Waiting ended up consisting of settling on the couch, side by side, and watching the threed. Holmes watched the news updates with vague interest, before turning the 'cast to a documentary on the mathematical principles of asteroid momentum and progression. When Watson could stand it no longer, he commanded the 'cast to one of the nightly dramas.
"Ugh, Watson-kun, your taste is questionable."
"What? It's well-written, plenty of interesting plot points, dramatic."
"Dramatic is the right word. I'm all for bizarre and unexpected turns of events, but no real person acts the way they do in these shows."
Watson secretly agreed with Holmes, although the disparity didn't bother him, but he thought it an ironic thing indeed that Holmes should be commenting on what "normal" people would or wouldn't do.
Mrs. Hudson came over as well, serving them hotpot for dinner, tutting at Watson's newly sealed gash on his forehead, scowling at Holmes for not discarding his pile of used and ill-fitting clothing currently blocking the way upstairs, and then leaving, bidding them a good night. Watson found his thoughts drifting to his mother, and for the first time in a long while, he felt homesick. He had been feeling lonely and lost and regretful, but never homesick.
This morose turn of thoughts seemed to affect the mood, because their good-natured banter about each other's taste levels ceased, and they ended up sitting side by side again on the couch, contemplative and quiet as the night grew deeper.
Holmes' hand had found its way to the back of Watson's head and he was currently running his fingers through his hair, slowly and repetitively. Watson had been less assiduous in keeping it military-trim since his hospitalization. It was still short, but was growing a bit unruly. The action, for all that it was intimate, should have bothered Watson more.
In fact, if Holmes were giving any indication that there was some intent in the gesture, Watson wouldn't have allowed it. But, it was less an affectionate gesture and more of a nervous tic. Holmes was already in the habit of keeping his hands occupied, fidgeting and fiddling with various objects during his meandering thought processes: cigarettes, e-readers, cups, whatever was at hand. He was now simply incorporating Watson himself into the habit. It was not as unpleasant as it sounded.
Watson was beginning to feel soothed by the gesture, when Holmes' quiet voice broke the darkness.
"Why did you join up?" It was his thoughtful tone.
Watson wasn't sure that such an individualistic man like Holmes could understand the feeling of duty, of pride, of belonging to something much greater than one's sole self. Even if he could, Watson wasn't sure he himself could even articulate it. So, he moved on to more practical, if still true, reasons.
"I had to pay for medical school. I had bills and fees and there weren't many hospitals hiring at the time." He paused. "I don't know. I wanted to see new places. Meet new people." Holmes remained thoughtful, his fingers not changing their tempo. "Haven't you ever wanted to travel?"
"Oh, I don't know. The seeing new places sounds interesting enough. As for meeting new people? Well, I'm half-convinced that there are no new people. Only the same old ones, over and over again."
It sounded melancholy, and Watson was unsure how to deal with this new, sadder side of Holmes. There were already far too many sides of him as it was. But it spoke of a loneliness in the other man, and Watson imagined that perhaps they had more in common on the subject than he had thought. The moment stretched on for a bit longer, not uncomfortable, but still heavy.
It was Holmes who broke it again.
"Do you think you'll be reassigned?"
Watson didn't want to answer, didn't want to say it aloud, but he did it anyway. "No. I'll be discharged."
"What will you do then?" The question was very soft, and, unlike many of Holmes' rhetorical questions, or questions where he already knew the answer, he sounded genuinely curious.
Watson knew he could say something. He knew that this was the moment he could finally talk to somebody, to tell his fears and his uncertainty and genuine dread of the future. But Holmes was such a strong, vivacious personality, the likes of which he'd only seen in the very dramas Holmes so hated. Things like unemployment and poor health and job queues just didn't belong in the same sphere as him.
"Oh, sell myself to science, I suppose." Watson meant for the tone to be wry and light-hearted, but Holmes' fingers stopped in his hair abruptly, and there was no further noise from him.
"Holmes. I was kidding, you know that right?"
"What? Oh, I'm sorry. I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but my mind tends to wander and then I start to ignore everything around me. Don't take it personally."
"Oddly enough, I had already noticed." Holmes gave a light snort of amusement, before removing his hand. Watson instantly felt both regret and relief at its loss.
