduct in those early days was such that I found I believed that assertion without question, despite the fact that I, being the only person he allowed into his fiercely guarded privacy, should definitely have known better within the first few days of sharing rooms with him.
But I was young and easily deceived back then - "even more easily than now, you mean to say, Watson" I can hear my dear friend remark scathingly -, so it actually took me some years before I realized my fallacy. Holmes himself, at one unnoticed point, had ceased to regard me as a mere fellow lodger and occasional business associate. I still remember the warmth and pride that filled me when he first introduced me as "my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson". Despite his habitual sarcasm, I could tell that it certainly was more than a mere phrase for him. But I believe that this was as far as his awareness went back then. He thought me a friend, his only friend, even, but nothing more than that, for I know that his analytical nature rarely extended to an examination of his own feelings.
That in itself may be considered strange but not wholly unusual in light of Holmes' other eccentricities. Occasional attacks of philosophy aside, he normally prefers not to dwell on things that have no bearing upon a case, especially if they constitute what he sometimes calls the "intangibles". What is amazing, however, is the fact that I, who prides himself on being in touch with his inner man, managed to completely misjudge the quality of my feelings for him, thinking them to be merely a mixture of admiration and friendship.
And so, for more than a year of sharing rooms, we remained content to call each other friend, both of us in blissful ignorance of our true feelings, until a sequence of events forced them to our attention in the most painful way.
During the spring of 1883, Holmes accepted a completely unremarkable case, one entirely lacking in those singular and outré features that he usually demands from his work. He made no secret of the fact that he only agreed to become involved out of the sheer desperation arising from a dearth of mysteries with which to engage his formidable intellect. I, however, was glad, for even this simple affair was useful to detract my friend from his black moods and subsequent descent into artificial stimulation, and I gladly came along when he asked me to in that masterful way he has.
The facts are indeed commonplace, and the case itself hardly taxed my friend's remarkable talents, so I need not recount it here. It is unimportant anyway for these personal scribblings that no one, hopefully, will ever read. A simple burglary of the household of a country squire on whose property a literal treasure chest had been discovered brought us first onto that gentleman's lands and finally, following a trail of clues that was as obvious as the letters printed upon a newspaper to my extraordinary friend, into the shrubbery surrounding a clearing where we subsequently found ourselves, a few Scotland Yard officials hidden in the perimeter as backup.
The three men we had been pursuing were huddled around the stolen chest while one of them fiddled with the lock, Holmes and I lying in wait observing them. We needed them to open the chest in order to complete the evidence against them, but they were taking their blessed time with it.
I gritted my teeth, trying to refrain from shifting my cramped position. The wait had been interminable, and if the chap did not get a move on soon, I should dearly love to end this vigil by breaking cover and springing upon him just bring this infernal inaction to an end.
Next to me, Holmes was as motionless as a lurking leopard, lean muscles vibrating with contained energy, grey eyes fixed on his prey, ready to pounce. He noticed my increasing restlessness, for suddenly I could feel his thin hand upon my shoulder. "Steady, Watson," he whispered, holding the contact for a moment longer without interrupting his single-minded observation.
I remember being surprised at the sense of well-being his touch afforded me, quite out of proportion with the situation. But, caught up in the moment as I was, I did not attach any importance to it.
Just then, on the clearing fifteen yards away from us, there was a click, and the burglars raised the lid off the chest.
"Now, Watson!"
With that shout, Holmes sprang up and out of the undergrowth that had concealed us and ran towards the clearing, I close at his heels, trusty revolver in my hand, my limbs protesting their long-enforced stillness and the sudden burst of action now required of them. My friend, however, either felt no such difficulty or paid it no heed as he flew forward, swift as a deer in spite of the numbing cold of our vigil, calling upon one of those amazing feats of physical effort that I have witnessed time and again.
The three men looked up from the chest they had just opened, startled and shocked by our sudden appearance, their breath fogging in the lamplight. They reacted regrettably swiftly, however, gaining their feet and scattering into the shadows cast by the trees all around us, leaving their bounty behind in their flight.
