It had been a long, quiet day. It had been unusually hot and humid for London in May; no hardship for someone more used to the bone-baking heat of Afghanistan such as I, but my slender companion was more used to London's greyer skies and somewhat chillier clime and Holmes had been visibly wilting in the heat. Not that this inhibited him from his usual activities, of course; he had been embarked upon a case for the past week and matters were coming to a head. Unusually for him, Holmes had not requested my attendance upon this case, and thus I had perforce been left much to my own devices for the fifth day in a row. Holmes had returned in the early hours of this morning, dripping wet following an unexpected swim in the Thames; he had stayed only long enough to change into dry clothes, down a cold cup of coffee and cut a chunk of bread from the loaf on the sideboard before departing once more with not a word to explain himself. His appearance had alarmed me - hair even wilder and more unruly than normal, if that were at all possible, his face gaunt and haunted, eyes fever-bright yet darkly shadowed due to too long without sleep; yet he had waved away my concern as though it were of little consequence, not a word passing his lips as he left as silently as he had appeared.
Such sudden appearances and disappearances were fairly normal with Holmes however; once he had his nose on the scent, he would follow it doggedly and such trivial matters as regular meals and sleep became irrelevant to him until such time as inanition should claim him or he should capture his prey; whichever came first. I could only pray that the toll upon his constitution should not prove a fatal weakness when he finally came upon the perpetrator of whichever case it was he were in pursuit of on this particular occasion.
Thus it was with some misgivings that I admitted Inspector Lestrade to our sitting room that evening. The Inspector seemed quite surprised to find only myself present, having evidently expected Holmes to have returned.
"Ah, Dr Watson, I trust I'm not disturbing you?" he began, removing his hat and turning it between his gloved hands.
"Not at all, Inspector," I reassured him, gesturing to the seat opposite mine. "Won't you take a seat? I'm sure Holmes won't be long."
He demurred with a shake of his head. "They'll be expecting me back at the Yard, Doctor; I've yet to make my report, though it's all over now bar the shouting, I dare say. Mr Holmes has wrapped up as pretty a parcel of the Mill Street gang as one could have wished and we've got them all back at the station. I just wanted to ask Mr Holmes how he knew they'd be shifting the goods from St Katherine's Dock tonight of all nights, but I suppose I can ask him that myself at my leisure. No, I won't stay; just pass on my thanks to Mr Holmes, would you, Doctor?" he asked as he donned his hat once more.
"Of course, of course," I answered, rising to my feet and offering him my hand. "My congratulations on the successful arrest, Inspector."
"Oh, it wasn't my doing, sir, though I wished it were. Just once I'd like to be a step ahead of Mr Holmes instead of behind though!" he replied ruefully as he retreated to the door. "No, no need to see me out, Doctor, I know the way," he added, waving me back to my chair as he departed.
Seating myself once more, I pondered Holmes' absence. By Lestrade's report, the case was over; the gang apprehended and in custody. The Inspector had obviously expected Holmes to have returned, and in all honesty so had I. Where, therefore, could he be?
Glancing at my pocket watch, I observed that the hour was late and considered what to do for the best. It was entirely possible that Holmes, flush with the success of capturing the Mill Street gang, could have gone to the Punchbowl to celebrate after his own fashion with a few rounds in the ring; it wouldn't have been the first time he had "celebrated" in such a fashion, and doubtless it would not be the last. In the condition in which I had seen him last, however, I was dubious as to his ability to withstand the rigours of the ring. Disquiet growing within me and steadily encroaching upon my heart with icy fingers of fear, I rose from my chair and fetched my gladstone from my room, packing it swiftly with such things as I felt might be most needful. From my bureau drawer I drew my trusty service revolver, checking the chamber briefly before loading it, pocketing it swiftly before returning to sweep my eyes around the sitting room.
Ah, unhappy day! As I had feared, there lay Holmes' revolver upon the table where he had paused but briefly this morning. Wherever Holmes was now, he was unarmed. I took it and carefully loaded it, pocketing it also.
Our staunch, long-suffering yet graciously patient landlady, Mrs Hudson, had entered the room as I loaded the gun, and her face as I turned was pale and concerned. "Is Mr Holmes in trouble?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady.