"Well, I think the time is approaching. We better start getting ready."
"Getting ready?"
"Holmes, seriously, open up, or Mrs. Hudson's going to have a whole lot more to be upset about than your dirty clothes!" Watson yelled into the monochromatic slider door that separated him from the sole bathroom in the house. He desperately needed to go, and had already been using the bathroom to change into this stupid ensemble when Holmes had interrupted and summarily ejected him from it.
As it turned out, the reason Holmes kept such a stockpile of clothes that didn't fit him was not because of poverty and raiding donation dumps, but because he apparently liked to disguise himself when performing surveillance on various parts of the planet. It made sense; Holmes had been dirty and shabby when they had first met and now it seemed there was never a time when he wasn't immaculately flash. But, this was crazy.
"Watson-kun, you'll never fit in down by the slots. You'll stick out. Besides, our target has already seen you several times. You need to make yourself inconspicuous!" And so, now Watson was wearing a dirty hauler jumpsuit and boots, as well as a high collared jacket. He had gone into the bathroom to change; even despite their aborted intimacy, Watson still couldn't stand the thought of Holmes seeing his not fully-healed body. Watson himself couldn't stand looking at it.
Holmes had then pounded obnoxiously on the door, calling him out and into the den again. "I'm not wearing that," Watson had immediately responded. Holmes, it seemed, was a bit of a dramatist himself, displaying a collection of colored contact lenses, threed-quality make-up, the works.
"Watson, we've discussed this." Sighing, Watson sat down to comply, and Holmes settled down beside him on the floor. It reminded him of when he'd been a kid, trying on his dad's old army uniform with his brother as they played war. After a short time, Holmes got up to appropriate the bathroom and Watson took the opportunity to put in another call to Madison's room. She was out again, or at least, wasn't answering, for which Watson couldn't blame her. Her life was changing, and for reasons that were outside of her control. Husband and career gone, a baby on the way. He wouldn't have been in the mood to talk, either.
He gave up with a sigh, feeling oddly adrift, and wondered if this rout was a good idea, after all. Perhaps they should just go back to Chang Ku's and wait for Odd-Eyes' return.
"Holmes! I mean it! You're not the only one in this house!" He was about to pound on it again, when the door slid abruptly into the wall, Holmes already stepping across the threshold. Their noses were less than a few inches away. Holmes had temporarily dyed his hair blonde. His eyes were no longer gray but green, and he had somehow managed to hunch himself to be about half a foot shorter. He looked ridiculous, but certainly unrecognizable.
"Sorry about that," he replied blithely, not taking his eyes off Watson's face. The moment was charged and Holmes broke it by sidestepping Watson abruptly.
"That's a good look for you!" Holmes called out brightly to him, gesturing toward his lower face. Watson rolled his eyes and continued into the bathroom. He himself now had darker hair with brown eyes and a mustache. (Actually, the mustache wasn't half bad…)
In his reflection, the spasmodic tremors of his hands were suddenly visible. Watson swore violently; he couldn't have picked a worse time to fall apart. The anticipation was messing with him. He flinched at the memory of his failure that afternoon. Frantically rummaging through his discarded clothes, he found his cap pack from earlier, struggling clumsily to pop out one of the dissolvables as his hands vibrated. He shoved it under his tongue and waited.
It was never going to get better. This was going to be his life from now on. Instead of sneaking about and seeking out illegal street narcotics, he was going to be shuffling into the file at the VetMed pharmacy, getting his weekly allotment of drugs just to get him through the hours. And even then, only the hours he managed to stay awake for. He almost sobbed, but held it in.
He had work to do, and Holmes was depending on him
Watson hadn't thought that there could be a place worse than the Links, and was dismayed to discover that he was wrong. The Slots abutted the water of the shoreline, not as a graceful, gradual transition from metal to earth to water, but as craggy, dirty hollows where floating landing pads stagnated. They were used by the ferries for landing and unloading as they went to and fro from the orbital carrier docking stations. Industrial towers loomed, squat and ugly and loud, as water was pumped, treated and then ejected by hi-flow pipeline. A sub-community of service industries had sprouted and festered to serve the haulers, smugglers and techs that populated the area. Warehouses, filthy restaurants and whorehouses were built in between and under the complex networks of pipelines, in the shadow of the desalinization plant.
