Abducted - Chapter II
by ElenaC

I slept dreamlessly, in that state of near-unconsciousness that exhaustion will give a man. My rest was but a brief one, however, for a sense of urgency, combined with the memory of what had happened, had followed me into my slumber, letting me know in that non-verbal way of the subconscious that, fatigued though I was, the time for a long sleep had not yet come. I soon forced myself back to wakefulness, therefore, dragging open eyelids that felt as though made of lead, to find Sherlock Holmes close to me upon the bed in a fitful sleep, his thin hands fisted into my shirt, his head resting upon my shoulder and his breath coming in fast and halting gasps.

I carefully shifted him so I could sit up, finding that his grip upon my shirt did not slacken. Gently, I pried open one of his fists, but the long fingers at once curled around mine as if they could not bear to remain empty, and his eyes opened.

"How are you feeling?" I asked in a low voice, watching his face to see if he could understand me.

He blinked slowly. "Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes, it's me." The lingering confusion in his eyes worried me keenly. "I've brought you away from that place. We're in an inn now." He continued to look at me, blinking, and I was moved to ask: "Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

This did not convince me that it was not merely a rote response, but I decided to let it pass for the moment. His physical condition had to come first. He needed to drink water, slowly and lots of it.

Letting him keep hold of my hand, I propped him up against me and reached with my free hand for the pitcher of water. He sipped at the life-giving liquid greedily, desperately, as if becoming only now aware of his burning thirst, and I was hard put to make him swallow the water at a pace that would not strain his system too much.

Finally, he was finished, exhausted, his shirt-front drenched, but his condition less precarious than before.

Time to do my other medical duties. "I shall have to take a look at your leg, Holmes."

Again, he responded with a nod, eyes closed.

I made another attempt to open the hand that had remained curled around mine throughout, telling him that, for this to work, he would now have to let go of me. In truth, there was so little strength in his grip that I should have had no trouble at all freeing myself, but forcing him when he was still so disoriented was not something I wished to do. Besides, I needed to gauge the state of his mind so I could estimate how fast the deuced drug was wearing off.

He looked at his one hand where it still gripped my shirt, then at the other one, curled around my hand, and then back at me with an expression of such naked pleading that it tore at my heart. "I promise that I shall still be here when you let go," I said softly, attempting to guess where his trouble lay. "It's really, truly over. You're safe. I'm here, and here I'll stay. You can let go, Holmes."

His eyes were enormous in his pale face, and the grip of his hands did not loosen. "How can I be certain?" he whispered. "How do I know you will not disappear again?"

So he did understand me, which was a relief. But he was still sufficiently confused, apparently, that reality and drug-induced fancy were one to him, for otherwise he would never have asked such a childish question. How to reassure him? I cast about my mind in search of something that would convince him of my existence outside of whatever visions of me he might have had during the days of his captivity.

And then, moved, perhaps, by the sight of his bloodshot eyes, deathly pallor and general air of fragility, I did something that, even with the benefit of hindsight, I cannot adequately explain. I leaned forward and touched my mouth to his forehead.

As soon as the sensation of his abnormally warm skin against my cooler lips reached my mind, I drew back in shock and mortification. What in Heaven's name had prompted me to do this? Had I taken leave of my senses? Had I snapped under the strain to force my wholly inappropriate impulses onto my helpless friend? A fine way for a doctor to behave!

But one glance at Holmes' face and its expression of near-painful relief told me that, whatever my mind was telling me; I had done exactly the right thing. "It is you, Watson," he whispered, drawing breath with a near sob. "No-one else…. Thank God. Thank God."

Gently, I uncurled the fingers of his one hand, and he followed suit by opening the other fist, his eyes never leaving my face, until at last he lay quietly while I was free to see to the wound in his thigh.

Deliberately pushing everything but my professional knowledge to the back of my mind, I worked as quickly and as gently as I could, first undressing him and covering him in a blanket to preserve his dignity. The inflammation was bad, but had not progressed enough, fortunately, to endanger his leg. With a silent but heartfelt thanks to Lord Lister and his research upon antiseptics, I did what I could to stem the infection, until Holmes, with a sound more a sob than a groan, tried to pull his leg away, and I realised that, once again, the extraction of the bullet must wait until I could safely administer ether or chloroform, which I did not dare do until I could be sure his system was clear of the drug, or at least stable enough to be subjected to more stress.

