Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. Wish I did though. :B There's the teeeeensiest bit of Holmes/Watson in this, but it's miniscule. Their extreme brotherhood is one of my favorites of all time. It amuses me every now and again to imagine Holmes waves the gay flag, but it's not canon. Their deep love for one another--in a stern, manly sort of way--however, is canon. Let's leave it at that.
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Lestrade had never, in all his years working alongside Sherlock Holmes, seen the man angry. Irked, perhaps; annoyed, definitely. Those were observed from quiet movements of the mouth and jerking of the eyebrows, and when Holmes's control was tenuous, heard in his tone of voice. Holmes was at best an understated echo of a human being. He did nothing in exaggeration save one: the expression of his inscrutably cold and calculating personality. Of that there was always an excess.
Sherlock Holmes was angry now.
How it came about they were unsure. Dr. Watson had left to fetch something from 221B—his service pistol, if memory served. Mrs. Hudson reported some time later that Watson had never arrived. For a full day they saw neither hide nor hair of Watson, and Holmes was (perish the thought) stuck. There was literally no sign of him to be found.
And then some jaunty fool came in, and deposited Watson's hat on Holmes's table in the café. "Message for you, guv'na," the man said, and in the time it took Lestrade to blink, Holmes had oh-so-casually slammed the man into the far wall with his riding crop. He did so with so observable effort, and advanced on him with a still and calm face, ever the imperturbable Sherlock Holmes.
"Who hired you?" Holmes asked.
"A man," came the reply, and an echoing crack sounded. The man crumpled to the ground. There was a vicious bruise rising against his jaw that said Holmes had broken something.
"His name," said Holmes, calm.
"Dunno it," mumbled the man on the floor. His words were barely discernable past his swelling lips. "Hired me by the docks, though. In the deserted part. Said I should forget the way back if I wanted to live."
Holmes was on the move then. Lestrade followed, and Holmes did not argue with him, so he motioned for a few officers to come along, just in case things got ugly. Holmes would spot something—a button, a shoeprint, and bit of blood—and be off again, like a bloodhound, bent at the waist.
It was a long way, but Holmes never seemed to tired, and Lestrade would never ask for rest. That was a concession his pride would not allow him to make. The sun sank lower, and when it struck the roaming skyline of London, it became two full days since Watson's disappearance.
They moved through the docks in darkness now. Lestrade felt it was a lost cause. He could hardly make out shapes, much less the details that would lead to Watson, if indeed there were any to be had. But Holmes was still going, and it would not be Lestrade who broke the silence first. After hours of wandering, though, his patience was wearing thin. He was actually opening his mouth to ask if a brief pause, at least, were not in order, when Holmes froze in place, eyes staring directly ahead.
"Holmes?" Lestrade murmured.
"Quiet," was Holmes's answer, and they crept forward now against the buildings, drawing towards an abandoned warehouse. There was a flickering light in the windows, as from a fireplace or many candles, but that was not uncommon; squatters frequented these parts. The closer they came, the clearer Lestrade could perceive the sharp, aquiline features, utterly composed, unaffected entirely. My God, Lestrade thought, but his best friend is kidnapped or worse—can't he summon the least bit of feeling?
Best friend indeed. Lestrade was beginning to think that Holmes let Watson tag along just so that Watson would stay at 221B and pay half the rent.
After a splint second's survey of the area, they entered the building. They kept sternly to the right, a fact which perturbed Lestrade awful, until he saw up ahead that the left side of the building had been cleared away entirely. Had they been even slightly farther to the center, they would be without shelter of any kind. How Holmes could have known that, Lestrade had no idea, but then, he was used to that.
There was a bonfire set in deep in a recess, lighting the barren circle of floor. Little sparks lit up in the air every so often, and it was by the light of these that they could see the face of the man bound tightly to a chair and gagged. He was some feet from the bonfire, but in the flickering light, Lestrade could see he'd been heavily beaten. It was Watson, unrecognizable but for his moustache. His pale hair was bloodied and his face was warped out of all sensibility, swollen and bruised. It was clear even from a distance that he had been tortured.
Pacing about the fire was the shape of a man, of a tall and foreboding figure. His voice carried over the sound of the bonfire.
"You think he will come?" asked the dark man-shape. "What for? A pet? A spaniel, forever dogging his heels?—no. I believe he will thank me."
There was a growl of defiance from Watson, so weak and slurred that Lestrade could have mistook him for a dog.
"Yes," the shadow continued, still pacing. "In fact, I know he will. What does he need you for? What purpose do you serve? Pathetic!"
One of his officers tugged on Lestrade's sleeve, pointing to Holmes. Or, rather, where Holmes had been. He was gone! Lestrade whipped his head this way and that, but he couldn't see Holmes anywhere. How long had he been gone? A better question: what the devil was the man doing?
"I will tell you what purpose you serve, dog. I will tell you. Are you listening? You are going to be his downfall. Your death will be an insult to his reputation. He cannot but come after you."
It made sense to Lestrade. He'd been having similar thoughts a few minutes before.
Behind his gag, Watson was snarling, muscles straining as he fought to clear his bonds. Lestrade had never been a fan of Holmes or his sidekick Watson, but now, seeing the fire in Watson's eyes, he could suddenly believe that Watson had been an army man. He understood why men shook his hand in the street and why Watson only ever carried his service pistol.
The man-shaped bit of darkness came forward, bludgeon in hand, in the same moment that Sherlock Holmes erupted from the shadows. There was a fury in Holmes's face that Lestrade had never thought possible. Holmes, angry! No, beyond angry. There was a swift parade of blows, and the man was on the ground. Holmes' attack continued regardless. There was a sickening wetness to the sound of Holmes' fists against the face of the man who had sought to kill his partner.
Lestrade knew Holmes had brought along his riding crop, and he was not the sort to forget a weapon. This was by choice, then.
From the chair Watson was rocking and struggling, and finally managed to dislodge his gag. "Holmes!" he rasped, and Sherlock Holmes' fist stopped midair, dripping blood.
A moment later Holmes was calmly freeing Watson from his bonds, face unreadable, but the gentleness of his movements and the bloody body on the floor were all the reminders Lestrade needed of the emotion beneath the façade.
It was not thing Lestrade would ever forget. The feather-light touch to Watson's head, checking him over, the faint hiss every time he encountered something particularly worrying—above all the sight of Watson hobbling free of the building, hanging onto Holmes' shoulders. There was blood in his footsteps but Watson refused to be carried, or for an ambulance to be called.
He left them in the hospital. Watson was asleep, clean and bandaged, and Holmes was sitting in the chair beside him, still as a statue, pretending not to be watching his friend sleep.
Not a sidekick, then.