Holmes took to this new environment with much more ease than Watson did. It spoke of practice and pattern; clearly Holmes had been here before. Holmes had changed his gait to a hunched, scrabbling stumble, looking almost as ungainly as Watson did naturally.
"Remember, Watson. My name is Jashya Morris. Yours is Joe Veder. We're haulmates. We just hit atmo, and we're looking for a good time," Holmes had coached him on the way over, and Watson had simply decided to just remain as silent as possible.
As it was, Watson was standing in a pool of something filthy as he and Holmes waited in the shadow of a stall, selling something greasy and unsavory, the smell of tri-chloral almost choking him. It was late, but the streets were still relatively empty, the haulers apparently not having flooded the make-shift city, yet.
Holmes was doing a good job pretending to look bored and disinterested, but there were telltale movements with his eyes that let Watson know he was looking for someone amongst the crowd. So far, they had had little luck; Odd-Eyes had not appeared. But then again Watson had hardly expected him to.
He opened his mouth to suggest that they move on, when he felt a slight pressure at his back pocket. Whirling fast, he quickly had in his grasp the dirtiest kid he'd ever seen.
"Little thief!" he hissed at the brat. "Get lost!"
The boy, and he had to be called a boy because he couldn't have been much older than 12, snarled savagely, pulling on his wrist. He wore clothes a size too small, and his face and hair were covered with sludge as well as the build-up of not having washed in far too long.
"Wiggins, what is this?" Holmes suddenly intervened.
"You know this brat, Holmes?"
"Hey, san, I didn't know he was with you!" The boy ignored Watson, appealing to Holmes instead.
"Watson, you can let him go. Wiggins is our spy. For tonight, anyway," Holmes said wryly. Watson loosened his grip on the arm and the boy snatched it away in a highly aggrieved manner, as if it had been Watson who had been trying to steal the kid's wallet.
"Did you do what I asked, brat?" Oddly enough, it almost sounded affectionate.
"Yeah, I asked around. Although I didn't need to. Everyone around here knows Vasiliy. It's not like he goes out of his way to be subtle or anything."
"Interesting. And what is he known for around here?"
Wiggins looked at Holmes positively dumbfounded. "You don't know?"
"I would like for you to tell me." Holmes said it patiently, much more patiently than Watson would have thought possible.
"He runs a passazh just up that way, right under the plant, although I don't know where exactly. I make it my business not to be around guys like that."
"Guys like what?" Watson asked.
"Arkyli. They run that side of the Slots. I don't go on that side if I can help it."
"And nor should you. Good job, brat. Here you go." Holmes tossed the kid a slider, probably worth 20 creds. The boy looked ecstatic, gave an odd little salute, and than ran off.
"Holmes, who was that kid?"
"That was Wiggins, one of my little soldiers."
"Soldiers?"
"Well, I can't be everywhere at once, but I do try to at least have eyes everywhere. Sometimes, there's certain information that can't be found without the help of a local." They began a slow, meandering walk to the pyramid-shaped shadow that was Desal Plant-3. "Wiggins and a few other gutterpunks are in my sporadic employ. They go places I can't go and take care of small inquiries on my behalf. In exchange, I throw them some creds, which they most likely redeem for useless, impulsive items that will in no way improve their situation. But, it also keeps them from turning to prostitution or violent crime to get those things, so I imagine it all balances out in the end."
It was sweet, in its own practical, dystopian way.
"I alerted Wiggins while you were…busy, and told him to lay the thick around about a half-blind man with a subcue living along the shoreline, and clearly my hunch paid off. We now have a name," Holmes smiled.
"And a location," Watson reminded, thoroughly impressed and exhilarated to go from nothing to something in the space of a few hours. Despite the drugs pumping through his veins, reminding him of his own disintegrating body, Watson felt like he could do anything tonight, with Holmes guiding the way.
"And a location," Holmes agreed, mouth stretching with satisfaction.
"But what was that word Wiggins said? It sounded like a Russian dialect."
"It is. It's a planetside subsidiary of the Blinders. No doubt you've heard of them."