"I pray not, Mrs Hudson, I pray not; but it would not do to go forth unprepared," I replied, taking up my bag.
"Shall I wait up, Doctor?" she inquired. I shook my head.
"No, do not trouble yourself, Mrs Hudson," I replied. "I'm sure I am just being overcautious. But some clean towels might be useful, if you would be so kind?"
"You'll have them, Doctor," she answered with a small firm nod. "I'll prepare a cold supper for two as well; it will not spoil should you both be back late. And, Doctor?" I turned back at her light touch upon my sleeve, raising an eyebrow in query. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer. "I do hope Mr Holmes is alright. But don't tell him I said so."
"Never fear, Nanny," I whispered back with a wink. "Your secret is safe with me."
We exchanged brief, conspiratorial smiles, and then I departed.
The Punchbowl seemed the logical place to begin. It had taken some small amount of time to hail a hansom; tonight it seemed all London had come alive in the cool air of evening, after the oppressive heat of the day. I was therefore obliged to walk some distance before I was finally able to flag down a driver; I wasted no time in directing him to the Punchbowl. He tried to dissuade me from my destination, protesting that the area was too rough for a gentleman such as myself, but the promise of a guinea for him if he should hasten the journey decided for him. The London cabbie is a peculiar breed, whose concern for their horse is only equalled by their concern for the chance to make extra upon their fare which not be declared to their yard master. Thus it was that in very short order I disembarked outside the disreputable tavern where London's only Consulting Detective was known only as yet another talented bare-knuckles fighter.
There was a fight in full swing as I entered, and I slowly edged my way through the press of the throng, trying to identify the combatants. The fight was almost over as I finally managed to force my way ringside; to my disappointment, neither fighter was my absent companion. I found myself drawn into the spectacle almost against my will as I observed, and I found my hand reaching into my jacket for my wallet. With a start I shook myself; I was not here to place a bet, but to find Holmes! What was I thinking?
And yet... my hand remained upon the wallet. A short while here might yield much information. Holmes had fought here often; his face was known and whilst he may not be here now, someone might know where he might be found. A judicious bet placed here or there might loosen up the right tongues. Drawing my wallet from my pocket, I found a tout already at my elbow, a welcoming smile upon his face even before I asked the odds.
"John Watson, you are a fool," I muttered to myself as I mounted the stairs slowly to the room Holmes habitually rented above the Punchbowl. I had gambled away nearly everything I carried only to lose it all; and Holmes had not been seen once in the ring tonight. The empty room as I beheld it only confirmed what I could have found out freely over an hour ago had I but resisted the lure of the gamble at the ringside; Holmes was not here, and indeed had not been seen here in over a fortnight. The room was empty, a very fine layer of dust mute testimony to its disuse. Wherever Holmes had been this past week during his pursuit of the Mill Street gang, it had not been here - nor had he retreated here after its conclusion.
Faint traces of chalk and wax here and there remained upon the floor as silent reminders of the Blackwood affair. Setting my gladstone down upon a forgotten chair, I made my way slowly across the room to the couch where Holmes had lain so many times in the past; its springs creaked in protest as I lowered myself stiffly down, my leg aching in protest at the climb up the stairs. I stroked my hand over the pillow, remembering how Holmes had lain there in a fevered, drug-induced dream; how long had Irene and I tended him there as he raved? Hours which seemed like days in which he tossed in a delerium, crying out and then silent; hours in which the only sound in the room was the ragged, hoarse panting of his breathing, intermingling with the occasional whimper from deep within his rabbit-hole nightmare, his "fluffy-white tail thoroughly dirtied", as Holmes himself might have said. I leaned forward, remembering the pallor of his face as he dreamed in the twin embraces of morphine and cocaine, and I stretched myself out upon the couch, resting my face where his had lain. It still held his scent; the sweet tang of tobacco mingled with the aroma of his sweat.
I was wasting time, lying here with memories. Every moment I spent lying in this room was a moment in which Holmes might be lying injured somewhere. I pushed myself upright once more, casting a glance around the small room in the vain hopes it might reveal some clue, speak to me of where I might find my friend. But the room was silent, sparse and empty save for two chairs, the couch, and the marks upon the floor. I would have to search elsewhere.
