Chapter Nine

Watson

"Would you mind removing this blindfold?" I asked neither one in particular.

There was silence for a moment, then Jefferson, who was seated across from me again, said, "'E isn't goin' anywhere."

Williams considered for a moment. "Long as you don't try anything clever, Doctor, I think we could allow it. Jeff, take off his blindfold."

"Oi would rather not, if it's all the same to you," came Jefferson's indignant reply.

"It is not all the same to me. Just take it off him."

There was silence as the battle of wills continued.

Finally, a resigned sigh came from the other seat. "Fine, fine, Oi'll do it," said the Irishman angrily, and I felt him remove the blindfold. Thankfully, the man didn't touch the sore spot on the back of my head as he did so.

At first, I was aware of both men's eyes upon me, and didn't dare allow my gaze to fall anywhere near my coat pocket, but soon they returned to their staring out of the cab windows.

I thanked heaven that my coat was unbuttoned, thus placing my right pocket almost within reach of my hands, even though they were bound behind my back. I stretched my arms toward my goal, and bit back a gasp, as my left arm protested.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

Swallowing hard, I stretched again, this time getting a little farther before the pain filled my eyes with tears and caused me to inhale sharply through my teeth, causing a sharp hissing sound.

Williams glanced in my direction, but soon returned his gaze to the window.

Gritting my teeth, I stretched over one more time, and managed to brush my fingertips against the cold metal of what I assumed was the pocket knife, sliding it a couple of inches toward the opening, and let out a loud gasp.

Williams watched me suspiciously for a minute, but I drew attention away from my pocket by doubling over and coughing loudly.

I stared into my lap for what felt like an eternity, infinitely grateful that the object in my pocket wasn't visible. Finally, Williams returned to staring out of the window, and I felt safe enough to carefully reach for my pocket once again. I stretched out my fingers for the knife, my battered left arm screaming its protests…and yes!

I had it!

I carefully wrapped my hand around the small pocket knife—for now I knew for certain that it was a knife—and brought it behind my back. I attempted to pry out the blade, while trying not to draw attention to it as I did so.

So far, neither of the two men had noticed anything suspicious, but I couldn't count on this for long. I would need a distraction.

"Where are we going?" I asked as I finally got a firm grip on the blade and pulled it back.

Both men started and turned to face me. "You're not stupid, Doctor," said Williams, eyeing me strangely. "You know as well as I do that we can't tell you that."

All right then, maybe a slightly different approach, I thought as I adjusted my hold on the knife's handle, bringing the blade up toward the rope still binding my wrists together.

"How long will it take us to get there?" I asked.

"I don't know," Williams replied, obviously becoming irritated. "Jeff?"

As I began to quietly saw at the rope, the red-headed man opened his mouth to speak, but Williams held up his hand and cut him off. "Right, pawned the watch last week. Sorry, I'd forgotten." Then he added with a mocking sneer, "My deepest condolences regarding the loss of your wife, my dear sir."

Jefferson flushed to the tips of his fiery hair and glared at Williams with such a glare of fury and hatred as I have rarely seen in a man as I worked feverishly at the rope on my wrists.

"One more comment about my wife and Oi will strike smug face with of yours 'ard enough that your great-grandfather will feel it!"

The blond man gave a short barking laugh. "Do you really think that I am intimidated by—"

He stopped as Jefferson lunged over top of me and at the man's throat, landing partially on my legs and causing me to slice my wrist on the small blade.

I swore loudly, but I doubt either of the two men noticed, and returned to my sawing of the rope as Williams attempted to pry the enraged Irishman's hands off his throat.

"Don't think I don't know who killed her," Jefferson snarled in a voice filled with loathing. "I know it was you, you monster! Don't think you'll get away with this. British law or no British law, you will die by my hand, Jacob Williams!"

I was shocked and horrified by what I heard but spent no time attempting to process it. All of my energy was focused on the simple task of freeing my hands, and I had gotten over halfway through the rope.

I heard a loud gasp and thud as Williams managed to get Jefferson's hands off his throat and pin him against the window, thereby removing the rest of Jefferson's weight from me.

"You can't prove it was me who killed her," Williams spat, "and if you kill me, you'll hang and leave your poor boy an orphan. Not that he would miss you as a father, I'm sure."

Apparently, Williams was even less sagacious than he looked, for even the most amateur student of psychology or the most inexperienced fighter would know that making your opponent angry is not likely to work to your advantage in hand-to-hand combat. In a moment, Jefferson's hands were back around Williams's throat, and another moment, my hands were free!

I lunged for the door, yanked it open, jumped into the street, and as soon as I regained my balance, took off running as fast as my legs would carry me.

Holmes

"He what?" roared Cauldwell, springing to his feet and turning on the red-haired man who had entered. "Jefferson, this was not a difficult assignment! Two of you were to bring the Doctor here! Two! For one injured man!"

I leapt to my feet as well, torn between shock at Cauldwell's sudden outburst—never before had I seen him show so much emotion—relief that my Boswell had escaped, and fear and anger at the word "injured". Just how badly was he hurt? Would he be able get himself to safety?