Watson had; there were few who hadn't. They had been called by many names throughout history: raiders, reavers, pirates, highwaymen, rumrunners, gangbangers. All names for the same thing, the same type of predator. This particular incarnation had discovered very quickly in the adolescence of space travel that most carriers preferred to consistently follow the same coordinates when traveling back and forth with cargo and passengers. The carriers frequently used the gravitational pull of nearby planets to slingshot themselves across parsecs toward their intended destination. Blinders had taken to hiding just within atmo of planets with high magnetic and gravitational fields which blocked the long-range sensors of the mammoth, slow-moving carriers, creating huge blind spots in their defenses. From there, they would surprise the carriers, take out any weaponry they might have, and force entry.
The results were usually brutal. Theft and destruction were their trademarks. Rape, murder and torture were others.
The Territorial Army had done their best to eradicate and dismantle their operations, but when the interstitial space became too hot, they had taken to the planets, developing crude, but pervasive criminal underground enterprises. It was of no surprise to Watson that Odd-Eyes would be associated with such cruelty. And the Slots, with their easy access to the Docking Stations, would be an ideal breeding ground for it.
"Yes, I have." Watson replied.
"Good. Then I don't need to warn you about being careful."
"No, no you don't," Watson responded savagely. Blinders were worst of dregs. They traded in, and thrived on, the suffering and misery of others, believing the interstitial and everything found in it to be built for only them. They belonged to a world of savagery that even war couldn't match.
They slowly and quietly made their way toward the Desal plant. It was its own little island, a small, shallow channel of water separating it from the shoreline, like an ancient moat. The place was monitored of course, with a huge fence surrounding the perimeter. There didn't appear to be any buildings within a significant distance, nor did there look to be any holes in the fence.
"Holmes, I think your little spy was wrong."
"No, no I don't think so." At which, Holmes dropped from the railinged gateway of the crossing bridge to slide along the craggy bank. He threw himself into the water, which only came up to mid-thigh.
"Come on, Watson-kun. The water's fine."
"The water's filthy," Watson groused, but slid down the bank as well, until he was in the water and sloshing alongside Holmes the 100 meters or so, their progress hidden by the shadow of the bridge over them. Several pipes were suspended back and forth across the channel, not all of them from the Desal plant. Some bore the distinctive trademark of the Agri-towers, meaning that they carried nutrient-enriched, synthesized shit, much of it leaking from holes in the poorly maintained pipeline and into the water they were trudging through. Watson tried very hard not to vomit.
But the pipes seemed to confirm Holmes' theory, and he pressed on, even more energized. Eventually they made it across and they found themselves climbing the opposite rocky shore to be directly in front of the foundation of the Desal plant. There were clearly several sub-basements, and the rock meant to encase them had been slowly eroding away, revealing them to the pair. It didn't take Holmes long to find a vent that had probably originally been used to cool the treatment engines.
"Look, Captain." And sure enough, the footsteps of thousands had also eroded a path to the vent cover which, with Holmes and Watson tugging on it, swung wide open, becoming an impromptu door.
They both looked at each other, and then back into the dark din. Taking a deep breath, they stepped through together.
They hadn't walked too long when the dark dripping tunnel abruptly spilled out into a giant underground permacrete cavern. It had probably once been a storage basement, or even a water holding tank, but it had long ago fallen into disuse. Now, it was a shanty-town made up of shacks and cells, built right on top of the other, out of scrap and refuse. There was no real floor, as it was flooded with offal and the ocean, slowly creeping in. The walls were muraled with graffiti, blood and waste.
All around them, the roughest of people were walking, fighting, swearing. Watson would have been hard-pressed to identify just how many languages and sub-dialects there were. He heard the deceptively sweet lilting and harsh consonants of the New Apollan dialect and immediately had to fight the urge to punch somebody.
Holmes grasped his sleeve, pulling Watson forward, and they carefully climbed down the steep slope down into the circular den. Watson could feel water dripping down on them from above.
"What is this place?" Watson whispered, as loud as he dared. Already, dregs and the seedier haulers were casting them suspicious glances.
"It's a passazh. Those who have the taste for it come here for…recreation."
"What kind of recreation?" Watson asked harshly. He could hear a woman wailing somewhere, deep in the recesses of one of the lean-tos.
"This is a place one comes to purchase a body, no questions asked, to do whatever they like to it. Sometimes, they come just to have another person to beat, to maim, even to kill. Sometimes they're used for more predictable, but no less horrific reasons."
