==Chapter 1==
For Her Sake
"Is it still considered a heartache when in fact, it's your entire body and soul that feel broken?"
— Jaf Liethers
Sherlock Holmes returned slowly to the waking world, brain disconcertingly foggy. He groaned as his stomach began to lurch and perform drunken somersaults—why was his bed swaying like that…?
"Well," said a voice said dryly, "it would seem that the sedative is quite powerful, after all."
He knew that voice… it wasn't… Beth… Beth. Slumped to the snow, stained with blood, her blood, leaking out around her fingers, her beautiful blue eyes clouded with pain before they went empty altogether…
He couldn't breathe. No, it must be a nightmare, like the one with Watson… Beth isn't dead… she can't be… He cracked open his eyes, hoping for a glimpse of his wife, and winced: the light hurt. And blurry though his vision was, Beth was nowhere to be seen—only the owner of that voice…
"My dear chap," it said with solicitousness that was aggravatingly false, "how are you feeling? Dreadful, I presume?"
Jones. "I don't know—isn't meat getting scarcer around here?"
Beth was… Beth was gone, and that monster had suggested… Holmes glared murder up at Jones, fully prepared to wrap his hands around the man's throat… only to find his hands were cuffed behind him. You're a prisoner, remember? Damn.
The agent's eyes glittered coldly in return. "Ah, yes, terribly sorry about that—safety measures, you know. Good job you've woken up now: it's suppertime."
Holmes closed his eyes, his stomach performing another somersault at the thought. I won't be able to keep anything down… Besides which, he wasn't about to make things easy for Jones. "No," he said hoarsely.
Jones's eyes narrowed, studying Holmes for a moment, and then his voice lost the pretence and turned serious. "No, I suppose not… not yet, at any rate. Let's see at our next stop if your stomach can't hold anything down."
The detective decided not to antagonise his captor, especially since he was extremely thirsty—his mouth and throat felt paper-dry. "Water…"
Jones raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
Holmes gritted his teeth, pride warring with his thirst. Enough is enough. I'm not dying, more's the pity; I can wait. I'm done begging for anything from this man. "Never mind."
They were on a train, probably somewhere still in Switzerland. At the next stop, Jones held Holmes's head down against the bed he was on, and pushed a syringe into his neck. This time, the effects of the sedative felt gentler, more pleasant… he was so tired…
Until his mouth was pried open and something hard and flexible inserted into it. He cried out and choked, writhing feebly beneath the solid weight of Jones's hand on his chest. The offending object was a feeding tube.
His dreams were full of being forced to watch Beth undergo similar treatment at Moran's hand, Moriarty soothing her and telling her it was all for her own good. Holmes was rooted to the spot, unable to move no matter how hard he tried, opening his mouth to call for his wife but no sound emerging. Beth tossed and struggled, whimpering and crying as she had during her nightmare, begging Moriarty to make it stop, let Sherlock go…
And then Moriarty glanced in Holmes's direction, coolly. He is free to go whenever he likes; I no longer need him… and the Professor slid his hand caressingly, possessively, along her throat…
Despite the fact that returning to consciousness meant returning to a rioting stomach, Holmes welcomed wakefulness, though he attempted to pretend he was still under sedation as he resurfaced. Oh no. His stomach had other ideas. He kept still until the point of no return, then threw his head over the edge of the bed and retched onto the floor. The knowledge that Jones would be inconvenienced by it almost made up for his discomfort.
Sure enough, the agent swore under his breath as he moved to clean it up, shooting his prisoner a glare.
Holmes returned it with a weak but malicious grin. "Told you I wasn't hungry…"
Jones gritted his teeth. "Just as well, now."
"Oh?" Holmes said casually.
Jones smirked. "Mm-hmm, you'll see."
"Splendid," Holmes said dryly, "I do love surprises." He closed his eyes for a minute, then yawned and cracked open one eye to find Jones filling his syringe. "Are we there yet?"
Jones's eyes narrowed. "Are we where?" He sat beside Holmes and turned his face away to make the injection.
"The border," Holmes said, as if the answer were obvious. He tried to stay relaxed even as every inch of his body wanted to squirm. When the needle entered, it was with more force than usual, and Holmes winced.
"I don't know why the Director ever bothered with you in the the first place," Jones growled.