"How bad is it?" he whispered as I was putting away the bottle of carbolic.

"It'll be fine, Holmes. The bone is not damaged. You'll keep your leg. I shall however have to enlist the help of the local practitioner for the extraction of the bullet. For now, I've done all I can."

"It's hellishly painful."

"I know." I took a breath, bracing myself. There was still this nagging suspicion in my mind, hinging upon nothing more substantial than something my friend had said as he lay in my arms in the dog cart, about his tormentors 'hurting him'. I had always known Holmes to be a man of supreme indifference to physical discomfort, and I could not imagine that the bruises or even the gunshot wound could so disturb him. Therefore, it had to be something else, something more damaging than a mere wound, and my heart grew cold at the direction my thoughts kept taking. "Holmes, I shall have to examine you again, more thoroughly than I could in that gloomy room, make sure I have overlooked nothing."

He closed his eyes. "What is it you fear that you overlooked?"

"Internal injuries," I said slowly, choosing my words with care.

He kept his eyes closed and bit his lip. "I'm all right."

"Holmes."

"Just treat my leg. Everything else is incidental."

"At the risk of incurring your wrath, Holmes, you must allow me to be the judge of that."

"I should really rather not."

I saw no recourse but to be blunt. "Holmes, I know that all you want now is to be left alone, with no-one poking and prodding you even with the best of intentions. You are in pain, weakened from hunger and thirst, and have been through a terrible ordeal. Believe me, I know how you feel."

His eyes opened, blazing fire. "You know nothing," he hissed as sharply as his obviously still numbed tongue would let him. "How could you? My own memories are confused, and I'm not sure if I should remember the thing at all if they hadn't –" He broke off with a gasp.

A fist seemed to clench in my guts. At that moment, I was seized by the intense desire to kill.

He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

"If they hadn't done it more than once," I forced myself to finish softly.

He made a choked sound.

I, too, closed my eyes and fought for composure. "Let me look at you, Holmes. The sooner it's treated, the sooner it will heal."

That sound came again. "Not now."

I hardened my heart. Giving in now would, in the long run, be more damaging to my friend than subjecting him to the perceived indignity now. "Holmes. Be reasonable."

It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes snapped open and fairly blazed at me. "I said not now. Leave me the hell alone, Watson."

My respect and, yes, awe of Sherlock Holmes have always induced me to defer to his wishes on all occasions, from private matters as trivial as letting him decide the placement of our furniture, to vital decisions such as those concerning the disposition of our finances or my assistance in his professional cases. This respect is profound, which may serve as an explanation why I hesitated now when giving in to him would not only reflect badly upon my competence as a medical man but might even endanger his health.

However, hesitate I did, and Holmes used the time to clumsily grab at the blanket that was half covering him and try to pull it up around his head. It was the very childishness of the action that brought me to my senses, reminding me of my own dictum that a patient needs to be treated like a child, and that, here and now, Holmes was my patient, which meant doing whatever was necessary even if it meant ignoring his wishes.

"And how long would you have me wait?" I asked softly. "When will you finally feel comfortable enough to let me do my duty as your physician? Tomorrow? A week from now? Never?"

He was silent.

"If there is damage," I went on, relentlessly but still softly, "it needs to be treated now. The longer I wait, the more complications may occur. You might even die from them. Yes, the examination may be uncomfortable, and embarrassing. It may even be a little painful, especially if there really is damage. But that surely is a good sight better than the needless suffering you would have to endure if I spared you now."

Still he said nothing, keeping his eyes closed, shutting me out.

I opened my mouth to add something, then stopped myself. I had stated my case. Any addition would detract from my own words. Now I would have to leave it to him, place my faith in his logical mind and hope that he would be able to rise above his very understandable misgivings.