(Prostitution. Torture.)
It made Watson's teeth grit just to breath this air.
"Watson," Holmes said, squeezing his arm suddenly, but seriously. "It's important that you don't lose your temper. I know this place sickens you; it sickens me too. But I have a theory. And I must see it through. If you can't go through with this, I ask that you go back outside, and wait for me."
Watson answered immediately. "I won't leave you." Not here, he meant to qualify, but didn't.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Holmes replied, pleased and…fond. It was his most handsome look yet.
They settled themselves as out of sight as possible, propped up against one of the lean-to's, the rhythmic grunting from inside methodically gaining volume immediately giving away what the occupants were doing. Or rather, what one of the occupants was doing to the other. They tried not to give any indication that this was anything out of the ordinary. In front of them, a hauler had begun an impromptu fight with a man he had bought. The other haulers were urging him on, laughing and jeering as the unequal match continued. It wasn't a fight, but a beating. A slow, drawn out death. Watson couldn't watch any longer. He turned his face away, only to lock eyes with a dark, grubby Blinder peering back at him curiously. Watson held the gaze, unintimidated.
The other man snorted, amused. His pupils were blown and the whites bloodshot, speaking of some intoxication. He sidled up to Watson, tossing an arm over his shoulder, breathing alcohol so potent it was practically blinding.
"Eh, kracivi. I like." Watson wasn't sure if his fragmented sentences were a result of his drunkenness or if he only knew scattered English. Watson tensed; the last thing he wanted was to start a fight and draw attention to themselves.
"Eh, sorry, drug," Holmes intervened, his voice taking on a lower, rougher register, more of a bark than his usual drawl. He rattled off something in Russian, faster than Watson could translate. It must have been something conciliatory, because the Blinder just shrugged philosophically, not removing his arm, but no longer looking at Watson in a proprietary manner.
"Eh, zhal. I like…I show good time," he laughed, jostling Watson's shoulder amicably, as if they were good friends.
"Well, since you mention it, we're looking for a good time." Watson's new friend leaned forward, his eyes lazily sliding back and forth as he tried to process Holmes' words. "We were told we could have something good. Some good action. From Vasiliy?" The name caused an immediate reaction; his eyebrows lifted and he gave a knowing chuckle.
"Eh, you like rough. Tak I buit. Come, I take." He pulled Watson by the shoulders, and leaned heavily on him as he led them away. There were no more shouts coming from the fight spectators. Watson didn't care to speculate as to why.
They were led through the maze of improvised shacks, seemingly without course or direction, Watson's hanger-on nattering on in a strange blend of Russian and some underworld slang that Holmes seemed to understand. He shot questions back, in his newly acquired rasp. As crazy as the notion was, Watson was forced to admit that, had he not been with Holmes as he put on his disguise, he wouldn't have believed that his new friend and this dirty, leering hauler were the same person.
The Blinder staggered to a halt in front of one shack, deep in the recesses of the basement. It was little more than metal siding held together by duct tape and tension coil. A space blanket had been draped over the entry, forming a crude door.
"Vasiliy here. Normally would not bring stranger. But for my pretty friend!" He gave Watson a pat on the cheek before laughing loudly in his face, his breath practically toxic. He gave Watson a shove toward the door, winking. A moment later, he continued staggering on his way, practically falling down two steps later.
Holmes and Watson looked at each other, Holmes with a question in his eyes, and Watson with an answer. Together, they stepped toward the entrance.
"Once we're in, don't hesitate. Don't let him get to open ground and don't let him call for help," Holmes whispered, all trace of his fake accent gone.
"Gotcha."
On the count of 3, Holmes reached out and grasped the blanket, giving it a rough tug. They barreled in immediately, rushing into the red-lit room.
"It seems your boyfriend was wrong," Holmes said wryly.
And he had been. Or maybe he misunderstood what they'd been asking for. Instead of directing them to where Vasiliy bedded down, they had been brought to where Vasiliy kept his…merchandise. There were several collapsible pallets littered about on the floor. Each one had a body lying on top of it-disheveled, filthy, and twitching in the throes of Shine. Men and women were there, emaciated and bruised. One or two moaned pitiably. The smell was overwhelming.