The distance from the Punchbowl to St Katherine's Docks was not an inconsiderable one, and it was not long before I found myself relying more and more upon my cane as my leg twinged increasingly painful. The sound of the cane as it struck upon the cobblestones was harsh, beating an unsteady staccato as I made my way along the Embankment. I paused briefly near Blackfriars Bridge to catch my breath, but dared not tarry long. Even so, I was panting heavily as I drew near the docks, my leg aflame with cramp, unused to walking so far at such speed.
I paused beneath the gaslight of a street lamp as I glanced round to get my bearings. Lestrade had said earlier that they had made the arrests of the gang here. Transferring my stick to the hand in which I held my gladstone, I felt in my pocket for my revolver; the touch of the cold, smooth metal was reassuring. Perhaps Lestrade's bobbies had failed to apprehend all of the villains; certainly they would be looking to avenge themselves upon he who had been the downfall of their co-conspirators. I feared Holmes had fallen afoul of such revenge. Scenario after scenario, vision after vision assailed my mind as I cautiously began to explore the docks, all featuring Holmes injured, wounded - maybe worse. I had to pause in the shadows by the dockmaster's hut for a moment, almost unmanned by my fears.
It was then that I saw him.
His crumpled form lay like an abandoned rag doll some little way down an alley leading away from the dockyard proper. My heart nearly stopped for a moment in sheer terror; he seemed like one dead, and even in this poor light I could see the blood that pooled, black like ink, around his far-too-still form. How long had he lain there? I had no way of telling. Ah, how bitterly now I regretted that wasted hour at the Punchbowl, those precious moments in which I could have been here to save him!
But even as I cried out in despair, I saw the unmistakable lift and fall of his chest as he breathed; he yet lived! I pushed myself away from the shelter of the wooden wall and limped - nay, staggered, in truth, to the side of my friend. Indeed, he still lived; yet the flood of relief I had felt upon realising this turned to cold dread within my heart, for as I dropped both gladstone and cane beside me and knelt by his side, at a glance I could see that Holmes was terribly wounded. It was even as I'd feared, only worse. And yet I could spare no moment in fruitless recrimination if tragedy was to be averted. "Holmes!" I cried. "Holmes! You will hear me. You simply must!" Carefully I rolled him over onto his back, scanning his face anxiously for sign that he had heard me, but his face remained slack, eyes closed in unconsciousness. His jacket fell open as I moved him and I drew in my breath sharply; his entire left side was soaked in blood from a wound just below his shoulder. Distantly I noted that the waistcoat was one of mine; the silk brocade was hopelessly ruined. Such things mattered little now. I felt for the pulse at his throat; it fluttered weakly beneath my fingers.
"You must not die, Holmes," I averred. "Damn it, I will not let you! Not here, not now - not like this!" Stripping off my jacket, I rolled up my sleeves and set to work to save the life of my dearest friend. Stripping away the bloodsoaked jacket carefully from his left arm and side, I ripped open the waistcoat, the fabric heavy and slick with blood between my fingers as buttons gave way to reveal the white linen of his shirt stained crimson as his life ebbed away from a deep knife wound. I drew in my breath sharply; an inch to the left and it would have pierced his heart. A bare two fingers'-breadth of skin separated Holmes from death; and if left untreated for much longer, it could still mean death to him whose life was most precious above and beyond my own.
Holmes lay limp and unmoving beneath my hands as I pulled out my pocket knife and cut the ruined waistcoat free from his slender form. I slipped one hand carefully beneath his torso, feeling for any sign of an exit wound, and breathed a scant sigh of relief when I found none. So, a knife then, rather than a sword. Carefully I prodded around the wound with light fingers, trying to gauge the depth of the wound; it was deep - two, maybe three inches, it was hard to tell in the poor light. Holmes moaned faintly then, eyelids fluttering to reveal a hint of white beneath, responding to the pain. It could not be helped, however; I had to know the extent of the wound. Tearing open the shirt, I pulled out a bottle of carbolic from my bag and poured a little upon my handkerchief and wiped away the blood, cleaning the wound edges. The knife had left a deep gash some four inches long, deepest at the point closest to Holmes' collarbone, suggesting to me a thrust from below rather than an overhead stabbing attack. Gently I poured a little peroxide into the wound; it hissed and bubbled as it came in contact with the blood, mingling and fizzing within the wound.
