Note from the authoress: One of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories is The Crooked Man.

I love the BBC production of this tale, as for once Watson plays a more active role in helping Holmes discover what really happened.

Also the acting in this episode is incredible, Williams and Merrison are amazing, and the actor who played Henry Wood was excellent.

After listening to the episode I began to wonder, what if Henry Wood had taken Watson's advice.

So to answer that question, here's this short story.

There will probably be 2 chapters, as I'm writing from the perspectives of both Henry and Nancy, although I may add Holmes and Watson's thoughts on this case if anyone would like to read their perspectives.

The title of this story comes from the amazing musical of Jane Eyre.

Feedback is welcome.

Enjoy

He waited until full dark before approaching the building. With all the fluidity and stealth of which his broken body was capable, he moved cautiously towards the place where his Nancy lay unconscious.

The years of his captivity had robbed him of dignity, health and strength, forcing the instincts which guided the animals of the wild to awaken and rule his actions.

Yet beneath them lay memories of the life his now deceased rival had ruthlessly stolen, long dead formalities and the expected bearing of a soldier which were slowly beginning to return.

Still he hesitated, held back by the fear of what Nancy would say when she saw the full extent of his horrific injuries.

Surely she would turn away, refuse to acknowledge his presence at her bedside. Even now that she knew his story, he could not bring himself to entertain the hope that something of their old affection could still exist.

At last he gathered his courage and firmly grasped the door handle.

The corridors of the hospital were dark and silent; affording him the solitude he so desperately craved for these last steps of his journey.

For a moment he faltered, doubts and fears he had tried for years to suppress once again coming back to haunt and torment his spirit.

If he had still been in India it would have been different. For there he had become accustomed to living amongst people who though they often regarded him with suspicion or horror, at least appreciated the tricks he had learned from their magicians.

But in England he was an outcast in the truest sense of the word. Even soldiers avoided and ridiculed his unusual appearance, forgetting that he had once been counted a friend and fellow comrade in arms.

He had tried to tell himself that it did not matter, that he cared little for the opinions of others. But in the deepest reaches of his soul lay the embers of bitterness and revenge, awaiting the slightest spark to fan them into life.

And it had been that first unexpected sight of his Nancy which had awakened all of the long buried thoughts of vengeance against the man who had betrayed and condemned him to a life of misery.

He had reveled in the touch of her slender fingers, tender and loving as of old. But beneath that fleeting contact lay a deeper sensation, that of strength and compassion for a soul in need.

For the first time in 30 years he looked into the eyes he had never forgotten, and saw the same unshakable loyalty and passion she had gifted him with long ago.

He had watched her face as he told his story, seen a thousand emotions cross those beloved features, before they hardened into a mask of stubborn determination.

And he knew what she was about to do, confront the man who had kept them apart for 3 decades because of his lust for glory and need to possess the woman his rival loved so fiercely.

He had followed her at a distance, and watched as she confronted her husband. In that moment she was more than the girl he had loved, she was an avenging fury come to judge an unspeakable crime.

Fierce pride for his beloved had warred against concern, as he watched shock and incredulity replace apprehension upon the countenance of James Barclay.

When the wretched man had raised his hand to strike, all reason fled in the wave of protective emotion and anger that he had dared to touch his Nancy.

He had moved with all the speed of which his broken body was capable, intending to do all he could to prevent further harm to the woman he still loved.

But that chance was denied, as James Barclay glimpsed the full horror of his fellow soldier's injuries.

The look of sheer terror on the face of Barclay would remain with him the rest of his life, for it was the look of a man who was about to taste death and judgment.

He had imagined this moment for years, but never thought that death would come for his rival through such a curious set of circumstances. To his utter astonishment he felt neither joy nor satisfaction at seeing James Barclay dead, but an unspeakable relief that he had not killed his rival, though he had slain him a thousand times over in his dreams.

Deeper still was a peace beyond understanding, that at last justice had been served.

The sound of voices without demanding entry had prompted him to quickly make his escape.

He had returned to his lodgings, refusing to see anyone until the arrival of Holmes and Watson.

Those men had possessed the same courage Nancy had demonstrated at their first meeting, to look past all he had become. The memory of Dr. Watson's kind words caused a smile to momentarily cross his twisted countenance.

In those two men he had found what he had never expected to receive from another human being. The doctor had addressed him as a fellow soldier, offering him friendship and advice that even now he wasn't sure he should follow.

More than that, he had called him Corporal, restoring by that simple gesture a measure of the respect and honor he had fought so hard to earn.

In Watson he had found a man who knew what it was to go to war, live in another country and absorb its traditions and culture.

Holmes had won his respect by the tenacity with which he had pursued the truth behind his late rival's murder.

His scorn and contempt for the regiment would have angered him in the past, but now he only felt a strange indifference and sorrow that his story would never be heard.

Though the fires of vengeance had long ago cooled, he could not deny the soul deep need for justice, for someone to know the truth of his story.

That desire had been fulfilled when Sherlock Holmes had requested his tale. He could not have asked for a better audience. Holmes had sat throughout the telling offering a comment at intervals, but mostly remaining silent as the truth was finally revealed.

And at the conclusion he had glimpsed what he felt sure only Dr. Watson had ever been privileged to behold.

Within the cool gaze of the detective, he had seen an echo of that same fire, awaiting only his word to give it life.

For a moment he had wavered, emotions he had once thought dead reawakening as he considered the prospect of all he had once longed for coming to pass at last.

But even as these thoughts formed, he knew that he would never answer in the affirmative.

For by telling his story to the detective and his friend, he had found two men who not only understood his suffering, but shared his desire for retribution and contempt for cowardice masquerading as honor and respectability.

And so he had met the questioning gaze of Holmes, and shaken his head firmly, knowing that in this man he had found a person who was willing to speak on his behalf.

And now here he was, about to take the advice of a stranger in the hope that his Nancy might allow him the opportunity to explain, to tell her of everything that had happened since her husband's death.

He found her in a bed near an open window, a still and silent figure unaware of her surroundings.

As he took a seat at her bedside, he thought of all that had led him to accept the doctor's advice, reflecting that his life had in many ways resembled the travels of an ancient hero.

In that moment he was no longer Henry Wood, but Odysseus, returning from a journey of unspeakable suffering and pain, in the hope that a woman as loving and constant as Penelope would find it in her heart to call him friend.

This he knew was all he dared hope for, all he dared expect from the woman he had once hoped to marry.

It had been many years since Henry Wood had prayed, even thought of the Almighty. But as he felt the first stirrings of awareness in the hand he clutched so desperately, he asked only that she would not look on him with revulsion or indifference.

She began to move restlessly, uttering broken sentences which he could not decipher. His reaction was immediate, something which all the years of his enforced exile had not taken.

Low and calming, he spoke gentle words of reassurance, hoping that even in this state she would hear and realize that she was safe.

And at last his efforts were rewarded, as her dark eyes opened, fastening on his twisted and distorted features with a look of shocked recognition, and something else which he could find no word to describe.

"Henry?"