"So this is where he runs his operation."
"Or at least part of it," Watson responded, remembering Odd-Eyes' involvement with Chang Ku's. Did he own that place, too? Or was he only a lackey for Chang Ku?
"We can wait here. Hide until he gets back, and then jump him," Watson suggested, feeling at a loss, the adrenaline fueling his body with no outlet.
"No, Watson," Holmes responded from somewhere behind him, his voice strange. "I don't think we can wait."
Watson turned around and spotted Holmes standing over one of the pallets shoved in a corner. Watson slowly walked toward him to stand next to him. He looked down at what Holmes was peering at.
It was hard to tell, because the figure was at least twenty pounds skinnier, with his bones outlined by his skin and blood and shit covering many parts of him, but the poor wretch lying on the floor was Samuel Yoshiro.
Watson reached down and took the poor man's pulse. It was weak and thready. Consistent exposure to Shine and very little first aid to his various, horrifying injuries was sapping the life out of him, even as they stood there. His eyes were twitching beneath their jaundiced lids, and no amount of outside stimulus could rouse him.
"We have to get him out of here," Holmes said. "We can't wait for Vasiliy to come back."
"But Vasiliy knows where Sandeep is."
"Really, Watson-kun, you're being very one-note about this," he replied in exasperation.
"We can't just leave! We need to find Vasiliy. We need to make him tell us where Sandeep is. Nor can we just abandon these people!"
"Watson-kun, what do you suggest we do? Take on an Arkyli dreg surrounded by his thugs and allies? Think of the client! Him, we can save! Look at him! If he spends another hour here, he'll be dead by morning."
"Holmes! How can we ignore these people?" Watson cried desperately. They were little more than meat sacks to the denizens of this place, most of them probably unaware of what was being done to them in their haze. It was probably a mercy, in its own horrific way.
"Watson. You can't save everyone. But you can save this one. For his lover's sake, if nothing else."
And it was the right thing to say. (Damn him.) "How are we supposed to get him out of here? Just walk him out?"
"Well, yes. Look around for something to cover him with."
Watson stood up from where he had been kneeling next to Yoshiro. Scanning the room, he spotted a back corner filled with a bizarrely-shaped shadow. Upon approach, Watson realized it was a pile of clothing and boots. Scavenged, certainly, from Vasiliy's merchandise as they were gripped in the throes. No doubt rummaged through and discarded for destruction or recycling. Watson dipped into the pile, searching for something that would fit and cover Yoshiro. He was so nervous about being walked in on by Vasiliy himself, that he almost missed the significance of the jacket in his hand.
It was his.
Clearly, Vasiliy and his cohort had stripped it from him along with his boots last night. Watson pulled out the jacket entirely, scanning it minutely. Yes, there was the rip from the detonator wire that had had to be sewn back together with dental floss. It was an ugly thing, but right now it was the most beautiful possession he'd ever owned, because, upon closer inspection, the jacket still bore a telltale heaviness on one side. Reaching into the hidden inner pocket, Watson's hand circled around the grip of his sidearm. It was a glorious feeling, in this dark and dangerous place, irrationally providing him with a sense of safety despite each and every one of the men outside this place being twice as armed. But Watson was finally beginning to feel the scales balancing out.
Further inspection also revealed his sync, the glowing face telling him the time and alerting him to several missed messages from Madison. Reception would be impossible in this cavern, but it was there. He put the sync into "flex" mode and wrapped it around his wrist, so as not to lose it again.
"Captain! Hurry!" Holmes hissed in the darkness. Watson grabbed a random jumpsuit without looking along with his old jacket and tossed them both to Holmes, followed by a pair of mismatched boots. It didn't have to be pretty, just inconspicuous.
Before long, Holmes had Samuel dressed while Watson peeked his head out from behind the blanket. The outside was clear of any interested onlookers. If they hurried, they could get out without being seen. Holmes appeared at his side, one of Samuel's arms draped over his shoulders. Watson grabbed the other and the unkempt trio casually sidled out of the building and back towards the main plaza and entrance. They kept Samuel's head down, assisted by the sheer fact that he didn't have the strength or awareness to keep it up. They shuffled past everyone, looking like two haulers helping a drunken comrade get back to their ship before launch. They were not questioned or stopped at all, except for when Watson's new friend waved and winked from far off, paying their new addition little attention.
