Second update! Toot!
Now, I'm not Arthur Conan Doyle. Therefore I am not going to be able to write an amazingly complex mystery story with loads of clever details.
But by Zeus, I am going to try my best. Just think like Sherlock!
Right. Let's do this.
2
I don't know you, but I want you
All the more for that.
Words fall through me, and always fool me, and I can't react.
You have suffered enough.
In truth, he had eaten barely a thing for a week.
His features, as they twitched in sleep, were haggard and pale. His limbs were fragile, though not yet emaciated.
In truth, he hadn't washed for days either.
The baths he could get in that awful hole weren't worth taking. He may as well bathe in sewage waters.
And the last time he had tried, he had slipped on the grimy inside of the tub and knocked his head on the tap.
He had clasped a hand to the injured spot, and his fingers had come away bloody.
Arrogant as he was, and desolate too, he had not asked the greasy landlord for first aid or a doctor. He doubted that he would gain anything but laughter at his own expense.
The cut, then, hadn't been cleaned, and he hadn't cared.
He could always have gone to Watson; but Moriarty's people may still be about, with their eyes and ears open. If he revealed himself now there would be consequences, not to mention an uproar in the papers. His companion may be targeted. He couldn't risk it again.
Not after what had happened to her.
No, he had decided to come back into the world very quietly, and very gradually.
Even Watson himself needed time to mourn properly before he was exposed to the truth.
Holmes would never admit that he cared deeply enough for his partner to place this above his own loneliness.
His excuse to himself was that his bloated ego expected Watson to mourn frantically about him, and to fall into hysteria and mental trauma at a sudden reappearance.
This was partly true, but didn't quite cover all of it.
Irene slowly stroked the side of his face in the hazy comfort of their hotel bed.
"You're cold." she murmured.
"So I am."
He was very cold.
Too cold, in fact.
And she wasn't really Irene.
He awoke with a jerk, crying out like a child, and found himself once again in a world without her.
A world that was dark, dank and bleak.
The dirty hovel he was occupying fitted his black mood well.
He was still cold.
Freezing.
His head was pounding. The gash tingled and stung where he had been lying on it.
He reached out a finger and prodded the undried wound tentatively.
"Yellow." he said to himself as he inspected the withdrawn digit.
He was giddy.
And ever so tired.
"Goodness." he muttered, wrapping both arms around himself.
It was no use; there was no warmth to be had.
It looked pretty bad.
He tried to sit up, managing it only with maximum effort. His limbs ached, his stomach growled ruefully.
Meanwhile, his head whirled like a spinning top, and he clapped his hands to his face to keep himself from turning into a tornado.
Scepticemia was on the cards at the moment.
Fever, too.
He should not have allowed grief to make him so stupid.
He could deduce any other fellow's issues. Why so blind to his own?
Stubborn, foolish man!
He needed a doctor. Immediately.
If he carried on in this manner he was in real danger for certain.
Doctors. He hated doctors. Prodding, prying, chilly, clinical things.
All but one.
His thoughts fled to Watson. Watson the ever-loyal friend. Watson the medical professional.
Perhaps if he turned up at Watson's abode in a state of near-death, he would be forgiven for pretending to die in the first place, Watson being too preoccupied with trying not to lose him all over again.
Yes. If he appeared to his companion in mortal peril, he would be in pretty much the same state as when he had flung himself over the balcony.
Nearly dead in Switzerland to nearly dead in London.
A minor, very manageable transition for the doctor to cope with.
Then he and Watson could make the recovery from death to non-death together, gradually.
He managed this notion with a wry smile, which turned into a wince when the gash pulled and hurt.
He hadn't the money for a cab. He had spent it all long ago, on this lying low business.
He would have to walk to the other side of town.
And hope for the best.
Going to pull his shoes on, then realising that they were attached to his feet already, he rose unsteadily, and made his way to the door and down the rickety stairs.
He had felt a little weak, a little light-headed yesterday, but nothing of this nature.
His vision was blurred around the edges.
Beginning to seriously worry about his condition, he pressed on as fast as he could, using all the strength in his taught, shivering legs.
Watson. Watson. Watson would take care of the whole affair.
Watson would get over the shock. Watson would deal with the papers.
Watson would nurse him to health, so that in return, he could protect Watson from Moriarty's folk.
Every step he took resounded with the doctor's familiar name. Despite the banging in his head and the savage chill of his body, he felt a relief washing over him.
The notion of homecoming and belonging and security gave him the strength to push on.
That was, until he heard the disturbing shrill cry of a woman, echoing from the alleyways up ahead.
Without his permission, his legs quickened their pace, until he was positively hobbling along.
His breath came in wheezes, his chest a tight cage of bone around his weak lungs.
He really should be hurrying this quickly to Watson's home. He didn't have time to waste on the rescuing of other people. People who weren't himself.
He was in more need than they, probably.
But it was a woman's cry.