"Quickly, Watson!" cried Holmes, veering off to the left side, hot on the heels of one of them. "Don't let them escape!"
He did not need to wave me towards the man disappearing to our right. We had had ample time to identify the men and to plan our attack. The man Holmes was pursuing was easily recognizable as Brendan Tate, master burglar and head of the small gang, while I had taken it upon myself to chase his lieutenant, one Benjamin Jones. They were easily the most dangerous men of the trio, and Holmes had felt that the least important gang member might as well be left to Inspector Lestrade's net of officials.
It was quite dark away from the single oil lamp the three burglars had used, but Holmes and I, not having been exposed to the light from such close quarters, had the advantage over the men in this. Thus, I could see my quarry fairly well even while he stumbled around blindly, and I managed to overwhelm him in short order with a rugby tackle and a well-aimed blow with the butt-end of my service revolver.
The reports of two shots in quick succession to my left told me that Holmes was not faring quite so well. Making certain that my man was safely unconscious, I got my bearing and started towards the place from whence I had heard the shots, calling out to my friend and feeling an icy tendril of fear grip my heart when he did not respond.
My concern for Holmes was causing me to be less cautious than the situation, obviously, warranted, for suddenly there was a sharp pain at the back of my head and a flash in front of my eyes, and then I knew no more.
When I came back to myself, someone was shaking me and patting my cheek. Recollection was swift, and I quite startled the unfamiliar man tending to me by sitting up abruptly.
My first thought was with my friend. "Holmes!" I called out, peering around fruitlessly. Apparently, I was still in the clearing, it was still dark, but contrary to before, the area was now crawling with policemen and Scotland Yarders armed with torches and lanterns. I was dismayed, however, to find myself unable to spot my friend among them.
At the sound of my voice, Inspector Lestrade detached himself from a small group of officials and approached me just as I, over the protests of the police doctor - for that was what he must be - gained my feet.
"Ah, Doctor Watson," Lestrade greeted me. "Good to see you back among us. That must have been quite a -"
"Where is Holmes?" I rudely interrupted him, too worried for politeness.
Rather than chide me for my bad manners, the little official looked quite chagrined. "I was hoping you might be able to tell us that," he admitted. "When we arrived, all we found was you, lying unconscious among the shrubbery, and neither hide nor hair of Mr. Holmes or the scoundrels. There are signs of a struggle and some traces of blood over yonder, but no track we can follow in this blasted darkness." He peered at me. "You have been unconscious for a deucedly long time, Doctor. Are you all right?"
"Yes, quite," I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand. "Quite all right." In truth, I was feeling somewhat queasy, but that might as easily be attributed to my concern for Holmes. "What about the man I subdued?"
"Gone." Lestrade grimaced ruefully. "Near as we can reconstruct, the third man was able to evade our ambush, joined Tate, and together they overpowered Mr. Holmes and took him and your man with them. I have my men searching the immediate area, but the scoundrels have about an hour's head start. They could be as far as Reading by now."
I gritted my teeth, half from the pain in my head and half from frustration. "So much for setting them a trap," I could not help remarking. "We are close to a dozen men against three, and not only do the criminals escape, they also manage to take a hostage. Brilliant work, Inspector!"
Lestrade had the decency to look chagrined, muttering something about less than ideal conditions while I continued to seethe impotently.
And those, in spite of all my silent and not so silent ravings during the interminable hours that followed, were the facts. Lestrade's men found nothing to set them upon the right track, even though they extended their activities to all the train stations in the area. Tate and his men seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth, and Sherlock Holmes along with them.
Morning came, but even with the returning daylight there was no new trace to be found, and when afternoon came round, I was finally forced to admit that nothing more could be done here. I returned to London in the most despondent of spirits and the certainty that I had failed Holmes. Even though I knew the sentiment was utter nonsense, I nevertheless felt I should never have let myself be knocked unconscious, and that what had happened was somehow my fault, for I had not been on hand to help him when he needed me. After all, that, if nothing else, had always been my function when I accompanied him in his investigations – provide his brilliant mind with a sounding board, and be his shield against danger. Thus did my conscience plague me with remonstrance while my imagination painted one horrific scenario after another about what might have even now be happening to my dear friend.