They had Samuel out of the vent door as quickly as possible without looking shifty. Dragging him through the channel proved more difficult, the water both dragging him down and making his body slippery within their grasp. The tide had come in while they were inside and it now came up their waists and was rapidly reaching their chests. Each step of the way, Watson could swear that somebody must be following them, because how could it be this simple?
They reached the other side, which had only grown more slippery and awkward as the tide came in. Holmes loped ahead and pulled himself onto the nearest rock promontory. The slope was more severe and it would be difficult for just one of them to drag him up the narrow path. Watson had just tossed Samuel to Holmes, who had caught the dead weight awkwardly, when something hard and heavy slammed into him from behind, pitching him face forward into the water.
When he was able to turn over and get his head above water, it was to the rather unsurprising sight of Vasiliy looming over him.
At first, he didn't recognize Watson, thanks to Holmes' disguise talents. But something in Watson's facial structure must have given him away. "You again?" the beast snarled, less terrifying now that he had been given a name. "What do I have to do to get rid of you?"
Watson didn't answer; the time for questions and answers had passed. Instead, he pushed hard with his good leg, gaining a momentum and velocity he had hoped for, but no longer believed he could achieve. He crashed into the thug with a satisfying tackle, and the two were soon both submerged in the filthy water. Watson could hear Holmes call for him; knew that keeping Samuel's dead weight from slipping into the water would keep him from coming to his assistance. For once, this didn't bother him.
The fight was fierce and agonizing. Each breath, Watson wasn't sure whether he would get air or water, as their positions flipped and turned. They were both slippery, and it was difficult to maintain a grasp on anything. It soon descended to shoving and flailing fists. Watson's heart pounded painfully, and his lungs burned. But Vasiliy was in good shape, and Watson hadn't even recovered from their last fight earlier that day. Watson soon felt hands around his neck pushing his head under the murky water. He held his breath as long as could, reaching out and thrashing. If he could just see…
Suddenly, the pressure was off his neck and he breached the surface with an audible, painful gasp. Vasiliy had forgotten about Holmes, who couldn't let go of Samuel, but who had managed to find a heavy chunk of fallen concrete, which he had thrown with impressive accuracy at Vasiliy's head. Watson's attacker now stood, clutching the side of his head, blood oozing from between his fingers. When he pulled them away, a hideous gash covered the entire width of his forehead, the white of his skull beginning to show. Watson wasn't sure if he was hallucinating again or if Holmes had really wreaked that damage. It didn't matter; it gave him the opportunity he needed. As Vasiliy had been drowning him, he hadn't noticed Watson reaching into his borrowed jacket, pulling out the sidearm he had secreted there after recovering it from his old one.
Now presented with the opportunity to aim properly, Watson squeezed the trigger, praying that the water hadn't breached the waterproof casing and messed with the electronics.
It hadn't. The sighting laser came on a split second before the potent, targeted sonic blast followed its path and left a hideous mess where Vasiliy's head had been. Watson might not be able to run or lift his arm above shoulder level anymore, but his aim was still true.
Watson walked over the corpse. There was no way it could still be alive, but Watson was careful. The man was dead and Watson could find no pity in himself. His victims were still back there, in that horrid place, no doubt either to starve to death or to be appropriated by some other business competitor. Killing this man had made not one jot of difference to them.
It wasn't enough. Was nowhere near enough. But it was a start. He couldn't save those that Vasiliy had already defiled, but he could save the ones he would have. He could save Samuel Yoshiro, at the very least.
Watson was beginning to think that this would just have to suffice. Not just this time, but from now on.
Remembering Holmes, he looked to the shoreline as his breath rate slowed back down to normal, his gasps coming loud and heavy in his own ears. He was there, waiting and holding up Samuel, half of whose body was still in the water, only being kept from slipping under by Holmes' grip on him.
Watson momentarily feared that Holmes would be angry with him for killing a man whose testimony would no doubt have been invaluable.
But, it seemed Holmes' dedication to law and justice was a flexible beast, for he simply looked down at Watson as he stood there, and smiled proudly.
They didn't get back to Holmes' dock until well into the following morning, the sun already high overhead, and the midday tide lapping higher on the house's mooring.
