Chapter I

Sherlock Holmes

My head was pounding.

I could comprehend nothing more. Only the throbbing pain.

And then it all came back to me with such staggering force that I let out a small whimper of pain and frustration. I had certainly not been expecting his knocking us both unconscious – clearly he was more violent than I originally assumed. All else I had been expecting, however, and I sincerely hoped Gregson and Lestrade had followed my orders exactly. If not, Rolan would certainly escape at the docks, where I knew he would be.

Suddenly I became aware of other quite significant things. Such as the fact that I could feel water up to my waist. And that it was rising.

And then I remembered Watson. How foolish I had been to allow him to join me on this bloody case of mine! I should never have allowed him to convince me to allow him along. I had known that it would be quite dangerous – there were so many of them, these smugglers, and Rolan was capable of anything, especially when desperate, which I unfortunately had learned the hard way. I had known it! So why, then, had I agreed to have him come?

My anger dissipated when I felt Watson move behind me, and heard his quiet moan, an echo of my own previous.

I opened my eyes, but it was just as black as with them closed.

"Watson?" To my disgust, I could only manage a hoarse whisper, and even that pained my head.

The silence that answered did nothing to reassure me.

"Watson, wake up."

The water was rising steadily. We did not have much time to spare.

Fear began to well inside my chest. Ever since that fateful day as a boy when I had nearly drowned in the lake near my home (a rather long story, one which I may wish to tell in the future), I have been plagued with nightmares of drowning. Although the nightmares have faded with time, the terror of death by water has never left me.

Needless to say, this would have been the most unpleasant way to die for me.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I forced my own words to sound as masterful as possible, for I knew, from multiple experiences, he always would respond to my command, no matter how senseless or impossible it would seem. Loyal to the end, is my Watson still.

"Watson, open your eyes this instant!"

I must admit it pleased me to know I was correct. His body twitched the slightest bit at the sound of my command and obediently answered, "I am here, Holmes."

It did, however, worry me to hear that his speech was weak and a bit slurred.

There was no time to worry about a concussion now, for in a few short minutes, it would be of no consequence, if we stayed in our present position.

"Watson, listen closely. You must untie my wrists. Rolan tied the rope round my fingers, or I should do it myself."

"I-I don't think I can, Holmes." He sounded weary and defeated. "M-my fingers are already numb."

It was at these words that I realized just how cold the icy water really was – it was, after all, the middle of autumn. My own body was unconsciously trembling.

"Watson, listen to me. You must do this. Our lives depend on it. Do not give in, Watson; you mustn't! I shall be here, my good man, do not fear."

I was for a moment afraid he has lost consciousness once again during my little speech, but then, "Very well, Holmes, I shall do my best. Though I shall never understand how you stay so confounded sure of yourself!"

I chuckled; I could not help it. Watson always finds ways to entertain and amuse me – thought most of the times it is not intentional; in fact, it is frequently either his unconcealed intrigue at my powers of observation, or his great annoyance at something I have said or done (or not said or done) that makes me want to laugh aloud.

His fingers shifted under the cool water and brushed against my wrist, wrapping around the ropes and tugging at them. He tried to repress a hiss of pain, but my precise hearing did not fail me.

"You did not injure your arm too badly, I hope, my dear Watson," I remarked, half because I was (though would never admit to it) indeed concerned, and half because I wished to distract his mind from our miserable plight.

"I d-do not believe so, Holmes," he answered sleepily. "It seems I have j-just bruised it badly. H-how is your head, old chap?"

"The same as yours, I perceive," I snorted.

Neither of us spoke again, the only sound our harsh breathing and shivering, and the quiet movement of the water around us. It rose to my shoulders, and my well-kempt panic rose with it.

My hope was shattering and was nearly gone altogether when I felt him jerk hard one last time and the ropes at last snapped.

I wasted no time in loosening my ankles, though my fingers were numb and trembling. As I did, the dirty water finally won and submerged me. Fortunately, now that I was free, I was able to fight the terror of drowning.

But now I had an even worse terror in mind. Watson's drowning.

My lungs were screaming for oxygen, but I paid them no heed as I removed my chair out of my way, as to undo Watson's bonds.

My eyes never fail me. And so even in the murky, dim water I could see the blood originating from Watson's torn and broken nails.

I thrust my hand into my coat pocket before removing the coat (for it was a heavy weight), wincing as my razorblade stabbed into my palm. I jammed it between Watson's skin and the rope and began sawing.

I had only been at my task for a few measly seconds when, to my utter loathing, I realized that if I did not have air I would surely faint.

Bracing my feet on the floor, I pushed off with all my might and shot upward, nearly colliding my head with the ceiling as I surfaced. The water was so very high.

I inhaled the quickest, deepest breath possible, filling my lungs, and dove back into that cold, dark abyss.

When I reached him again, he was struggling, yanking desperately against the bonds. It did not take my deducing skills to know that he needed air badly.