The most horrible week of my life passed. I had no news, not even a ransom demand. At first, I took a leaf out of my friend's book and tried to deduce his whereabouts - an endeavour doomed to failure from the start, for not only was I nowhere close to Holmes' level as far as my deductive abilities were concerned, I also had nothing to work with, and even Holmes himself would have been unable, nay unwilling, to theorize without data. That, however, did not keep me from suspecting that I was once again seeing and not observing, that I was holding some vital clue in my hands without realizing it, and that, if Holmes were here, he would have been able to find himself during the very night of his disappearance while we still bumbled along in the dark.
I have never considered myself a particularly dense man, nor an unobservant one. Yet spending nearly two years of close association with the world's foremost consulting detective, while rewarding in many regards, do tend to undermine one's self-esteem. In my admiration for Sherlock Holmes, I had learned to doubt myself, be it in those instances when I thought I could see nothing, or, even more keenly, when I thought I knew the solution, only to be proved wrong. And how often had I followed along blindly in my friend's wake, having seen what he had seen yet no wiser for all I had witnessed, while he observed so much more and deduced the rest, rarely veering off the path to the solution, and erring more rarely still! So how could I fail to berate myself now for my current blindness, at the one time that Holmes needed me to use his methods, and use them successfully?
Such were my thoughts, and so, rather than stay in our rooms and brood or make half-hearted house visits with my patients, I instead made a daily nuisance of myself at Scotland Yard. Considering the fact that I was able to gain admittance with Lestrade on each occasion, I might be tempted flatter myself with the assumption that my association with the great detective had lent my humble self the regard of someone with a right to know. But privately, I suspect that it was my despair and worry for my friend that I made no attempt to conceal, coupled with a persistence I was quite unable to dampen, that moved Lestrade and his men to being a little more forthcoming with their information than would, perhaps, otherwise have been the case.
Be that as it may, on the eighth day after Holmes' disappearance, Scotland Yard finally found a trace. Apparently, a man matching Jones' description had been spotted at a grocer's in a village called Little Ridling, some ten miles distant from the scene of our disastrous nightly observation. Needless to say that I was on the very next train, medical bag in hand, accompanied by Lestrade and three of his men, a telegram to the local police station preceding us.
We spent the journey in near complete silence. There was nothing to say - each and every theory had been hashed out to the fullest during the preceding week, and speculation tended to be too bleak to be voiced by this point. I, myself, had not given up hope, nor should I until I beheld my friend's lifeless body, but I suspected that the officials did not share my stubborn optimism. The most pressing question was this: if Holmes was being held captive, what use was he for the blackguards? He was a dangerous man to try to keep hold of, and an unneeded complication for anyone trying to lie low. There had been none of the usual communications demanding money for his safe return, which would have been the only reason we could divine for keeping him alive at all. Fortunately, there had been no indication that Holmes was dead either, although the officials no doubt thought that this might be due to the fact that his body simply had not yet been discovered.
Upon our arrival in the hamlet, Lestrade proceeded to question the grocer and several other shopkeepers, going on the assumption that the burglars had probably holed up somewhere in the vicinity and needed supplies. It was evening when we managed to ascertain that they even had secured transportation in the form of a dog-cart, and an hour later we learned that that same dog-cart had been spotted leaving Little Ridling the day before, headed west.
Unfortunately, it was growing dark rapidly, and though I was quite frantic by that point and pressed the officials to keep going, we were obliged to abandon the search for that day and to seek accommodation in the village Inn.
I could not sleep. Instead, I restlessly paced the confines of my tiny room. This was the first substantial lead we had had all week. Surely, tomorrow would finally see the end of this dreadful business, and I should at the very least know what had happened to Sherlock Holmes. No, more than that - I should find him, heal him if necessary, even if I were to spend my last breath doing it.