Holmes cried out softly at that, and his eyes flew open; his right arm came up instinctively to clutch at the wound but I caught his hand between both of mine and squeezed it reassuringly. "Holmes!" I cried.
"W-Watson?" he murmured, blinking slowly, his soft brown eyes hazed over with pain. "You're late, old boy." His lips quirked up briefly in a ghastly grin, lips pale and bloodless.
"Fashionably," I responded, bringing his fingers to my lips briefly and kissing them before laying his hand back down. "What happened? The gang were rounded up by Lestrade and his men several hours ago." As I spoke, I wadded up the waistcoat and pressed it firmly against the wound. Holmes cried out again briefly before gritting his teeth. "Gently, gently!" he panted as I reached for my bag once more. "Lestrade's men missed one of the gang. They scattered like rabbits when he blew his whistle, the damned fool. If they'd stayed silent, they'd have got the lot; as it was, they missed McCaulins, the ringleader of the whole damned gang. I'd have got him myself when I followed him down this alley, but he had the better of me, and my fists were no match for his knife."
I finished bandaging the wound tightly, and pulled his pistol from my pocket. "Forgot something?" I asked as I laid it on the top of my jacket next to him.
Holmes groaned. "Knew I'd forgotten something," he said ruefully, shaking his head.
"You always do," I retorted, wiping my hands on my coat. "Come on, old boy, let's have you on your feet." Holmes held out his right hand then stilled, his eyes widening slightly as he stared over my right shoulder.
That and the slight scuff of a roughshod boot on a cobblestone were all the warning I had or needed; in one swift move I snatched up my cane, whirling and rising to my feet as I swung it up to block the descending knife that had been aimed at my back.
"Watson, take care!" cried Holmes from the ground behind me as I stood firm, facing our foe. My cane had struck his wrist hard, deflecting his blow to the side but not hard enough to make him drop the knife. He was a short, squat man of brutish countenance, ill-shaven and dressed in shabby dark clothes. He sprang back as I stepped towards him, sliding my sword free of the cane; barely had I had a chance to raise it to the en guarde position than he had recovered from my blow and brought his knife up to clash against it, trying to force the blade to one side through brute strength. The knife was an ugly thing, a good nine or ten inches in length, the blade broad and straight-backed, with no clip point nor any hand guard. Its tip curved slightly up and the handle, from what I could see, was of a simple rivet wood design; it was what the Americans call a Bowie knife. Had that been the knife that had nearly taken the life of my companion? Holmes had gotten off lightly with merely the one gash.
I ducked a clumsy slash and riposted, driving the point of my blade into his right bicep; to my surprise, he seemed unaffected by this wound and merely pulled back before knocking aside my blade and barrelling into me. We both went down, and I lost my grip upon my blade. All the breath was knocked out of me at once as I slammed into the damp cobblestones, disorientated momentarily; it took an effort of concentration to grasp at his hand as it descended towards me, the knife aimed directly for my heart. We struggled thus for a moment, and then he encircled my throat with his free hand and began to choke me as he continued to press down towards me with the knife, bearing down upon me with all his weight. My arms trembled with the effort of holding the knife at bay even as I struggled for breath.
Things would doubtless have gone ill for me shortly thereafter; unable to breathe, I felt my arms weakening as black stars burst behind my eyes and a grey mist descended over my vision. I felt the tip of the blade pierce my shirt and drive painfully into my skin - and then there was a sharp, loud crack, and the weight and pressure was gone. I gasped and wheezed, my breath harsh and rasping in my bruised throat as I gratefully drew the cool night air into my lungs; never had the damp air of the Thames seemed so sweet to me as it did then at that moment. I lay there for some minutes, the cobbles pressing cold and hard into my back through the thin cotton and silk of my shirt and waistcoat, until I became aware of Holmes' voice calling my name, low and urgently.
