Alright, sorry it's late, and sorry for the total OOCness of Blackwood. Seriously it's embarrassing, you should have seen the first draft – he was this horrible hybrid of Voldemort, the Master and Ratigan...good for an OC villain – rubbish for an attempt at remaining in character.
*sigh* Oh well. Anway, I promise Lestrade is going to be arriving very soon...and there shalls be H/C
Anyway, hope you like
In hindsight, returning to Baker Street really wasn't the most intelligent of ideas. Not when battle lines had been drawn around their old home. Not when they were the two most wanted men in the empire. Not when the devils were hiding behind every corner, waiting with sick anticipation to sink their claws in and throw them both to the lions.
No – if anywhere in London was no-man's-land for the pair, it was 221B Baker Street. In spite of this, neither doctor nor detective had any choice but to ignore all rationality and venture as far into enemy territory as they could, after all, not even Holmes, with his infinite knowledge and logic, felt comfortable allowing Mrs Hudson to suffer in their stead.
In fact – it was that rationale the kept both he and Watson in London in the first place. Instead of running for the hills like they rightly should have the moment it became clear Blackwood's coup d'état had been a success; the pair remained right in the middle of what would quickly become their battlefield.
For the next terror fuelled three days, the two of them avoided capture by lying as low as they possibly could in the city's plentiful underbelly, relying on sympathetic bar-owners and brothel keepers for shelter and food.
Despite this they hardly ate or slept throughout their entire time as Public Enemies 1 and 2. Instead, they worked tirelessly to covertly smuggle as many of their friends and allies out of danger as they possibly could.
They gathered everybody they could think of before Blackwood's brutes had the chance to do so and loaded them onto Captain Tanner's old steam boat, where they were promptly sailed down the Thames at the dead of night. Mary, the Irregulars, Samford and his fiancé, Inspectors Gregson and Hopkins and their families, Yarders, Flora and her Gypsy clan, Holmes' boxer friends, everybody they could think of, everybody they could find - were loaded onto that rickety old vessel and sailed out of town, right past Parliament house and under the nose of Britain's new Lord and Master. It would be a lie to say neither Holmes nor Watson derived a great amount of satisfaction from that small victory.
Naturally not everyone could be found though. Irene had legged it out of town the moment they all realised they'd failed to disarm the devise, like the detective and doctor should have. Likewise, Clarkie and his horde were gone without a trace, as was Lestrade. However, the disappearances of their friends didn't worry either of the impromptu rebels nearly as much as absence of their 'Nanny'. After all, Lestrade, Clarkie and Irene had all been aware of the danger Blackwood posed to them...Mrs Hudson had not been.
They tried again and again to locate the woman, attempting every possible alternative they could think of, but as the third day slowly faded into the forth night of Lord Blackwood's rule and they were yet to see hide nor hair of their longsuffering landlady, it became clear that there was no other option but to seek her out directly.
Naturally, things didn't go according to plan.
"On the contrary," panted Holmes, "I believe they went exactly how we planned. I for one would have been shocked and slightly appalled if we managed to escape."
"Holmes," groaned Watson, lifting his head up just long enough to shoot his friend a filthy glare before allowing it to hang once more, "I'm too tired and sore to deal with gallows humour at present."
The two of them were indeed a very sorry sight, tethered at the wrists to the back of what would have only three days earlier been a police wagon, both too exhausted and hurt to do anything but stumble after the rattling old box as it clattered down the dirty cobblestones of the main roads.
With every step he took, the usual fire of the doctor's war-torn thigh turned white with intensity and tore through his body, ripping pained gasps from his throat despite all his attempts to contain them, despite how much his burning lungs needed the oxygen.
One glance over his outstretched arms though, was enough to see that his friend wasn't holding up any better. Where Watson was suffering from wounds past, Holmes was most definitely suffering from the present, having undeniably received far worse a beating than his companion had during the struggle in 221B.
Needless to say, being dragged after a carriage drawn by four fresh horses was well and truly having the affect that Blackwood had no doubt desired. Indeed, it was sheer power of will alone that stopped the two men collapsing to the ground in relief once the carriage finally came to a halt in front of the Tower of London's old gallows.
"Oh look Watson," wheezed Holmes, as both he and the doctor were pushed down to their knees, "We're to be hung immediately...thank goodness for that."
"What did we say about gallows humour," scolded Watson, smirking nonetheless as he struggled to recapture the breath that had been knocked from him in the fight and remained elusive through their trip.
"Not joking Mother Hen," sighed Holmes, leaning forward so his forehead rested against the blessedly cool pebbles of the drive.