A lot could happen in eight days; a lot more could happen in the few hours of this night. As an old campaigner, I was quite aware of that, and as a medical man to boot, I finally admitted to myself that the outlook for my friend was bleak indeed. Of course, I had told myself not even to consider the possibility until events forced me to, but what if all I could recover was Holmes' dead body? The thought was chilling, terrifying, as such thoughts can only be in the small hours of the night when the imagination runs rampant. After all those days spent clinging tenaciously to hope that was dwindling with each passing hour, I suddenly felt as if I were falling into a vortex sucking me down into the blackest despair. I simply could not face the thought of a life without Sherlock Holmes in it.
It was the first inkling I had of how important he had become to me, even if, then, I was unable to fully grasp the implications.
I was up and about with the first light, making my way once more to the grocer that had spotted the dog-cart. Imagine how thrilled I was to discover two deep parallel impressions in the dirt road, leading off to the west! I immediately suspected that those tracks would lead us right to the burglars' dog cart, and I started to follow them for a few hundred yards beyond the village boundaries down the cross-country road, finding them to be easily visible the whole time.
Impatiently, I returned to the Inn, where I found Lestrade and his men in the process of setting out.
The Scotland Yard official obviously saw it as his duty to caution me against premature hope. "We do not know that those tracks are theirs. They could belong to some farmer, or even a traveller passing through. They could lead anywhere."
"Yes, yes!" I cried. "But they might just as easily lead us to Holmes, Lestrade! Come on, there isn't another moment to lose! We have tarried long enough as it is."
Driven along by my urging and bereft of an alternative course of action, the officials fell in with my idea, and so we soon were rumbling along the road in our own open carriage. Whenever a path branched off the road, we stopped to check it for wheel tracks. There were none save those that we were following - a clear enough trace, if the only one we had.
Almost two hours later, the tracks veered off to follow a little-used footpath.
"We must go on foot," said Lestrade. "We shall need the element of surprise, and there is no telling if our carriage will be able to pass in any case."
"I'll wager the scoundrels made for that farm house over yonder," said I, pointing to a house about two or three miles distant. "The path seems to be leading there." I pulled out my field glasses. "I can see the dog-cart, Inspector!" I cried, feeling my heart-rate picking up speed. At last!
"Might be theirs," Lestrade conceded, taking the glasses from me and peering through them intently. "All right," he went on. "Here's what we shall do. We'll wait until dark -"
"We cannot!" I interrupted him hotly. "That is more than ten hours away, Inspector! Holmes might be dead by then!"
He looked at me, frowning fiercely. "I hear you, Doctor. But consider this: We move in now, and we shall more like as not be noticed before we can gain admittance, which will provoke some rash action on the blackguards' parts. And if Mr. Holmes is still alive after all this time, then he is so for a reason - he's worth more alive than dead. In this case, circumstances will not change till evening, unless we act now and force their hands. In fact, it is our and his only hope that it is so, for otherwise the rascals will surely have disposed of him by now. Another ten hours will make no difference one way or another." He saw my expression, and his own softened. "I am sorry, Doctor. But we must face the facts."
The following hours were without doubt among the worst of my entire life. I could neither force myself to calm nor immerse myself in one of the novels provided by the Inn. I took turns pacing restlessly and staring out the window, unable to stop thinking and imagining every possible outcome to Holmes' plight. Lestrade and his men steered remarkably clear of me, for I fear I was not very good company in my frantic worry for my friend. By the time darkness fell, my army training was all that stood between me becoming a nervous wreck.
All my inner turmoil, however, came to a stop when Lestrade gave the signal and we once again made our way down the country road, the prospect of action inducing in me that singular calm before battle that every soldier knows.
"All quiet, Inspector," the constable Lestrade had deployed to watch the house during the day reported. "Haven't seen anyone leave or enter. They're lyin' low all right."
We spent a tense half hour watching the house, cataloguing movement inside the lighted rooms, and ascertaining that there were still only three men inside. No sign of Holmes, but not all rooms were lighted, so I deduced - I hoped - that he was kept in one of those dark rooms. Again, my imagination provided me with the most horrid scenarios, and I kept taking stock of the contents of my bag in an effort to anticipate actual developments. Bandages of all kinds, catgut, surgical instruments, laudanum, morphine, splints, a bag of plaster, ammonia, alcohol, carbolic acid... I was ready for almost any contingency. Now all that remained was to find Holmes.