"Who was with you?" Cauldwell demanded.

"Williams," the red-headed man gasped, still trying to regain his breath. "Brown walked 'im out, and Will and Oi were with 'im in the brougham." I noticed that he had a pronounced Irish lilt.

"Where are they now?" Cauldwell now seemed to be in control of his emotions, though I certainly was not. Said emotions—which had been plaguing me throughout the course of the day—now leant me the strength I needed for what I would have to do in the next few minutes. Without Watson, Cauldwell would have nothing to use against me in getting the information he wanted of me.

"Williams went after the Doctor, and I don't know where Brown is."

Cauldwell nodded, his usual insouciant manner now completely returned. "Report back to Rogers or directly to me when you have more information."

"Yessir," the man replied, and hurried from the room.

"Well," said Cauldwell, turning to me, "it seems that our little chat will have to be postponed, Mr. Holmes. However, we can't allow you to simply leave, or we'll have the police on our trail in a matter of minutes." Cauldwell's mouth twitched into something like a smile as he glanced at something over my shoulder. I heard the click of a gun cocking and felt the cold metal barrel against the back of my neck.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," came Crawford's voice from behind me.

I cursed inwardly but remained still. How had I allowed Crawford to sneak up on me in this fashion? He was far quieter than I had given him credit for being.

"Well done, Crawford. All of that hunting back in America seems to have paid off." He returned his gaze to me. "As I was saying, we cannot allow you to go after the police, but as I still require information of you, I can't kill you either. I am in a rather curious predicament, Mr. Holmes."

Cauldwell regarded me coolly, and I knew exactly what thoughts were running through his mind. He and Crawford could both leave, and risk being caught, but if he ran for it and left Crawford here with a gun on me, he could get away clean, even if his accomplice was caught. He valued his life more than Crawford's, or the information he was seeking.

Cauldwell glanced back at Crawford. "Come here."

Crawford stepped around me, and strode toward Cauldwell, his eyes and his weapon never leaving me for an instant.

"I'm going to see what I can do about recapturing Dr. Watson. Stay here with Mr. Holmes. Do not allow him to escape. You may wound him if you must, but not fatally. He must be kept alive, understood?"

"I've got it," he replied in his nonchalant American fashion, for a moment taking his eyes off me.

I took advantage of his momentary distraction to throw myself to the floor, dive behind the chair, and snatch up my pistol from beneath it. As I did so, a bullet whizzed past me and lodged itself in the wall where my leg had been a fraction of a second earlier. I swallowed hard, glad they could not see how unnerved I was.

"Mr. Holmes, I am not a child interested in playing hide-and-go-seek with you," came Cauldwell's annoyed voice. "Crawford is armed, and you are not. Come out before we are forced to harm you."

"I am afraid you are wrong on one point in that statement, Mr. Cauldwell," I replied coolly. "I am indeed armed." I shifted into a kneeling position and rested my wrist on the back of the chair, pistol aimed toward them.

"Crawford! How could you have possibly missed that?" Cauldwell demanded as I stood up and trained the gun on Cauldwell's head.

"I swear he did not have that on him when I searched him," Crawford replied indignantly, glancing uncertainly between Cauldwell and myself, apparently unsure whether to continue aiming at me or not.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I am afraid that I have unfinished business elsewhere that needs my attention at present. If you allow me to leave unharmed, I will not harm you either. But if Crawford fires, I shoot Mr. Cauldwell here in the head."

Both men knew that even if I was a bad aim I could hardly miss by much from this distance. And I knew that Cauldwell wasn't willing to put his life on the line. We were at a stalemate.

"You may go, Mr. Holmes," Cauldwell said in a disturbingly calm voice. "But mark my words, we shall meet again soon enough, and next time neither you nor your precious biographer shall be so lucky."

I crossed the sitting room carefully, never allowing my eyes nor my weapon to leave Cauldwell's face, and decided against a scathing retort to his chilling statement—tempting though it was.

Upon exiting the building, I was immediately set upon by two of my Irregulars. The elder one I recognised as Ed, and I was reasonably certain the younger one—who had latched on to my legs—was called Henry.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the younger one cried, and Ed pulled him back.

"Easy, 'Enry! Give the poor gen'leman a bit o' space!" He turned to me. "Are you all right, Mr. 'Olmes?" he asked in a tone of concern.

I nodded, and hastened to reassure them that I was indeed unhurt, and they informed me in their Cockney babble that there were boys going after the nearest constable, and that one of the boys who were better at "riding the cabs" (grabbing on to back of a hansom, and holding on until it stopped or the driver noticed) had gone after Lestrade.

I made a split second decision. Finding Watson was more important than speaking with Lestrade, for the time being.

"Ed, I need one of you to get as many boys as you can together and search for Watson. I don't know how injured he is—he might be all right or he might be unconscious. Whatever the case, I need him found and brought somewhere safe. Baker Street, the Yard, my brother's rooms, wherever's closest. When you find him, send someone to inform me immediately. I'll need someone else to stay here and inform Inspector Lestrade that Watson has escaped, but Cauldwell and his accomplices have gotten away as well, and that I am on my way back to Baker Street, but intend to walk so I can look for Watson on the way. Tell him that if he needs me, a telegram should reach me when I arrive which shan't be too long. And I need a few of you to continue to watch this building in shifts until I personally inform you otherwise. Understood?"