Of course, the very fact that he was refusing my help had already confirmed my suspicions, and I was once again grateful to be away from that place and the possibility of doing physical harm to my friend's tormentors. What damage they had done! However should I even begin to heal something like this?

Holmes' quiet voice interrupted my silent fuming. "Be quick, Watson."

I hid my astonishment at this unexpectedly quick submission and did my best to comply. He lay still throughout my ministrations, breathing deeply, face turned away, eyes closed. I surmised that he was trying to detach himself from the proceedings, ignore the indignity to his body by withdrawing into his mind the way I had seen him do so often before.

There was indeed damage. I found myself obliged to practise my own brand of detachment when I realised the full extent of it. This was the result of repeated, brutal violation of a man rendered helpless by drugs, and for what? Surely nothing more than the gratification of their depraved urges. Try as I might, these thoughts kept intruding while I, keeping my hands as steady and my touch as gentle as possible, cleaned the torn tissues, relieved to find the majority of his injuries accessible for suturing.

Meanwhile, Holmes' breathing became more audible, and finally he buried his face in the pillow to muffle the sound of his distress. I hurried my examination to a close, knowing that the worst still lay ahead of him. Having finished, I covered him, thoroughly cleaned my hands and instruments, and put my hand upon his shoulder.

He drew a ragged breath, his face still hidden. "I did not want you to know," he said into the pillow, his voice muffled and so soft that I hardly heard him.

"My dear fellow, this does not change anything, least of all my regard for you," I tried to assure him, finding my words woefully inadequate. During my time as army surgeon, in a war when all rules were off, I had seen men brought low by experiences such as that which had now befallen my poor friend, their self-esteem irrecoverably shattered, many of them driven to drink, or worse, suicide. But what could I do to keep Holmes from this fate? I was not trained to heal the mind, only the body.

Heal the body. That must come first. Everything thing else I would tackle later. I gave his shoulder another reassuring pat and prepared to suture the still bleeding tears.

It was an experience upon which I prefer not to dwell. The knowledge that I was causing pain, always unavoidable during surgery performed without anaesthetics, was quite abhorrent to me now, for I knew that I was bringing back terrible memories by treading a path that my friend's tormentors had so brutally blazed before me.

Once he had resigned himself to the procedure, Holmes applied his formidable will power to holding himself as still as he could, but his ragged breathing and the constant twitching of his muscles eloquently told me of the great pain he was suffering from my ministrations.

Finally I was satisfied that I had done all I could, and I covered my patient and put away my instruments, keeping my hands busy. Holmes continued to lie still, his face buried in the pillow, slender hands fisted into the clothes, exhausted. Something about the gentle slopes and protruding sinews and vertebrae in the back of his neck must have aroused my protective instincts, for I felt an almost physical need to put my arms around him and regain the closeness we had shared almost continuously since I had found him.

Before I could reconsider, my hand was already touching his shoulder - a mistake, for he started violently and moved his shoulder to shake me off. "Leave me alone," he hissed without raising his head.

"Holmes…."

He shifted until he could look at me, trying to pull his long, trembling limbs up to his body with visible effort. His voice, though weak, was imbued with the full strength of his authority. "Let me rephrase, Watson: Leave me the hell alone."

I could see that he was in dead earnest, but my arms were aching with their emptiness, and so I tried one last time. "Please, Holmes. I merely wish to help you."

His eyes closed wearily. "You can do that by going away. Now." There was a tremor to his voice that I had never heard before, and what I could see of his face was a battlefield. The next moment, he had hidden it in his pillow, shoulders up almost to his ears and hands clenched into fists, half curled up upon his side, yet too shattered to find comfort in this position and too weak to even draw his arms and legs up properly.

I watched, indecisive. Should I, once again, impose my presence upon him? Could I even be certain of my own motivation? I had behaved disgracefully once before, after all. In the end, I compromised by helping him achieve the near foetal position he was trying to assume. He glared at me, but, obviously still finding himself too weak to move on his own, he allowed me to gently shift his long limbs until he finally relaxed into the new position, and then I covered him with every blanket I could find, for I understood about the soothing, almost primal effect of having one's body surrounded by warmth and softness.