"Not a fan of Watson's work, I gather…"
Jones snorted. "Everyone in Torchwood who's had dealings with you has had to read the stories several times over." His sneer was audible. "Watson and the Director made you out to be something spectacular—and you, my friend, are nothing more than pathetic."
Holmes affected a bored tone to conceal the feeling of his mind slipping into depression as well as the haze of the drug. "My word—something we actually agree on."
In the far corner of the Drowning Mermaid, Dieppe's seediest dockside tavern, a tall, dark-haired man sat nursing a beer. The barmaid gave him yet another winsome smile as she passed, which he returned somewhat absently this time, attention fixed on the two coves talking at the bar in low voices. One he knew well, the other he'd never clapped eyes on before, but something about the stranger's manner would have made Johnstone wary, even if his crew hadn't already informed him of the man's cargo...
The strange cove nodded at Sam Dawson in thanks and headed over to Johnstone's booth; behind him, Dawson was covertly giving his captain the 'reel in with care' signal. Prime baiting, Sam, much obliged.
"Beg pardon, sir," the cove began, touching his hat, "but I hear you're headed back to England soon?"
"Tha's as may be," Johnstone answered in a rough, slightly slurred voice, looking the man over idly, and liking what he saw even less up close. "What's it to yer?"
"I need passage back for myself and one other, as quickly as possible."
The smuggler tilted his head, blinking. "What's yer rush?"
"The other man's a criminal – my superiors want him returned to London for trial."
Johnstone rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "An' 'ow's that worth me time?"
The cove took a pouch from his coat pocket and set it down on the table. "The other half on delivery."
At any other time, that sweet clink would have told Johnstone all he needed to know. "Well, now..." he drawled, letting the greed show in his face, "I reckon we might 'ave a couple o' berths goin' spare." And you, my scaly friend, can give the office over why it's just two... 'Ben', lass, what's happened to you?
The stranger's answering grin sent a sudden chill down the captain's spine. "Much obliged."
Johnstone had been keeping a straight face with difficulty ever since they left port; the groans of pure misery coming from the stranger's 'cargo' – lying along one side of the boat, cuffed and hooded – made his own stomach want to lurch in sympathy.
Roughly midway across the Channel, Johnstone turned to his paying passenger and said casually, "Beggin' yer pardon, guv'nor, but me an' the lads carn' 'elp wonderin'..."
The cove's eyes narrowed, and Johnstone noted grimly that his hand was starting to drift towards the suspiciously-shaped bulge in his coat. "Yes?"
"Well, now, some of the lads are willin' t' wager that yer chouser down there is th' very same cove oo's got 'is face pasted up in ev'ry port in the south of England." To his crew, "Right, boys?"
There was a chorus of 'aye's from the rowers, one adding with a smirk, "Ain' no 'un could mistake tha' bowsprit!"
"So he is. What's it to you? ...ah." The hand stopped moving. "Well, if it's a share in the reward you're wanting, I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement."
Johnstone grinned appreciatively. "That'd be right generous o' yer lordship, thank 'ee." His expression became thoughtful again. "But, ah, isn't there a girl on them posters, too?" The grin turned lecherous. "Don't s'pose she's still adrift out there?"
The cove's jaw clenched, answering shortly. "No. She was killed, my... colleague bungled the job."
Johnstone's grin faded, eyes gleaming. "Aye me, that's a pity." A nod at the nearest two oarsmen, and all three drew pistols, aiming them at their passenger. "Looks like we're riding a bit low, lads – we might need to ditch some ballast."
The cove's eyes widened in fear and anger, raising his hands. "Are you mad, man?! What did I do to you?"
"That girl was a friend," Johnstone said sharply, "a rum wench who paid fair. Said they were running from someone last time she came this way, her and her flash cull, wouldn't say who..." He pinched his lips together tight, shaking his head. "And I don't reckon she'd rest easy if we stood by and let you get your mawleys on him. Fold your wings, boys." The rowers backwatered, stopping the boat. "On your feet, chum."
The cove stood as Johnstone gestured with his pistol, eyes darting around in vain for a way out. "Now, wait, it wasn't my fault the girl died. There was a struggle, my colleague's gun went off. Keep the man if you like, claim the reward for yourselves, and I'll double the payment to let me go."