Then Lestrade sent his men to surround the house, with instructions to keep out of sight until they received his signal before turning to me. "You stay here, Doctor, until the situation is under control."
"I'm fully prepared -" I began.
"I don't doubt your readiness, but there will likely be guns involved, and you'll be of more use to Mr. Holmes without a bullet inside of you."
I nodded, too astounded by his sudden optimistic outlook to argue.
The next minutes passed in a flurry of activity. On the official's signal, the building was stormed, and the burglars were taken completely by surprise. As soon as I realized that the gunfight Lestrade had feared would not take place, I took it upon myself to follow the officials into the farmhouse. We burst open doors until we came upon one that was locked.
With enormous relief, I knew at once that this was where they had been keeping their captive, and that he must still be alive – no need to lock a door on a dead man, after all. My revolver was in my hand and the lock yielded to my bullet before I had time to think about it, and then I was inside the dark room.
"Lights!" I called, cautiously moving forward into the gloom. There was an overpowering chemical smell in the stuffy air, the exact nature of which I could not discern. Lamps were brought in momentarily, and by their light I noticed a cot in the far corner, and a motionless figure on top of it. I recognized him immediately despite the pieces of cloth covering his eyes and mouth.
"Holmes!" I cried.
There was no reaction. I was next to him in an instant.
My poor friend was a sorry sight indeed. He lay on his back, clad in his shirt and trousers, and I experienced a moment of blinding relief upon seeing him clothed – one heretofore unacknowledged fear groundless at least. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing his sinewy arms; his thin hands and narrow feet were stretched out and tied to the bedposts. When he did not respond to my calling his name, I removed the dirty pieces of cloth that blinded him and kept him from crying out. They stuck to the skin of mouth and eyelids, necessitating me to be very gentle. But despite my efforts, they still left his lips raw and bleeding when they were finally removed. I felt myself growing cold with the realization that he must have been kept like that for days, gagged and blindfolded, which at the very least meant dehydration, possibly starvation.
But most worrying of all was his lack of reaction even when I removed the bonds from his abraded wrists and ankles. My heart filled with dread as I slowly moved his arms into a more comfortable position and touched his slack face to rouse him. He simply continued to lie limp except for a slight tremor in his newly freed hands. That was when the meaning of the strange smell in the room struck me, and indeed I found a number of fresh and half-healed puncture wounds on both his exposed forearms. Tied, blindfolded, gagged and drugged! These blackguards had been well aware of how formidable their captive was, and they had taken no chances.
A quick examination revealed that he had lost weight he could ill afford to lose, for my questing hands could feel his every bone through his dirty clothes, and there was a pinched look about his pale skin that told me he was indeed severely dehydrated. I found discolourations all over his torso and an untreated bullet wound on his left thigh that had become infected. His forehead was warm with fever; his pulse was steady if faint and too fast, but he did not appear to be in any immediate danger as far as I could tell - not counting, of course, the as yet unknown effects of the drug. Some of those effects I could discern from the low muscle tone and lack of bowel movement; I was clearly dealing with some powerful muscle relaxant.
Not knowing if he could hear me, I kept up a steady litany of soothing words while I worked, and I had just made my preliminary diagnosis when his eyes slowly opened. My words stuck in my throat when I saw his blank look. He stared at nothing for the longest time, his pupils impossibly dilated. Finally, his gaze slowly tracked me, and then he looked at me without recognition, his empty expression dissolving into one of utter confusion that was quite painful to see.
"My dear fellow," I whispered, fear and cold rage warring in my breast. If Tate or one of his accomplices had been in the vicinity now, I fear it would not have gone well with them.
Holmes continued to merely look at me, grey irises almost obliterated by his blown pupils. Clearly, whatever drug had been used on him had taken away his great perception and superior mental acuity to the point where I had to wonder how much he could see of his surroundings, let alone understand. Then his mouth opened, and his cracked lips moved slightly. I divined more than saw them soundlessly form a word: my name.