"Watson! Watson! Please tell me you're alright!" It was the pleading note in his voice which finally gave me the impetus I needed. Marshaling my strength, I rolled over onto my side and levered myself up upon my elbow. Holmes was watching me anxiously from where his pose mirrored my own, his gun clutched in his hand. His face was deathly white and his eyes bore into me, the depth of worry and concern in his gaze almost painful to behold.
"Say you are not hurt - John, I could not bear to think that I have endangered you. Please, tell me you're alright!" he urged me again. I rolled over onto hands and knees then crawled over to him, taking him gently in my arms.
"Hush, hush, I am fine," I murmured comfortingly as he slumped against me, weak and near fainting from his blood loss. He lifted one pale, trembling hand to press it against my chest where a small stain of blood had blossomed like a crimson flower against the white of my shirt. "But no, you are bleeding!" he cried. I shook my head. "It is but a scratch; yours is the graver wound, my friend. We must get you to a hospital."
Holmes shook his head. "No hospital," he refused. "I will feel safer in your tender care back at Baker Street."
"But Holmes, the wound is deep-" I began, protesting, but he shook his head more firmly.
"Baker Street," he insisted again.
I sighed. "Very well, though I do not know how I am to get you there," I admitted. "I can only pray that someone heard that gunshot and will come to investigate." I stared over at the crumpled body and kicked it with the toe of my shoe. "I take it that that was McCaulins then?" I remarked. Holmes nodded, resting his head upon my chest. He closed his eyes and sighed, then shivered slightly.
"Holmes?" I inquired quietly, then again more firmly, "Holmes?" There was answer; he had lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Carefully I rigged up a makeshift sling for his arm with his cravat, then drew his jacket about him, buttoning it up as best I could to give extra support to his arm and keep it still. Though the day's heat had been oppressive and close, the night-time air had a slight chill to it. Easing myself carefully out from under him, I laid Holmes gently back down with my gladstone bag for a pillow. Then slowly, and not without some small effort as my leg cramped painfully, I pulled myself to my feet to retrieve my sword and sheathe it in my cane once more. Tucking the cane into the loop of my belt, I returned to Holmes and with great difficulty succeeded in hoisting him to his feet, his right arm draped limply around my neck as I supported him with my left arm around his waist, my gladstone held in the other hand.
That slow, painful journey from the dockside to Baker Street and the safety and peace of our rooms was nightmarishly long. Our progress to the main thoroughfares was halting and traversed at a snail's pace as Holmes lapsed in and out of consciousness; it was perhaps three in the morning by the time I was able to attract the attention of a cabbie and persuade him to take us home rather than to the nearest hospital. Holmes slumped heavily against me in the confined space of the hansom, murmuring a faint protest at each jolt and bump before finally lapsing into a still silence.
I would have despaired of ever managing to get Holmes up the stairs to our rooms, but the wonderful Mrs Hudson had waited up for us all this while and between us, we succeeded in carrying the unconscious Holmes into our sitting room, where we laid him down upon the sofa. As I carefully stripped off his jacket and the stained shirt, Mrs Hudson lit the gas lamps and brought over the clean towels she had readied earlier at my request before departing to the kitchen to fetch hot water.
Holmes had not stirred once as he lay upon the sofa. I cleared the small table and placed it beside me at his side, and as I began laying out what I would need, I studied his face carefully.
In unconsciousness, many of the lines of care upon his face were smoothed away, lending his visage an appearance of youthfulness belying his years and touching it with a rare innocence of expression. Soft long lashes lay in semicircles upon the pale cheeks; white lips were slightly parted as he breathed softly. Tenderly I brushed my fingers through his wild, unruly black hair then gently stroked down the line of his cheek and along the fine jawbone, taking liberties which he could never permit me were he awake.
"I love you," I whispered softly, barely breathing the words. "I could not bear to lose you. I could never forgive myself."
His eyelids fluttered briefly, but then stilled. I watched him carefully for any further sign of consciousness, but there was none.