Johnstone snorted in grim amusement. "Let you go? Good God, man, you're free to go wherever you please!" He jerked his head back the way they'd come. "I'd say we're just a little closer to France at the moment." Nodding downward, "Though I hear that way's quickest of all..."
The cove's eyes grew wider still. "I'll freeze to death long before I get to shore."
"Dear me, how tragic." The captain tilted his head as if in consideration. "I'll tell you what, though... if you do make it, we'll call it even. Best be off, now, before we help you out." He would have done it already, if it wouldn't be a waste of a perfectly good bullet.
Helpless with several firearms now trained on him, the man gritted his teeth, glaring pure hatred at Johnstone, then turned and dove into the water. By the time he resurfaced, the crew were already bending to the oars again, pulling away swiftly.
Johnstone nodded to Dawson, rising himself and coming forward. "Get the flash cull out of his bonds, and be gentle – he sounds ill."
Taking the hood off, Dawson hissed in sympathy. The cove was gagged and deathly pale, eyes closed, and the poor devil's neck bore several needle marks, one looking downright nasty, the skin hot to the touch. "'E's in a right bad way, Cap'n – what'd that bastard stick 'im with?" He cut the gag carefully, then took out his lockpicks and started working on the cuffs.
"God only knows." Johnstone crouched down beside their passenger. "Mr. Holmes?" He could only assume the name on the 'Wanted' posters was the man's real name. "Sherlock?"
Holmes shuddered at the sound of his name, even if something about Jones's voice didn't sound quite right... He tried to curl in on himself, scarcely managing any movement at all. Not another injection... please... If Moriarty had ordered a slow death for his former protégé, Jones was doing a marvellous job...
"Dear God," Johnstone murmured, appalled; "it's worse than I thought." He laid a firm but gentle hand on the man's shoulder, raising his voice slightly. "Never seen an exciseman with a bowsprit like yours, guv'nor."
Holmes's breath caught. That voice... he knew that voice, it was the voice of a friend... He opened his eyes slowly, blinking, trying to focus. Most of the trip across Europe had been a haze of half-consciousness and nightmares, memories blending into dreams, most of them nightmares in their own right...
"There you go, lad, come on..." Poor bugger, he looked like he'd been dragged through Hell and back. "Sam, fetch a blanket."
Holmes moaned as it was wrapped around him, the movement making his stomach lurch, the fire in his neck flaring up. The only reason he couldn't vomit again was because he had nothing left. Jones had quickly learned that he could feed Holmes or sedate him, but it was impossible to do both.
"You must've made someone very angry..." the smuggler mused aloud. 'Powerful enemies', the flash cull had said when they first met, and that pouch of gold hadn't been pocket change!
Holmes stared up in disbelief at the owner of the familiar voice, at last recognising him. Of all people... "...you," he pushed out in a dry croak.
Johnstone inclined his head, not insensible himself to the irony of it. "Aye, me. Your 'friend' hired my crew to take the two of you across."
Holmes's eyes widened in alarm—Jones! "No," he rasped, "you don't understand... he's not..." He managed to turn his head to look for his captor, but Jones wasn't anywhere to be seen.
"He's in the drink, lad," the smuggler cut in gently. "He'll trouble you no further." He was already regretting not being able to hang about and watch the bastard sink.
Holmes sagged in relief and closed his eyes, nodding slowly. Good... for Beth's sake, good... "No worse than he deserved."
Johnstone nodded. "Thought as much." He'd met some real cut-throats in his time, but he wouldn't have trusted that one not to knife his own mother in the back. "Who was he working for?"
Holmes shuddered and shook his head, silently imploring the smuggler not to ask again. He and his crew will be safer not knowing... and Beth would have wanted that, too... Beth... He turned his face away and blinked back tears. ...Beth and Johnstone saying farewell, smiling at each other... the warning in Johnstone's eyes to look after her...Oh yes, he'd managed that very well, indeed...
"...All right," Johnstone said slowly after a moment, "you know your own business best, I suppose." Quietly, "Is she really gone?" He'd had to ask, even if one look at the man's face was enough...
Holmes nodded jerkily, heart breaking. ...the light going out of her eyes, turning them glassy and empty... He trembled with the effort of holding back the tide swelling up inside him, demanding release... he'd hardly wept yet for her... but not now, not before his own rival...
