Watson's Woes

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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To say that my attackers caught me considerably off guard would be something of an understatement. However, my time abroad, as well as my time as Sherlock Holmes' companion stood me in good stead and I flatter myself that I put up rather more of a fight than they were expecting from an ex-army widower with a lame leg. Whatever method they had planned to employ to remove me from the small garden where I was working - and there were at least three separate men that I could count in that rather confusing yet oddly silent melee - they were forced to abandon it and use brute strength. There was a blow to my head that robbed me of all sense or feeling for a time I couldn't measure, and when I woke, I was lying in a cold stone room, dimly lit by a small and very dirty window.

They had removed my shoes and jacket, chained my ankles together and then shackled my left wrist to them as well, forcing me to lie with my shoulders pressed flat to the ground and my legs curled up, my left hip pointing up at the ceiling. My right hand was shackled to a bolt in the ground above my head. All this I ascertained without moving - for I sensed that the blow to my head would render any movement at all highly unpleasant to say the very least. It was evident to me from the pain of my old war wounds and general stiffness of my muscles that I had laid in this position for some time, insensible of my surroundings, a supposition that was confirmed when my captors next came to check upon me.

I would never profess to be a walking encyclopaedia of the criminal classes of London, but these two men were completely unknown to me. In the years since I had lost Holmes to Moriarity I had continued to strive to put away those that made a mockery of our laws, which of course made certain elements of society known to me. Scotland Yard had welcomed me with very cautious arms, as a Police Surgeon at first, and then in connection with the coroners office, and finally in my capacity as one of the few London doctors who worked with the slum and riverbank dwellers.

The man bending over me wore rough clothing and carried a candle stump; he conducted a brief examination of my head wound while I lay aware and yet indifferent on the floor. In the light of the candle, I could see several bruises on his face that I had inflicted in my struggles. It never occurred to me to deceive them as to my conscious state; they knew that my eyes were open and that I at the very least heard what they said. As my great friend had often said before his death, deceit was not my strongest suit - but the man who examined me seemed unsurprised that I did not respond to his cursory glance over. I had been unable to summon the energy to so much as grunt in response to their words or rough touches, saving myself for the effort at escape that I must eventually make.

"How is he?" the voice of the second man was not unexpected, as I had been able to discern two disparate sets of footsteps approaching my prison. Though I was not in complete control of my faculties, my ability to infer information from my surroundings - limited though it was compared to another of my acquaintance - had survived mostly intact.

"I think we hit him too hard," the first replied, with no trace of remorse, "Holmes won't be happy about this."

"Holmes won't be able to move him too fast, which will be to our benefit should he arrive unexpectedly," was the callous observation, "Let's go."

I was left to the dubious illumination of my cell and my whirling thoughts. It appeared that I had been taken from my dear late wife's garden to act as a hostage to Mycroft Holmes, though what value my dear friend's brother placed on me would be negligible at the most. The problem with that supposition was that Mycroft Holmes knew very little of me, and my friend Sherlock Holmes – the only other possible Holmes I could think of – had died three years previously, battling against his archenemy Professor Moriarty. He could no more ransom me to these men, than my departed wife could appear and soothe my brow. I was truly alone, and with that thought in mind, I turned my right wrist carefully to reach the shackle that was holding my hand fast to the iron ring.

It was difficult and tedious work to force my cramping fingers to unfasten the simple shackle, but I persevered, all the while ruminating over the last three painful years.

I had returned from the Falls greatly shaken in my nerves, but travelled straight from the station to Mycroft Holmes club, knowing I would find him there. It had not seemed right to send the surviving brother such ghastly news by telegram, and Mycroft received me with hooded eyes and a face that may well have been carved from granite. It took all my remaining courage to tell him of my folly, how I had abandoned his brother for a wild goose chase, and he heard me out in silence. When the sorry tale was done, he had informed me that he would see to Holmes' rooms in Baker Street and I was shown to the door. In all truth, I could not blame the man for his cold treatment. I counted myself lucky that he had not berated or abused me for my negligent stupidity.

Mary welcomed me home with open arms and wept with me as I relived the tale one more time. Holmes had not been a close friend of hers, but he had always been pleasant to my wife on the rare occasions they met and she was well aware of our great friendship. She had never berated me for leaving our happy home to travel the more dangerous footpaths of crime with Holmes and I could never express to her my gratitude for her support and acceptance of our unorthodox partnership.

Her death, only three months after my return from the Falls unmanned me, and for some weeks, I kept entirely to the house, indeed I scarcely left our room.

She died on her birthday, at the theatre. We had seen a rather fine concert, were on our way to a late supper when a woman in the crowd created considerable alarm with her cries, and rather unsteady behaviour. Mary spotted Inspector Lestrade and his wife on the other side of the street and while I advanced to see if I could aid the hysterical woman and her embarrassed escort, Mary caught my eye and smiled.

To the end of my days, I will remember the last silent conversation we had across a crowd of concert patrons. The quick sympathy that we had established during the affair of the Agra treasure was a strong cornerstone of our marriage, and entire conversations could be held in a single glance exchanged between us.

'I have seen some friends; I will wait with them for you.'

'I shall not be long, I love you.'

She smiled at me gravely, well aware that as a doctor it was as much my duty as my calling to give the woman whatever aid I could. I quickly established that the hysterics had been caused by seeing a mouse - or what she thought was a mouse - in the gutter. A nearby cab was commissioned to take the woman and her escort home and I turned to see Mary standing on the edge of the street as the Lestrade's escorted her back to my side. Mrs Lestrade had met my wife in the course of their charity work, and they were good friends. I was pleased that she had agreeable company while I deserted her for my duty and smiled as she stepped out into the street.