"Well then enough of the 'not joking'," snapped Watson.
Holmes tilted his head to the side ever so slightly so he could meet his friend's eye, before asking quietly, "Why?"
Watson straightened his back and squared his shoulders in a valiant attempt to at least resemble assurance, before replying, "Because we are going to work this out...like we always do."
Holmes offered a small smile at that, before taking in a lungful of damp night air and laughing, "You are right, of course my dear Watson."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that boyo," chuckled one of the blackguards who had 'escorted' them to The Tower – a fat but most unfortunately muscular brute who reeked of the most horrible combination of sweat and rotting meat...a butcher.
"Well I wouldn't expect you to be sure of very much at all," Holmes replied with the air of one commenting on the weather, "After all, certainty can only be reached via the brai-ooph!"
"I think you may have deserved that old boy," called Watson as Holmes slowly pushed himself back up off the ground.
The detective shot his friend a mischievous grin as he pushed himself upright once more, calling once he succeeded in doing so, "Well my black humour was frowned upon, I thought I should return to default."
Watson couldn't help but grin himself.
Unfortunately, both smiles were wiped from the men's faces as the quiet crunch of pebbles sounded from the other side of the carriage.
Watson watched as Holmes lowered himself down to the ground once more in order to glance under the bottom. With a disgruntled grunt, he straightened back up and turned to Watson, expression grim as he mouthed the name, "Blackwood."
Watson gave a curt nod to convey his understanding, before setting his own features into a suitably grim mask, affectively hiding the slight trepidation gnawing at his insides. It didn't stop his heart from leaping into his throat the second Blackwood's towering figure swept into view, grinning like the doctor had never seen before.
"Gentlemen," he greeted warmly, holding out his hands as if he wished to embrace the bound pair like old friends, "I was so hoping you would turn up eventually."
Never one to hold his tongue, especially when it was in his best interest to do so, Holmes replied without missing a beat, "Always glad to be of service."
Watson had never been so glad for Holmes' cheek, for he had been quickly becoming overwhelmed. The villain's flowing black robes, the nauseous aroma of burnt sage clinging on to them, the delighted flush spread across pale cheeks, it all made the situation all the more real to the doctor.
He needed Holmes then, needed him to remain grounded, to keep him from turning into a quivering mess. In Afghanistan, he knew death was a possibility, but it had never stood above him, grinning like a cat must leer at stray mice.
Rubbing his hands together reminiscently, Blackwood chuckled, "Pride comes before the fall my dear detective, remember that."
"My lord," hissed Holmes, the blood from his split lips staining his teeth an alarming red as he grinned back up at the murderer, "I assure you...I'm counting on it."
The detective fell to the ground as the back of Blackwood's hand struck him across the face, the resulting slap resounding around the yard.
"Holmes," whispered Watson as his friend remained motionless, laying face down on the ground.
"Never fear doctor," called Blackwood, kneeling down beside the fallen detective and seizing a fistful of hair, "He's still with us, look."
Both doctor and detective cried out in unison as Holmes was dragged up to his feet by his hair.
"There," chuckled Blackwood, "Very much alive...for now at least."
With a guttural growl, Watson made to leap at the tyrant, but was caught by his thuggish guards at the last moment.
It was of little consequence, for Blackwood no longer spared him the slightest thought, having focused wholly on the detective hissing in pain in front of him.
"My Holmes," chuckled Blackwood, "I'd say you've come a long way down."
"I'll rise again," hissed Holmes, wincing as Blackwood yanked his hair harder.
"Remember Holmes," Blackwood hissed back, "Remember what I said?"
Watson watched in alarm as his friend was jerked forward until he was held flush against the Lord's chest as the blackguard whispered in his ear. Although he couldn't hear exactly what was said, the doctor could tell from his friend's reaction that it was something to seriously worry about.
Holmes violently jerked away the moment Blackwood released him enough to do so, almost stumbling to the ground if it weren't for the brutes standing behind him, grabbing him by the back of his shirt collar to keep him up right.
Blackwood wore a satisfied grin as he observed how pale his adversary had gone. Cocking an eyebrow knowingly, he called, "Remember that," before turning to the brutes and calling, "Take them to the private cells, 221 is probably the most suitable."
Watson glared at the monster of a man as he too was manhandled to his feet once more by jeering guards, but the target of his hatred didn't even glance his way, in fact, he had already turned his back and was on his way to the White Tower once more.
"Remove their coats and shoes as well," he called over his shoulder, just as the shadows consumed him.