Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

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WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.

Watson woke to the sound of voices, low, alien noises which reached out to brush his ears from beyond the door of his prison. He could pick out around three different people - the low, halting rumble of Dredger; the faster, lilting tone of Joel; a higher, softer female voice which rang bells in his mind. Irene Adler? he wondered dazedly, but almost at once he decided against that idea. Adler's voice he would know at once. This one still brought him confusion. It wasn't Adler, but it was someone he knew, someone he spoke to often... he scowled angrily, blaming the steady throb of his whole body for his slow deductions.

Slowly, gingerly, he pushed himself up onto his knees and winched, looking down at himself. Yellowing bruises covered his chest and spread over his abdomen, the result of the events of the previous day. His face felt stiff and painful, and he could feel a worrying combination of wet and dried blood clinging stubbornly to the side of his face and upper lip. His arms were still tied - he had no free hand to wipe it away. But still, despite his screaming head, his back remained the worst. If he accidently shifted the bandages - which he had several times in the night - the dried blood that now caked them tore venemously at his skin and sent him struggling to breathe through the agony. In all honesty, if it hadn't been for the concussion that still hung over him like a damp cloud, he wouldn't have slept at all.

As it was, he did. Though none too easily.

He lifted one foot and crouched there, one knee still glued to the floor, trying to steady himself. Then, with a huge effort, he shoved himself upwards. Darkness hit him at once and he fell back against the wall, barely noticing how his back punished him for it. His own heavy, laboured breathing rushed in his ears - sharply in, shuddering out, sharply in, shuddering out. Eventually his breaths began to even out and he realized he had his eyes squeezed shut. He opened them, focussed blearily on the door. The voices were still debating, and although he could catch the odd word, he could not for the life of him understand what they were saying. He curled away from the wall and headed over to the door, his legs trembling. The voices became no clearer. If only they would-

"Fine!"

The yell was so abrupt that Watson flinched. Joel. His voice was exasperated and irritated, and grew louder as he strode closer.

"Alright! Ah said ah'm doin' it!"

The door ripped open and Watson stepped back quickly, trying to ready himself, but once more his head jerked the world out from under his feet. Hands closed over his arms from behind and pulled him forwards. His body collapsed readily into the grip, and he hated himself for it. They were out of the room by now. This was his perfect chance to escape, and yet he could barely see where he was. He blinked hard, trying to destroy the darkness blotting out his vision. Joel dragged him around and thurst him back against the wall, holding him there by his shoulders. Watson lifted his head, squinting through his dim vision, and finally got a look at where he was.

This looked to be the only other room of the building he was in. It was made of the same ancient, crumbling bricks and the floor of the same stone slabs. The door to his right was the one to his prison, and there was another one directly ahead which was painted a glossy black and stood ajar. Beyond Watson could hear the muffled sounds of some kind of market place, and could see the pale shimmer of cold, mid-day sunlight. No other doors at all. Stacked at the edges of the room were several boxes and crates - some overflowing with rotten food, others nailed tightly shut. A few dark clumps of matted straw were strewn around the room, and in here there was a definate smell of animals. Ralph was sitting on one of the crates, chewing once more on his thumb with his tiny, rat-like teeth. Dredger was standing in the corner, his arms folded, a scowl fixed on his face. Whatever was happening, he was clearly not happy about it. And standing before the door, her hands folded atop the handle of a parosel, a decorative hat pinned at a tilt on top of exquisitely curled hair, wearing the very dress he had bought her not five days ago was... Mary.

Mary?

He blinked hard, sure his eyes were deceiving him. But if it was really Mary, surely she would be in the hold of one of the men, or coming to push Joel away, or stepping close and placing her hands on his chest at the sight of him. Surely - surely - with blood crusting the side of his face and the bruising on his chest, she would show some glimmer of concern for him? So it couldn't really be Mary, because this Mary was... was smiling at him. Smiling in a sad, sympathetic way as if she had just seen a dog with only three legs and thought, 'Oh, poor little puppy.' It was so confusing, so abrupt that all Watson could do was stare at her.

"Hello, darling," she said brightly, cocking her head to one side as if talking to a young child.

Watson's voice had abandoned him and vanished, along with his stomach. He gazed at her, a poor subsitute for speech crawling from his lips in a rasp. "M-Mary?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, still in that bright-but-oh-so-sympathetic simper. "Oh, you look terrible. I hope they're not being unneccersarily cruel?"

Joel sniggered. "Of course we are," he said, grinning.

Mary smiled and rolled her eyes, shot Watson a look as if to say, 'what can you do?' She moved forwards, reaching out to touch Joel's shoulder.

"Would you be a gentleman and give us a moment?"

Joel mimed taking off a hat to her, bowed low and let go to walk over to Ralph. Watson barely spared him a glance, keeping his eyes fixed on Mary. This is it, he thought in a sudden wild rush of hope. She was here to help him. She'd been sent by Holmes or something - that's right, it was all some bizzare plan Holmes had cooked up to get him free. It didn't matter if it didn't make sense; Holmes' plans never did. Mary reached out and gently wiped at the blood on his cheek, her touch just as soft and electrifying as it had always been.

"Darling," she repeated quietly. "I honestly wish I hadn't had to do this. Blackwood said it was only a back up plan, just in case. And I must admit, as time went on, I truly did begin to like you. You understand, don't you? You understand how hard it is for me, how I have no choice?"

It was as if she was speaking some alien language; her words just weren't making any sense in his head. He tried to understand her, he tried to put her words into some order in which they would say what he needed them to say, but... but it wasn't working... He heard his own voice speak, dry and hoarse.