Moments later, there was a shout and a great deal of noise as a cab appeared from nowhere and ran her down where she stood. The inspector had managed to throw himself and his wife out of danger, but no one had been near to help my Mary. I was at her side in a flash, but there was nothing to be done and she took her last breath in my arms, my tears staining her face.

The cabby had been drunk, and had escaped the accident uninjured, though he was unable to escape the long arm of the law. I cannot to this day tell you what his fate was, Lestrade had assured me that the 'blighter would get what was coming to him' and in the grief stricken days that followed I had retreated from life as far as it was possible, clinging to that promise for whatever empty solace it could give me.

The shackle around my wrist loosened finally and I took a moment to rest, my mind playing over the death of my friend and wife slowly. I was unsure what made my assailants entertain the notion that Sherlock Holmes was alive, but I knew without a doubt that even if he had been forced to deceive me as to his fate at the Falls he would not have left me to grieve alone after Mary's death. I have stated elsewhere that Holmes' first allegiance was to logic and that emotion was alien to him, however I did not believe my friend would have left me to suffer under a double burden of grief in such a manner.

I know that for a short time after Mary's death several friends sat with me lest I do myself some harm, however that watch was soon dispensed with. I rallied to resume my work to my patients, and found that my company was in much demand of an evening as kindly friends attempted to alleviate my newfound solitude. I threw myself into my practice and if at night I brooded over my past, no one was harmed.

It was whilst I was resting from my small labours that my captors returned and I had the presence of mind to lie completely still. Fortunately, they were more interested in their new captive: Inspector Lestrade, who was bound thoroughly with what seemed to be an entire coil of rope and a rather filthy gag.

"We'll leave yer here, Inspector, since yer were so eager to find old Watson. Don't let his vacant stare bother yer none, I'm afraid we had to hit him rather hard and he's not been himself since," the callous statement made Lestrade swear behind the gag and struggle ineffectually with his bonds. As much as I longed to reassure my friend that I was not in such dire straits as my captors thought I could not take the risk.

My head had cleared somewhat during the time I was freeing my right wrist from its shackle and I felt that a little cautious movement was in order once things had again quieted. Lestrade seemed to have given up his struggles, and I was glad of that, as I was certain I would need his support to move any great distance and he would need his strength. With no Sherlock Holmes to affect a daring rescue, and his brother 'the armchair detective' couched as our unlikely saviour, it was up to us to save ourselves, and the sooner the better.

The little window of our cell was completely dark now, and I rolled very cautiously onto my stomach, resting my forehead on the dirty floor and reaching my right arm back to my left wrist. My body protested such gymnastics fiercely and I'm afraid I lost some time trying to quell its rebellions. My wrist came free however and I managed to roll back onto my side again, curling my legs once more and reaching my ankle shackles easily. The removal of my shoes made this a lot easier for me, and it amused me a little to know that my captors had done me a favour in this matter. Once free, I crawled unsteadily to Lestrade's side and started fishing in his boot for the knife I know he conceals there routinely.

He grunted a few times, but I am sorry to say that it took me several minutes to realise he wanted me to remove the gag. I blame the lingering concussion.

"Watson! Are you alright?" his voice was soft, yet carried considerable force, "Holmes is fair beside himself with worry. He and the lads will be coming in soon to get us."

The second part of his speech made no sense to me, and I stopped trying to saw through the bonds at his feet to check his head over carefully.

"Did they hit you very hard, Inspector?" I asked gently, "Are you dizzy or nauseous?"

"What? I'm fine, never blacked out," Lestrade averred and I returned to his bonds reluctantly. In the dark with no medical supplies, there was little I could do if he was also suffering from delusions brought about by a concussion.

"Did you hear me?" he asked as his legs were freed.

"You have a small force ready to come inside soon," I summed up the part of his speech that was relevant, hoping it was true and moving on to the bonds about his arms and chest, "As to my health, I have lost track of the time and date, but a spot of rest will soon put me right."

The moment he was free, Lestrade was on his feet, retrieving his knife and heading for the door of our prison. He knew better than to fuss over a head injury he couldn't even see, and immediately started work on the door. After several minutes, it became apparent that he was not going to be able to force it open and his language was frankly appalling as he returned to where I was leaning against the wall.

"Can you tell me what this is about? Why have they chosen me for their plans?" I asked quietly, and felt my unwilling companion startle at my words.

"They believe that if they hold you to ransom, Sherlock Holmes will return to London to rescue you," Lestrade's voice was unwontedly gentle and I sighed.

"Holmes is dead though, there will be no ransom," I completed the dilemma, "Good thing you found me before they gave up on their scheme and disposed of the evidence."

"Watson, I talked to Mr Holmes less than an hour ago," Lestrade said softly, "These three are an affiliate of Professor Moriarty's old gang, and they're somehow tied in with that Colonel Moran chap – you remember him. Apparently Mr Holmes has been travelling these last three years incognito to take down the last of the Moriarty's criminal network."

The words made little sense to me, but before I could dispute them, there was noise in the corridor and Lestrade left my side to find and conceal himself by the door. I knew full well that I was in no fit state to fight our captors, and would only get in the Inspectors way. Although it grated on my instincts, I waited where I was for the outcome of the battle.

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