"Yes," I said softly, smiling. "I'm here. It's over. The police have them. You're safe." It seemed like such a trivial thing to say, and I do not think I had ever stated the obvious to him quite like that before. However, at that moment I was not certain if he could even hear me, and I confess that my words were more for mine than for his benefit.
He blinked as if fighting to see me clearly. He must have recognized my voice after all; his long fingers twitched, and I knew then that his paralysis was indeed almost total. So I reached out when he could not and took his thin hand in both of mine, trying to conquer with my touch the helplessness I was certain he must feel. His eyes with their unnaturally large pupils remained fixed upon me, and I was dismayed to see them fill with moisture.
His vulnerability sparked something deep and hungry within me, and suddenly, holding his hand was not enough. I was seized with the most intense desire to fold my arms about my friend's ravaged frame, to hold him close to me and warm him and know with all my senses that he was alive. On a visceral level I knew that in those minutes he, too, needed me in a way he probably never had needed anyone before.
So I carefully lifted his head and upper body, just enough for me to manoeuvre my arm under and around his shoulders, and I cradled him to me until I could feel his breath against my neck and he mine against his, holding him and holding him until I felt we had both calmed as much as the situation would allow. And, at that time, it truly was nothing more than a keen desire to take away his suffering that prompted my action.
Again and again I have since gone back in my mind to that endless bittersweet moment, my friend safe in my arms after more than a week of unknown ordeal for Holmes and hair-tearing worry for myself, and to the marvellous healing properties of touch. Poetic as it sounds, it was as if I could feel our souls reaching out to one another through our contact, and I swear that those minutes spent close together did more to salve my poor friend's bruised spirit than all my medical skill could have done.
Only when I was certain that we had both had our fill, I gently laid Holmes back down, called for hot water and set about cleaning and examining my friend's wound.
It was an ugly gash, made uglier still by its having been left untreated. To all appearances, the bullet was still inside. Holmes continued to lie unmoving, but I could tell from the changing of his breathing that the drug did not deaden his perception of pain. It would have to wear off before I could even think of administering laudanum, and, not wishing to cause him more pain, I abandoned the wound for now and gently cleaned and washed the rest of him, my mind numb with shock at the sight of his bruised, emaciated body. Then I dressed him in a set of spare clothing some inner instinct had bid me to bring.
That done, I set about at least marginally re-hydrating my patient. It was a slow and delicate process. The confounded drug had paralysed all his voluntary muscles, including those needed for swallowing, so I had to feed him tiny sips one by one and work his throat for him, knowing that he would be unable even to cough if the water went down the wrong way. I held him propped up against my body during the whole proceeding, trying to inure myself to the sympathetic pain his helplessness induced in me and to keep functioning. What an indignity to suffer for any man, but even more so for one as proud as Sherlock Holmes!
At one point, Lestrade stuck his head in, but a glare from me made him withdraw with a muttered apology.
I wanted nothing more than to move Holmes as far away from here as possible this very instant, but reason intervened and convinced me to wait until the drug had lost effect so I could at least treat his bullet wound without causing him pain. Besides, I knew my friend well enough to guess that he would leave here on his own two feet rather than being carried.
I needed to find out what the blackguards had used upon their captive. There might be discarded bottles in the main room that would give me an indication, and an idea how long it would take for whatever it was to wear off. "I'll be back shortly, Holmes," I said clearly and slowly, still not knowing how much he could perceive of his surroundings. "You're safe. They won't be back. I'll leave the door open. You'll be able to hear me all the while."
I watched his face as I said this, hoping for a sardonic twist of his thin, raw lips telling me that I was being overly solicitous, but instead, his vacant gaze continued to rest upon me without expression, and there was not the slightest twitch to his slack features.
I was barely out the door when his frightened gasp called me back.
The following hours were painful in the extreme. My poor friend, in his drug-induced stupor, had managed to somehow latch upon the single fact that I was with him, and my presence became akin to a beacon of hope in what must have been an otherwise impenetrable mental fog. Moving out of his sight even for a short time seemed to cause him indescribable anguish. I felt myself quite incapable of heaping more suffering upon him, so I stayed where he could see me, comforted him with my touch whenever he required it, and waited for the cursed drug to lose effect. From the number of puncture marks on Holmes' sinewy arms, one for each day of captivity, I knew that this would take at least 24 hours.