"Wh-What?"

"I needed the money," she explained, shrugging slightly. "I was desperate, John. You must know what I mean. I needed help, and Blackwood promised to pay regularly. I had no choice."

"No choice..."

No. This isn't happening. Its not true, its all just to... to create some kind of... diversion or... it can't be... But there was no lie in Mary's face. For the very first time since he had first gazed into her eyes, there was no flicker of secrecy. She was telling the truth... and his heart was slowly shattering within him, each word a blow to the thin glass the muscle had melted in to. He struggled upright and away from the wall. He would have seized her by the arms, held onto her like a lifeline, maybe shaken her to make the horrifying news vanish. Across the room Joel took a sharp step forwards, pulling a knife from his belt in a wordless warning. Watson ignored him. Mary was still smiling sadly, leaning closer.

"I really am sorry that it had to turn out this way."

"You're lying." His voice was shaking wildly, threatening to either dissolve into sobs or rise to an uncontrollable scream. "You don't mean it. You don't mean any of it. Mary-"

"John." She slid her hand behind his head and pressed her lips against his. For the first time they felt cold and indifferent, and sent tremors of horror down his spine. She broke off, backing away from his unresponsive lips. "I just felt that you should know," she said, "That I really do love you."

God, she was smiling. He loved that smile, and yet now it terrified him. Without another glance she turned away and headed towards the door.

"Thank you, boys," she tossed over her shoulder, and the men nodded to her - Dredger sulkily, Ralph eagerly, and Joel hopefully. But she didn't spare them another glance either, and was already pulling back the door to leave. Watson's body jerked into motion and he staggered forwards, making a clumsy lunge after her.

"Mary! No, stop! Come back, you don't... I can't... what're..."

His sentences stuttered and jumped like a broken record player. Joel stepped into his path, still holding his knife. Watson tried to push past him but he lifted his fist and delivered a single, sharp blow to his face. Blood exploded in his mouth and, before he could stop himself, he swallowed it reflexively. The metallic rush made him feel sick, but he kept pressing forwards.

"Hey! Hey!" Joel shouted, struggling to shove him back with the hand not holding the knife. "If ya don't stop, ah'm gonna-"

But Watson never heard the end of that particular threat because at that moment he launched himself forwards hard, and Joel pushed forwards to meet him. Fire exploded in his side and he let out a harsh scream of pain, the sound bursting from his mouth before he could control it. He bit his lip shut quickly, struggling to breathe. He looked down to where Joel's knife was burried up to the hilt in his side. Joel's eyes had widened slightly in shock, but now he smirked again and twisted the knife visicously. As blood began to cascade down his side, Watson still kept his eyes fixed on the door in the blind, insane hope that it was all some sick, sick joke.

The docks were crowded with people. Ships floated on the ebb and flow of the tide, bobbing gently up and down. Some sailors pushed their way through towards the town, relieved to be home - others struggled hopefully towards the sea as they began their next journey. Women carrying various objects, calling out offers to people passing by, offering three for a shilling or one for tuppance. Men carried supplies, animals and crates to and from waiting ships, shouting to one another. All were blissfully unaware of the shaggy haired, stubble-edged man who sat on the wall opposite the pens where the goats were kept and watched.

Holmes had really only just arrived, but already he was quite sure he was staring into the wrong place. The pens of various coloured goats seethed and spread over most of the far corner of the port, but offered no secret hiding place in which to stow a human being. He glanced downwards, toeing the thick mud consisting mostly of waste, sea water, rain water and sand which clung to the stone of the port. He had been right about this. His targets had definately come through here, but the question was where they had gone next. And, after watching people walk to and fro before him, he was still at a loss.

Sighing heavily, he pushed off from the wall and landed with a soft squelch in the mud. Mrs. Hudson would not be impressed when he returned. He began to walk slowly towards the other side of the port, taking his time, casting his gaze over the crowds. All he wanted was one little thing to give him hope, just a tiny offer of where Watson would be. It was beginning to look more and more as if he had run into a dead end, and he didn't like that because he knew he hadn't. His interpretation of the room had been correct. Unless someone had left a false trail in order to deter him even more. But he would have known...

"For god's sake, Holmes!" He muttered furiously to himself. "Pay attention!"

He stopped in the centre of the throng of people, pushing his hands into his pockets and glaring around himself. He could see nothing, nothing that would-

His thoughts broke off as his eyes caught sight of two people emerging from between the goat pens and moving towards the crowd. A man and a woman. Most importantly, a woman who he recognized. Mary Morstan smiled at the thin, pale man who had accompanied her. This was someone Holmes did not know. His hair was short and a dark, messy blond, sticking up from his head and giving him the appearence of a half-shaved laborador. He smiled a smile which looked several times too wide for his face. He offered a small bow to Mary, who batted her eyes a little before turning away and walking through the crowd towards the road. Holmes followed her with his eyes for a few moments, and then when he had decided where she was going, glanced back to the man.

Who was staring back at him.

The man's face paled rapidly, and without a moments hesitation he turned and sprinted into the groups of goats. Holmes leapt forwards to follow, but there were too many people. He couldn't get through... by the time he cleared the mass of people, the man was gone. He cursed under his breath, and then turned to look for Mary who was just vanishing around the corner into town. He began to move slowly after her, his brow creasing in a frown.

"Solve this case."

"Just which case did you mean, Mary?" he murmured. "Why do you know something I do not?"

And, a deadly, cold anger rising in his gut, he quickened his pace and gave chase.

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