Once they had made it across the channel and well away from the Slots, they had quickly shed their disguises as much as possible and ran to the nearest Flow segue. They waved down a cab and headed to the nearest hospital they could find. Samuel was still deeply unconscious between them, his breath rasping more and more in his throat.
Once checked into the PubMed, they had waited, claiming to be friends, as Yoshiro was intubated and placed, first into a triage scanner, and then submersed in an antiseptic bath. Holmes listened patiently as Watson explained the significance of the procedures, seeming to catalogue Yoshiro's injuries for his own mental records.
They were extensive; Yoshiro had suffered no shortage of abuse in the two weeks he had been missing. There were several broken bones, internal bleeding, organ dessication and venal collapse due to the constant influx of Shine and who knew what else being pumped into him to keep him insensate and docile. He had been beaten, cut, and burnt in many places, and raped endlessly. It was nauseating.
But he was alive. Which was more than could be said for Mister J.
"He and his lover must have been caught at Chang Ku's, or some other den, or even out on the streets. They were kidnapped, to be tortured and brutalized together, until J eventually died from an overdose. Only a few days ago. If only we had gotten there sooner," Watson said, breathtaken and sad. Their lives had been hard enough, buffeted by strife from Yoshiro-san and perhaps even other obstacles. To have their trials rewarded with pain and permanent separation; it was hard to see the good in all of this.
"Mm," Holmes grunted in reply. It didn't have the tone of either skepticism or agreement, and Watson suspected that the taller man hadn't even heard him at all. He seemed lost in his own little world, watching from the visitor's view screen into the medical theatre. It was little surprise; while Watson had been about moping and getting himself consistently pummeled, Holmes had been working this case with very little sleep or food, as far as Watson could tell. Adrenaline and sheer will could only take him so far and, now that there was no reason to put up a fight or a flight, he was beginning to crash.
"Come on, Holmes-kun, you need to rest. We can check in on him later. There isn't much more we can do until he wakes up." Holmes' lips quirked at the honorific, and he turned to Watson, some of his previous spark still left in his eyes. Before he could respond, however, they were interrupted by the sound of an orderly shouting.
They both turned as one, spotting the short figure of Yoshiro-san approaching them, her stride clipped and appearing, despite her relatively mussed clothing, every bit as imposing as before. The orderly was shouting after her, telling her she couldn't be in that part of the Med, until Holmes intervened, clarifying that she was the patient's mother, but also neglecting to refer to her by name.
"I got your message," she said, breathlessly. "Is it true? He's…"
"Alive, Yoshiro-san." The woman's face seemed to tighten all over, as if afraid of letting even a part of her show reaction. Her eyes suddenly gained a sheen however, and her mouth tightened to the point where she had to pause for a long moment before speaking. Holmes filled the silence.
"We checked him in under a false name. With any luck, nobody should ever know. According to the Captain here, a few days of induced sleep and time in a regenerator should have him at least mobile, if weak. You'll probably be able to take him home, then." Her nod was quick, a sharp dip.
"Where was he?"
"He was sold into sexual slavery in a passazh." Yoshiro-san gave a slight gasp, and Watson mentally cursed Holmes' complete lack of sensitivity.
"Your son was very injured. But the important thing is he's been found, and he's alive. Nothing else matters," he interceded on Holmes' behalf. Her lip began to quiver, and her gaze broke away as the sheen grew into full-fledged, if unshed, tears.
"Thank you," she said, gulping, regaining her composure. She looked into Holmes' face, unblinking. "I will not forget this. But now isn't the time…" she began.
"No, no it isn't," Holmes agreed, with a bit more kindness, or at least, a better approximation of it. Holmes no doubt blamed Yoshiro-san in part for driving her son to such a situation and Watson couldn't say he disagreed, but no amount of blame would help Samuel Yoshiro through his no doubt extensive upcoming recup period.
They turned to leave and, as Holmes struggled with putting on his too small coat, Watson turned his head back toward the view screen. He could still see the white sterile chamber where scrubbed doctors and nurses worked on what was left of Samuel. Silhouetted by the bright working lights, was Yoshiro-san. Her hand lifted to press against the glass, and she stroked it lightly along the distant outline of her son's face.
(Maybe some good, after all.)