Both boys nodded, and Ed turned to the younger lad. "Oi'll talk to the Inspector and tell John and Al to stay here for a bit. You get the rest of the boys an' look for the Doctor." Henry nodded vigorously, and scampered off.

"Thank you Ed," I said, surprised to hear my voice sound so sincere. I set off for Baker Street, trying not to worry about Watson.

Watson

I ran through a maze of buildings and shops and people, having absolutely no idea where in London I was, only trying to put as much distance between myself and the brougham as I could. My body was extremely sore from both my injuries and being tied to a chair for the better part of the afternoon.

Only after my lungs began to burn and my breath came in dangerously short wheezing gasps did I slow down and duck into the shadow of an awning that appeared to be outside a public house. I doubled over, attempting to catch my breath. I looked about me for a street sign, but couldn't see one, and didn't recognise the area where I was.

After my breathing was under control enough to string a coherent sentence together, I approached a man who appeared to be the soberest in a group of loafers, and asked him where I was and for directions to Baker Street. As he looked me up and down with a slightly curious air, I realised that I was probably rather a sight. He made no comment on my appearance, however, and informed me in slurred Cockney that I was on Warwick Crescent, and pointed me in the general direction of Baker Street, adding a few particulars that I only half understood. After thanking the man, I set off again.

I passed an empty hansom as I headed toward home, and my muscles and lungs (and now my leg injured back in Afghanistan as well) begged me to give them rest, but I had no money with me. Absolutely none now: I had had a few odd coins on me before, but Cauldwell's men had confiscated everything that had been in my pockets. I noted curiously, however, that they had missed the handkerchief I kept in my sleeve. Hmm. Perhaps I should start keeping something useful in it.

I also noted that my pocket watch had been taken, so I do not know for certain how much time had passed, but perhaps half an hour or so later, I saw a ragged street urchin rushing toward me, and another following behind him.

"Doctor!" cried the first boy—whom I recognised as a lad called Jacob—as he rushed toward me. "Mr. 'Olmes had us lookin' for you!"

As Jacob finished speaking, the second boy skidded to a halt next to us, panting loudly. I recognised him as Jacob's younger brother, Tom.

"Oi saw 'em take you!" Tom said in a frightened but awed voice. "But then Jacob told me Mr. 'Olmes said yew'd got clean away, but 'e didn't know if you was hurt or not."

"You saw what happened when I was attacked in that alley earlier?" I asked. Poor lad!

He nodded vigorously. "You sure fought them good, before the man with the beard 'it you in the head with 'is stick. I went right to Mr. 'Olmes after Oi saw it, and 'e said Oi was brave." The boy glowed with pride.

The older lad punched his brother playfully on the arm. "You didn't need him to tell you that, Tom! We all know you're brave, don't we Doctor?"

I smiled down at the boy, who had indeed been quite brave on more than one occasion in Holmes's employment. "Yes, Tom, you are quite a brave lad."

The boy stared down at his feet. "Cor, thanks you two," he said bashfully. Then he looked up at his brother. "Are you gonna go tell Mr. 'Olmes, or am Oi?"

"Oi will," replied Jacob. "Oi run faster 'n you, so Oi'll find him faster."

Tom nodded seriously. "Oi'll stay with the Doctor till 'e gets back to Baker Street, then Oi'd better get back home."

"All right," replied Jacob, and he dashed back into the hustle and bustle of the street.

"Tell Holmes what?" I asked Tom as we set off again toward Baker Street.

"That we found you," Tom replied matter-of-factly. "'E's been lookin' for you, and 'e 'ad us lookin' for you too."

I nodded, unsure how to respond. I only hoped Holmes wasn't too worried about me.

We were relatively silent for the rest of the walk; save a few brief exchanges, we didn't speak at all. I suspected Tom had noticed my shortness of breath, as he tended to be rather talkative.

When we reached the front door of the flat, I thanked Tom for escorting me, and he hastened away toward his home.

After staring up at the familiar facade with a deep sense of relief at being back home, I stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind me, so as Mrs. Hudson would not hear it. I didn't want her to come down and see me in the state I was sure I was in; the poor woman had suffered through far too much of that sort of thing in the past, and I had no intention of putting any more of a strain upon her.

I leaned against the door for a minute, feeling safe within the walls of the flat, and possessing little motivation to brave the seventeen stairs to the sitting room, let alone the subsequent fifteen to my bedroom.

Just as I was taking a deep breath and preparing to make my way up the stairs, the door swung open behind me, sending me sprawling on to the hall mat. My first thought was that Mrs. Hudson was not going to be pleased about the carpet.

Then I heard the familiar voice of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"What in blazes—Watson?"

As I groaned and attempted to drag myself to my feet, I felt Holmes's sinewy arms around me helping me upward.

"Afternoon, Holmes," I said, staggering backward as my head swam.