I was distracted from further contemplation of my companion by the reappearance of Mrs Hudson with a steaming pail of water, which was perhaps for the best - at least for my presence of mind at this point in time. She assisted me in carefully, gently cleaning away the dirt and blood from injuries and scrapes I had been unaware of whilst concentrating on the most significant of his wounds; Holmes' skin was mottled with bruises and smaller, minor cuts, some of which were a few days old. I wondered why he had not sought my assistance, even if only in a medical capacity, at some earlier point in the case; but Holmes was often careless of his own well-being when in pursuit and on the hunt, and I dare say it had not occurred to him to even ask.
The worst wound was still that from the knife however, and it was to that which I now turned my attention. It was deep, and would need more careful cleaning than had been afforded by my hasty application of peroxide at the docks. I was unwilling to cause Holmes further pain than he had already suffered, so I poured a little chloroform onto a pad of cloth and placed it carefully over his mouth and nose until his breathing deepened and slowed. Then I set to work.
It took some time to clean and suture the wound, and my hands were trembling with fatigue ere I had finished. Mrs Hudson took the forceps and needle from me as I sat back, and then she thrust a fresh cup of tea into my shaking hands before urging me over to my chair.
"You've done enough for Mr Holmes, Doctor," she said sternly when I made to protest. "I can dress his wounds now as well as you - in fact, I should think better; you're all done in, Dr Watson!"
I opened my mouth and then closed it again; it was true that her hands were steadier than mine, and the tea was very welcome in my current state. I sipped it slowly as our esteemed landlady carefully dressed and bandaged Holmes' wounds; and in fairness I must say a very tidy job she made of it too, and I could not have bettered the job myself. Still, it felt wrong not to finish what I had started, and to leave Holmes' well-being to other hands than mine.
Holmes himself did not stir under her gentle ministrations; not even when she brought his favourite dressing gown and, with my assistance, clothed him in it. By now it was almost five by the clock on the mantelpiece, and Mrs Hudson retrieved the dirty towels and the pail of water and withdrew with a final admonition to me to turn in to bed to recover from the night's misadventures much as Holmes already was. With an assurance that I would indeed do so very shortly, I bade her goodnight then breathed a deep sigh of relief once the door was firmly closed behind her.
"I say, old cock, I thought she'd never leave," I observed to my sleeping companion.
"Nor I," replied Holmes, without opening his eyes. "Nanny is nothing if not persistent."
In a moment I had leapt from my chair and was kneeling at his side, taking up his delicate white hand in mine. "Holmes! How are you feeling?"
"Like I have had the beating of my life and been run over by several carriages, in truth," he replied, opening his eyes to glance up at me. We regarded each other in silence, and then he gave one of his brief smiles - little more than an upwards quirk of the corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it came.
"How long-"
"- Have I been awake?" he answered, raising one eyebrow. "Since we arrived here at our little sanctum, and since then too, save for a brief period I cannot account for; chloroform, I presume by the taste in my mouth?"
"I felt it was better to put you under before I began treating the knife wound," I explained. He nodded slowly. His eyes drifted closed again, and for the longest time he was still, the room silent save for the sound of his soft breathing; I though he had fallen asleep and was about to pull away when his graceful fingers tightened upon mine. I glanced back to see his gaze upon me once more.
"I would not have worried you for the world, John," he said softly. "I could have lost you tonight, and I find that thought quite unbearable. I should be quite lost without you."
I found myself suddenly unable to answer as my throat constricted with emotion. He must have read something of my feelings in my face - it had ever been thus between us, he an enigma to me whilst he could read my thoughts as though I were an open book - and he smiled gently, freeing his hand from mine to gently stroke my hair, cupping my cheek. I turned my face a little into his hand and blinked rapidly as tears threatened to overwhelm me. Surely he could feel the wetness upon my palm; but kindly he said nothing.
"I do not deserve you, John," he murmured quietly. Then his eyes drifted closed again. I caught his hand as it fell, limp, and gently laid it upon his breast as it rose and fell evenly with each sleeping breath.
I bestowed a tender, chaste kiss upon his brow, and then I pulled my chair closer, that I should be nearby should he need me. Sitting back, it was not long before my own eyes felt heavy; and I, too, was claimed by sleep; sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. The healing balm of rest.
~~~ FIN ~~~