The captain inhaled sharply, then turned and punched the nearest sack, cursing under his breath. "I'm sorry..." he said gruffly. "She deserved better." And that could have been said better, he realised guiltily a moment later, but it was far too late to unsay it.
Holmes closed his eyes at the stab of pain in his chest—he wished that damned blade of ice would just finish the job... He did know what Johnstone meant, but... but she always deserved better than you, friend or husband. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely, "she did..."
By the time the crew reached Newhaven, their passenger had recovered enough to sit up, and even walk with help. Holmes was anxious to move on, claiming urgent business of his own in London, but the cove was clearly nowhere near well enough to ride. Knowing a driven man when he saw one, Johnstone reluctantly agreed to find him suitable transport, but only if Holmes agreed to rest and gather his strength in the meantime. Unfortunately, since the cove's face was instantly recognisable from all the posters around town, most of the smugglers' usual kens were now too chancy by half, which left only one option.
Johnstone knocked firmly on the back door of the modest townhouse. "Charlotte?" he called in a low voice, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at the two crewmen all but carrying Holmes, who once more looked dazed enough to be sleepwalking.
The door opened, and a black-haired girl appeared, eyes wide at the sight of Holmes. "Tom, what's wrong?"
The smuggler gave her a hopeful smile, remembering too late that he'd promised to mend the broken gate on his next visit. "Will you let us in, sweetheart? I've got a hurt man here, he needs a place to rest awhile."
Charlotte, bless her, moved aside at once, opening the door wide. "Of course. You can lay him in the bedroom."
"You're an angel," her lover smiled, stepping inside and kissing her.
Weary as he was, Holmes flinched, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed the kiss. Well, you haven't lost it completely: your first impression of the smuggler was spot-on...
"Lucky for you," she smiled back, returning the kiss warmly. The smile quickly faded to a frown of concern as Johnstone's men bore Holmes inside. "How badly is he hurt?"
"His neck, poor devil. He was kidnapped and injected with drugs – and I'd reckon that needle was none too clean."
Charlotte winced in sympathy. "Oh dear. Well, I'll look after him right enough." They followed the other three into the bedroom, the crewmen laying Holmes down carefully on the bed while Johnstone built up the fire. "How long will you be gone?"
"Well, he's heading for London, but he's in no fit state to ride. I'll need to find him a cart."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Try Jim Dixon – he's back in town and he's always been reliable."
"Right. Bill, you're with me; Jack, you bide here –" grinning reassuringly for the patient's sake; "keep our swell in line for the lady." Johnstone came over to Holmes's bedside, trying not to look as worried as he felt – if the man got any worse... He gripped the too-thin shoulder gently, saying in what he hoped was a fatherly way, "Not to worry, lad, you're in good hands here. Try to rest, we'll be off before you know it."
Holmes almost lost his composure completely, barely stifling the sob that threatened to burst out—Johnstone was being so kind, and sounded so much like Watson just then... He tried to obey, closing his eyes. His body still felt as heavy as lead, but he was so hot and thirsty...
Johnstone watched Charlotte sit beside Holmes and smooth his hair away from his forehead, unconsciously wearing the little motherly look he loved so much. She could clearly see that the poor man's suffering wasn't just physical... Should he explain?
Holmes flinched. The woman's touch was too much like Beth's for comfort... smoothing his hair as he wept for his brother, singing to him... oh, God, please don't let me forget her voice... He didn't quite pull away, though: her hand felt blessedly cool on his overheated skin.
Johnstone waited a moment, then caught Charlotte's eye; she stood at once, frowning, and followed him out into the hall. "What is it?" she whispered.
"Just... don't be too gentle with him, lass." Johnstone sighed, then decided it was wiser to tell her, she'd probably find out anyhow. "Sweetheart, the people who took him, they... they killed his girl."
Charlotte gasped. "Oh, the poor man!" She glanced back over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door, expression troubled. "Tom... he looks in a right bad way... and if his girl is gone..."
"Mm. Still, something's keeping him going, damned if I know what..." The smuggler shook his head gravely. "And heaven help anyone standing in his way."
Ria: I'm really glad we could bring Johnstone back again, I do love writing him – and tossing Jones overboard was so satisfying!
Sky: Oh gosh, I love Johnstone so much... And poor Sherlock! No matter what version of the finale we've written, he always gets a really rough deal about this point in time.