I felt keenly for him, and I hoped most fervently that he might not be aware of his condition. Lestrade, with unaccustomed empathy, had ordered Holmes' room off-limits for everybody except for him and myself, so that my friend might at least be spared the indignity of having the constables staring at him, whether or not he knew about it.
Meanwhile, the little official had found not only the phials I had suspected were there - a wicked mixture of chloral, alcohol and laudanum, something that induced both the mental confusion and the effective paralysis -, but also some most interesting correspondence.
"They've contacted all the renowned criminals in England and Europe with an offer to auction him off to the highest bidder!" Lestrade hissed angrily. "There's even been some bids already!"
I anxiously watched Holmes' face, but he was still gazing at me with that unnervingly vacant glance, giving no indication he was even aware of the inspector's presence.
"That's monstrous," I said evenly, striving to keep all anger out of my voice. "But they've proven their low regard for his person with every despicable act they've committed. What's a little traffic in human beings to round it off?"
Lestrade shook his head savagely. "Monstrous," he muttered.
We sat in angry silence, each contemplating what would have happened if we had not found Holmes in time. He no doubt would have been executed by whoever 'purchased' him, and there was no telling the indignities he would have had to suffer until then.
"I should like to leave here as soon as possible," I finally stated more to myself than to Lestrade. "Get Holmes to safety. I'm sure he'll have a faster recovery in Baker Street than anywhere else."
Lestrade looked at Holmes with a peculiar expression in his dark eyes. "Mighty strange to see him like this, Doctor," he finally muttered. "I'm with you on getting him away from here. You can take the dog-cart right now. I shall wire for any assistance you might need."
There was an unaccustomed undertone to the little official's voice that made me search his face. I had often had reason to suspect that, beneath the gruff, almost resentful exterior, Lestrade harboured some small degree of affection for my friend, and I found myself justified now.
"Thank you, Inspector," I said sincerely. "I should dearly love to move him, but the drug still is in his system. My guess is that we'll have to wait at least twelve hours."
Lestrade nodded slowly, and finally rose to his feet. "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do. We owe it to him that we found this nest, and if we play our cards right, we might manage to arrest all the bidders in this particular auction."
This possibility had not occurred to me. Before I could express my congratulations on this audacious plan, however, there was a movement against my arm.
I looked down to find Holmes staring at me, and the vacancy of his gaze had given way to an expression of urgent entreaty. Needless to say, I was overjoyed at this sign of recuperation, however slight. Sensing he wanted to tell me something, I leaned down.
His white lips barely formed a word. "Time?"
I pulled out my watch. "It's five-and-twenty past nine precisely, Holmes. How are you feeling?"
He closed his eyes briefly. "Date?" His voice was barely audible, the word badly slurred.
"The nineteenth."
This information seemed to upset him. His breathing accelerated; his gaze seemed to drill a hole into my skull. Finally, he forced out, "Must… leave… now… coming…"
"Coming? Who is coming, Holmes?"
He shook his head, a slight movement only, but sufficient to convey his impatience. "Must leave now, Watson!" His voice finally caught at the last word, which served to galvanise me into action.
"Lestrade!" I called.
The little official, who had feigned indifference in the proceedings until now, raised his head questioningly.
"Holmes seems to think that we have to clear off this instant, Inspector," I said urgently, used by now to doing whatever my friend asked of me at a moment's notice. "I think he is trying to tell me that the bidders are arriving tonight."
"What!" Lestrade stared at me, looking remarkably like a startled ferret. The next instant, he was outside, giving orders. I was amused to note that he did not think to question my friend's words any more than I was. Even half-unconscious and drugged out of his mind, Holmes was exerting enough authority to get the official to follow his wishes.
"Now, Watson," Holmes repeated, feebly struggling to sit up but barely managing to raise his head off the rough blanket upon which he was lying.
"Lie still," I ordered him, carefully threading my arms underneath him and lifting him off the cot, cradling his too-warm body against me. He was a tall man, but his build was so lithe and he had lost so much weight that I could carry him easily.