It wasn't the woman, but a woman nonetheless, and it drew him like a hooked and helpless fish.
He couldn't turn away from that fragile, moaning sound.
He couldn't let another one die.
Grief hadn't only made him stupid. It had made him sentimental.
He was probably going to pay for it.
He rounded a corner and peered into a shadowy alley, and there they were.
Two great, hulking men were blocking his sight of the woman herself. Only her skirts, embroidered and laced in delicate hues of lilac and dark purple, could be seen between their thick legs.
Her attackers were an odd-looking pair.
The one to Holmes' left was lean, with stringy muscles showing through his sooty overcoat. Thoroughly muddied boots. Hardened skin on the knuckles, though no recent grazes. Confident, solid stance, slightly leaning towards the balls of his feet as though constantly tensed to spring. Ill-fitting trousers.
An ex-prizefighter currently fallen on hard times, naturally dwelling in the run-down side of town.
The other was much stockier, like a bull, without hardened skin but with a dominant, no-nonsense air, flat-footed and slow. Clothes still sooty and boots still muddy, but worn by scrubbing, and decidedly cleaner than the first man's.
Professional bodyguard, used to discipline, not used to losing a fight.
"Hold, gentlemen!" the brave detective cried, without as much effect as he'd wished for, as his voice sounded croaky and weak, and he leaned heavily against the alley wall for support.
They both turned, and the first thing that he noticed was that they had identical, crude symbols stitched into their lapels, just beneath the throat on the right hand side. It was a small, very rough picture of a newt or salamander - likely the latter, as the thread was fiery orange. It was straight as an arrow, even the tail, as though dead and pinned in a nature museum.
The second thing he was drawn to was their choice of weapons. The outline of a gun showed within one's pocket, but he also carried a strip of cloth. The other held a short reel of skinny rope.
Holmes barely took all of this in, moving in a hazy, vague world of images and information.
The fellows looked at one another, before advancing upon him menacingly.
Instinctively he brushed over them with his eyes, searching for chinks in their armour.
The prizefighter had a nose broken several times in the past. Starting point.
He also shuffled a little, using his left leg less. A recent hurt or old injury, Holmes couldn't tell in his state.
The bodyguard looked invincible at first, but then the detective remembered the gun in the prizefighter's pocket.
Take him down first, use the gun on the bodyguard.
He needed a distraction for the burly bloke before the gun-pointing could take place, however.
He paused, closed his eyes, made up his mind, and nodded once to himself.
He whipped off his coat, shivering in the cold, but standing firm.
The bodyguard got there first, which was what he wanted.
Coat: thrust upwards and fan out. Over the face and head.
Take the opportunity. Duck out of his way. Trip him up with a simply placed foot, as he bumbled onwards.
Bodyguard on the floor. Approximately seven seconds
Punch to the prizefighter's nose. Block first blow, intended left upper cut. Block right hand, backup blow.
Strike nose again. Blood streaming. Pain searing.
Take the opportunity. Swift upper cut, knock him off his feet.
Stomp on bad leg. Again.
Femur bone cracks.
Duck out of way of bodyguard's slow swipe.
Hand in prizefighter's pocket. Gun heavy, so loaded. Good.
Safety catch. Finger on trigger. Turn to point.
Bodyguard frozen mid-lunge.
Swift kick to prizefighter's head to prevent further interruption. Mild concussion likely.
"Steady on, fella. Steady on." the bodyguard said, shaking Holmes out of his cold-blooded mode.
He was holding his hands up, looking very warily at the barrel of the gun that was still being pointed at him.
The woman now behind Sherlock hadn't said a word, or even screamed.
His legs weren't going to hold him up for much longer.
"What's going to happen if I lower the gun?" he asked, in a wheezing tone.
The alley was swaying and spinning terribly.
He hadn't much time.
"I'll walk away, quiet-like." the villain answered.
"Is that the truth?"
"Sure is, Sir, sure is."
"Don't listen to him." finally, the female's voice rang out, "Please, disable him or I shall be carried off!"
"Now, listen here." Holmes said to his opponent, "I am about to faint, so I had better shoot you in the leg or something. I apologise."
"No, don't! I beg of you, Sir -"
"Sssssshhhhhh." he quieted him, hardly knowing what he was saying, "I'm not aiming to kill. I cannot have you ruining all my good work."
He stumbled where he stood, and the criminal saw his chance. He leapt for Holmes, murder suddenly in his eyes.
The crack of the gun echoed along the alleyway, but it rang hollow in Sherlock's ears.
His vision was disappearing.
"I told you so." he informed the man who was cradling his ankle on the floor, screeching in pain, "You may - thank me - later. And yoouu -" he span to face the woman, "can thank me now, then escort me to..."
He never got another sound out. He had been making to bow politely to her, but instead crumpled in a heap upon the ground, limbs askew, shivering and shaking violently.
Delicate footsteps running towards him were the last thing he heard.
Watson, he thought, just once, before falling.