And I needed him to live.

Dear God, please help me.

The rope around his wrists broke just as he went limp.

Please, please, help…

I took no notice of my burning lungs now, sawing desperately at the thick ropes round his ankles.

He could not last much longer. Nor could I.

Please…

The rope broke. I threw my arms round his thick form and pulled him under the water across the room. I then fumbled clumsily with the lever that served as a lock for the airtight metal hatch.

I was dizzy, but I did not panic. It is against my nature to do so when my mind is otherwise involved. My brain pondered so much at one time. I thought of Lestrade and Gregson, and of what their reactions would be to find me and the doctor lifeless in this watery grave. I thought of how blind and reckless I had been to allow this to come about. I thought of Jacob Rolan, and how I thoroughly hoped he would have a long and slow hanging. I thought of Watson, and wondered what his last thoughts were before fading into unconsciousness. I wondered if these were to be my last conscious thoughts.

Somehow, in all the swirling of my quite overly active mind, I managed to find and pull the lever.

The force of the water flowing knocked me and my oblivious friend through the open doorway. My back slammed into a firm step – rock? – and then my body was once again engulfed by the river water.

To this very day it is a blur in my mind, but I someway succeeded in pulling my comatose friend halfway up the staircase, when there was a sudden blinding light above me. My ears were filled with strange noises – voices, perhaps? I tried to speak, but my mouth refused to move. I had the sensation of movement, though I was unsure of how I was moving; I felt as if my mind had separated from my body – I could not feel anything at all.

And then, rather loudly in my ear, "Mr. Holmes! Can you hear me?"

Lestrade? What the devil…?

His voice faded in and out, but finally I was able to focus on it completely.

I mumbled something, though I still do not recall exactly what it was, and opened my eyes to find the ferret-faced inspector peering down at me.

"Lestrade?"

Rescued by a blasted Yarder? This I will never be allowed to forget…

"Mr. Holmes? Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes, yes, fine." I was not happy at this – not in the least. The frustration faded, however, when I remembered. "Where is Watson?"

He pointed a few yards away, where two awkward-looking sergeants stood over my comrade. He was lying on the dirty floor, half-sitting, coughing violently and spewing Thames water onto the dirt floor.

I leaped to my feet, without so much as propping myself up first, and immediately regretted doing so, when a wave of intense vertigo washed over me.

Lestrade gripped my arm, renewing the irritation, until I was able to stand on my own. I dropped to my knees beside by drenched friend, who had by now ceased his rattling, and laid a cautious hand on his shoulder.

Two tired hazel eyes blinked up at me as he let out a deep sigh. It took his obviously worn mind a few long moments, but then he smiled rather exhaustedly up at me, a small echo of the infectious grin I have somehow grown to adore. His eyes darted about the room, passing over the faces of the two sergeants and the inspector.

"I say, Holmes," said he jestingly, "I do believe we are losing our touch."

"Never," I reproached firmly. I sighed. "I will never get past this, Watson – saved the imbecilic Scotland Yard! It is absolutely disgraceful!"

He chuckled and propped himself onto his elbows.

"At least we survived," he reminded.

"I am not quite sure it is completely worth it," I grumbled distastefully. But as I helped him to his feet and he gripped my arm to steady himself, I rethought my statement.

"A bit of gratitude, if you do not mind, Mr. Holmes," muttered Lestrade.

The man had more acute hearing than I assumed.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Watson cut in appropriately, undoubtedly knowing what my next words would be upon the Yarder's bluntness.

I snorted. "What are you doing here, Lestrade? You were supposed to be arresting Rolan as I told you."

"Jeffery Hannigan and two others are at the docks," he informed.

I was not thrilled to have a blundering lieutenant given such a grave assignment, but I said nothing on the matter, for just as a cynical response reached my lips, Watson shuddered violently beside me.

"Drake, call Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson a cab," Lestrade ordered the taller of the two sergeants. "We must go to the Yard and get your statements, Holmes."

"In the morning, my good sir, if you do not mind." Though I cared not if he did.

Watson suppressed another shiver.

"We must get you to Charing Cross," I muttered in his ear.

"No, no," he protested adamantly. "I shall be perfectly well, Holmes. Take me back to Baker Street."

It almost amused me how a physician, especially one who constantly badgered me about my own health, could deny hospital assistance so viciously himself.

"If you are sure, Watson…"

"I am. I just need a hot bath and a bit of whisky." He grinned at me, more of that old grin to which I was so accustomed.

"Very well, then." I knew he should be fine, for I would certainly not sleep save a few hours tonight to watch over him. The excitement of the case would not wear off for at least another day, I was sure.

Just then, Drake appeared, informing us there was a cab awaiting in the street.

"Thank you, Drake. Lestrade, we shall met with you come morning, and then you shall have us for as long as you need us, I assure you. Good-night, gentlemen."