"I'll get the cart," a constable called when he spotted me with my burden.
I could feel Holmes' rapid breathing against my neck, and I realised that even the short journey to the village inn would tax him to the limit, maybe even kill him if I did not take every precaution. "Fetch all the blankets you can find," I called at another constable, tightening my hold about my precious burden and slowly making my way towards the carriage.
Around me, policemen were scurrying this way and that in an effort to erase all traces of their presence here. The constable currently acting as coachman met me when I was barely ten steps away from the house, jumped off and opened the door for me. I settled myself inside the cart, Holmes held securely in my arms and the requested blankets draped around and over him. He still had so little control over his body that I did not wish to leave him lying unsecured upon the narrow bench.
By now, his breathing was fast and audible. Even this short transfer had exhausted him, and he must be in severe pain from the inflamed bullet wound, for he groaned wretchedly when the cart jerkily started to move. I held him close to me, cushioning him with my body as best as I could, but even so, the constant jarring and shaking as we rode across the rough country road was intensely agonizing for him.
"Slowly, Constable," I called, and the horse slowed in response to our coachman's signals. I was acutely aware of every pained breath in response to every small bump upon the road, to the point where I fancied I could feel Holmes' agony in my own body.
His breaths were beginning to carry helpless moans with them. One of his hands rose weakly, trembling fingers seeking my coat lapel. I dearly wanted to catch it in one of my own, but both my arms were employed in holding him in position, and I dared not let go. His two eyes were closed in his waxen face, white lips forming soundless words.
I was not certain whether he could hear me. Still I told him that it would not be long, that he would soon be able to rest, that it was over, and that I was with him.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and found mine in soul-wrenching entreaty. "Please, Watson," he whispered, barely audible. "Be real this time."
"I am here, Holmes," I said past the lump in my throat. "I'm here. I'm real. You're not dreaming."
He smiled tremulously. And then, he proceeded to drive a spike into my gut with seven small words. "Don't let them hurt me again."
In a flash, all my fears about what might have happened to him were back. Was he only speaking of his one injury, or of the cause for the discolorations? Had I overlooked something during my examination of him, something much more soul damaging than a beating?
My heart turned to lead even as I tightened my hold about his thin frame and raised his head and shoulders higher, cradling him to me. "You are safe, my dear friend, I promise. I shall let no-one hurt you again." I hope I may be forgiven for the utter sentimentality of my words, and for the murderous rage that filled me at the thought of this noble, brilliant man brought to this state.
With my cheek resting against his brow, my soul was consumed by a torrent of hate and love that almost swept me under. Hot tears dimmed my eyes; I had difficulty breathing during that moment spent clutching my dear, damaged friend to my breast.
But now was not the time to break down; we were not yet out of danger. Forcing myself back to reason and my lungs to breathing, I raised my head once more. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I had misinterpreted his mumbled words; or he was dreaming, talking of things that he feared, that had not actually happened. These thoughts, improbable though it was, helped me to clear my mind.
After a torturous, slow journey, we finally reached Little Ridling and the inn in which I was staying. Once again, I carefully threaded my arms beneath and around Holmes and lifted him, blankets and all, out of the dog cart. The constable, bless him, assigned himself to escort duty and cleared things with the landlord while I carried my poor friend straight to my room and into my bed.
I need hardly describe the ache that seared me when I felt his thin hands grasping my coat lapels, holding tight when I made to move away. His instinctive need for me was unsettling and wonderful, and I knew intense remorse for the way my heart was gladdened at being needed by this proud man, even as I was pained and incensed by the reasons for that need.
There were things to be done; his wound needed treating, he should take more water. But all of that would require me to leave him, if only briefly. Also, I was deeply weary, and the prospect of closing my eyes, knowing Holmes was finally safe, was too alluring to resist. So I allowed myself to be dragged down next to him. Gently, I arranged his trembling limbs into a comfortable position, dragged the bedclothes over both of us, placed my arms about him, and fell into a dreamless sleep with the sound of Holmes' breaths in my ear.
To be continued...