All the while, I told myself firmly that my own desires were unimportant, and indeed indecent and unwelcome, so I settled myself in the single chair, well away from the sufferer, to grant him at least the illusion of privacy in that little room.

The quiet, however, did not last long. After some ten minutes, Holmes started out of his state of self-enforced relaxation to look around wildly, slumping in relief only when he had spotted me. I was out of my hair and next to him upon the bed before he could bring his numbed tongue and lips to form my name, taking his hands that reached out for me and drawing him close, my arms around him in a secure hold.

He was mumbling something, low and fast, that sounded like "sorry" repeated over and over. I tried to soothe him as best as I could, until finally he was once again resting in my arms, exhausted after this fight for his customary independence while I felt profound relief, and an alarming amount of guilt.

As he slipped back into sleep, I could feel his breath against my neck and his heartbeat against my chest, closer than he had ever been to me, and I found myself hoping, quite reprehensibly, that he would continue to need me for a while longer.

His rest was quieter than I should have hoped, and I allowed myself the fancy that this was due to my being near him. Periodically, I slipped my fingers against his neck to check his body temperature, and then, in accordance with what I found, I gathered the bedclothes more tightly about him or away from his neck, as he was alternately chilled and overheated. His lids twitched as he sensed the movement close to his face; now and then, his long, thin fingers trembled against me and he sighed in his sleep, causing me to stroke his hair and face in an effort to soothe him.

All the while, my guilt increased, for on some level, I was most certainly enjoying this far too much. I felt as if an unacknowledged, nay unnoticed, need for this closeness had been awoken within me by this chain of events, and even as I did everything my medical experience told me to do to aid Holmes' recovery, I found myself fearing the moment when he would regain his former aloof state where walking arm in arm or an occasional touch of his hand would be all he would allow me.

I felt like a man who had known paradise and would soon be forced to return to his dismal former existence. How, I wondered, was I supposed to give up this blessed intimacy that allowed me to judge the state of his health with all my senses, from feeling the sharp bones pressing against me to smelling the remnants of the drug upon his breath and skin?

If only he would allow me this free access to his person every night! How often had I lain awake in my bed while Holmes was again running himself to the ground during an investigation, wondering whether he had eaten, when he had last slept, how far progressed his state of exhaustion this time, and whether I should see the signs in time to prevent another collapse. How easy it would be to simply hold him in my arms at night to tell by the shiver of his muscles and the twitch of his fingers whether he was still well, or whether my intervention would be needed soon!

But how could I expect him to trust me enough to let me learn him so well? Was it not depraved of me to be longing for another man's closeness in this manner? For if I was brutally honest, there was quite another level of enjoyment buried beneath all my medical rationalisations, one I dared not even contemplate.

So I lay, carefully avoiding this area of my thoughts, until Holmes awoke several hours later with a pressing need.

So attuned was I to him that I was aware of this need as I was aware that his limbs still were too weak, too uncoordinated, to even allow him to sit up. He gazed at me with a resigned expression, but I touched his brow in reassurance before he could speak, helped him to roll over, and placed the chamber pot so he could use it, first watching him for signs of pain and then glad of this proof that his kidneys, at least, had suffered no damage.

"By Jove, Watson," said he when he was lying back again, his dignity once more safe, "I must say I shall be glad to be home again. Soon, Watson."

I smiled. "I know. But I can't transport you back to London while that bullet's still in your leg. If we operate today, you'll need at least two more days to recover, and then we can consider moving you."

He scowled, then nodded. "I confess I don't relish the thought of rattling over a bumpy road just this minute, Watson."

Indeed, there was that drawn and white look about his mouth that made me curse myself for my thoughtlessness. "How bad is it?" I asked softly.

"Pretty bad," he admitted with unaccustomed honesty, which told me that the pain must in fact be nigh intolerable even for his capacity for ignoring discomfort of any kind. "I should really, really appreciate it if you did something about it."

I made a quick decision. If the pain really was as bad as to make him admit to it, then it would place a greater strain upon his system than adding another drug to the mix. That was my rationalisation, and the impact of his red-rimmed, pleading eyes certainly had no part it.

To be continued...