The Vengeful Jewel
Tuesday, January 19, 1891
10:02 a.m.
Neither man moved; barely breathing. Both were waiting for the other to strike first.
Watson was helped to his feet by Mrs. Katherine Jones and leaned on his cane for the extra support. The doctor made sure to keep Mrs. Jones safely behind him just in case. The back of his partner and friend was still facing him, and beyond that was the darkened expression of Mr. Robert Jones.
Time seemed to stand still and the silence became deafening as the two men faced off. Watson could practically see the sparks of tensions flaring between the two.
Mr. Jones blinked.
In the next second, Sherlock Holmes was standing before him. Startled, Jones stepped back but recovered quickly enough to throw the first punch. Holmes knocked the blow away and delivered a firm punch to the man's diaphragm. Jones gasped and staggered back. Holmes moved forward to strike again but Jones ducked and performed a swift uppercut to Holmes' jaw. The detective leaned back to avoid the hit but Jones' knuckles managed to scrape his chin. Jones aimed for Holmes' exposed neck and Holmes reacted by jabbing his fingers into the soft inside of Jones' elbow. Jones cried out in pain and his arm fell limply to his side. Another punch to the gut from Holmes forced Jones to step out of the building and onto the front steps.
Watson edged closer, his wide eyes recording each attack and calculating the consequential damage done. Mrs. Jones shuffled behind him, her shaking hands gripping the sleeve of his arm. Never before had she seen such brutal actions performed in such a skilled and precise manner.
Jones retreated down a step as Holmes charged at him with a right hook. Jones ducked and the punch abruptly changed into a backhanded push that sent Jones stumbling down the last steps to stop on the sidewalk. Holmes followed him down, his punches fending off any counter from Jones.
Within seconds, both men were standing face-to-face on the sidewalk. Holmes was tense in an experienced fighting stance, his hands up; ready to attack or block. Jones stood just as prepared: one hand close to his face in defense and the other facing out toward Holmes. Despite their seemingly offensive positions, Watson's trained eye could clearly see that both men were edging closer to exhaustion; Jones more than Holmes. Sweat beaded their brows but did nothing to extinguish the burning fire that blazed brightly in their eyes.
A few spectators noted the confrontation in front of 221B of Baker Street but decided it was best to hurry on and disregard such an occurrence. Ignorance was, indeed, bliss, Watson concluded as he watched the dispersing pedestrians from his spot on the top step. Mrs. Jones peeked out from behind his arm, fascination glimmering in her eyes. It was all so excitedly frightening.
Slowly, Holmes eased out of his fighting stance and straightened. "You are outside now, Mr. Jones," he said coldly with a threatening edge to the words. "I suggest you return home with your wife at this time."
"Coward," Jones spat. "Can't even finish a fight."
"My fight with you established within my quarters and so was destined to continue as long as you dwelt within those walls. But it now ends here for we are no longer in my quarters," Holmes explained with a cold calm. "It is not cowardice to end a fight at the disliking of the opponent. We are out of the ring, and thus, out of the fight."
Jones bristled at Holmes' collected composure. His body shook with the contained rage. Holmes eyed him coolly like a parent silently berating a stubborn child.
"Kindly take your leave," Holmes commanded, "and take note that I don't like to repeat myself."
Holmes stepped forward calmly and Jones tensed. But Holmes had already disregarded Jones' existence. Instead, he stopped at the steps and looked up at Watson and Mrs. Jones.
"I'm sorry your visit was displeasing," Holmes said to Mrs. Jones. "And I'm sorry that your visit must end before getting better, but I think it is time for you to leave with your husband."
Mrs. Jones pushed past Watson to fully face Holmes. "I'm sorry for my husband's behavior," she said sincerely. "Perhaps my next visit will be of better temperament."
"Nothing would please me more, my lady."
And Mrs. Jones smiled. A smile of such lovely disposition and pure, exceeding warmth. But this smile was aimed solely at Holmes. Not once did her gaze flicker to her husband standing like a fool with his hands still raised in preparation to fight.
And he knew it.
An angry cry tore Holmes' attention away from Mrs. Jones as he turned in time to see Jones lunge at him. The man collided into Holmes, sending the detective falling backwards. A dull crack sounded as Holmes's head crashed against the concrete sidewalk. A searing white flared across his vision as his body screamed with pain.
He opened his mouth to release a cry but his voice was abruptly cut short as strong fingers laced around his throat.
Holmes instinctively gripped the wrists at his chest and tried to unfasten the tightening fingers around his neck but his strength and coordination deteriorated with his concussion. His eyes fluttered open momentarily to see the enraged expression of Mr. Jones glaring down at him with a look in his eyes that wasn't there before.
He meant to kill.
Holmes choked and his eyes reflexively closed.
Suddenly, the grip around his throat loosened and Holmes felt fresh air trickle back into his lungs. He inhaled deeply and pried his eyes open.
A figure was beside him where there had previously been none.
John Watson was standing over his fallen friend; his cane-knife at the throat of Mr. Jones. Jones stared back at him with surprised fear, his numb fingers loose around Holmes' throat.
"Let. Him. Go," Watson said lowly, the words coming out sharply from between his clenched teeth; the cold metal flush against Jones' sudden pale skin.
Jones slowly released Holmes and lifted his hands submissively into the air. Watson's icy blue eyes searched Jones. Satisfied that the man would not strike again, he withdrew the blade. Jones fell back, pushing himself away from the doctor that glared at him with such piercing daggers. Mrs. Jones hurried to his side.
"Mrs. Jones," Watson said in a hard tone. "Kindly take your leave now. I don't want another fight to break out."
Mrs. Jones looked at Watson and saw that if another fight were to instigate it would be between Watson and Jones. And Watson would win.
She nodded obediently and helped her husband to his feet. Jones stayed silent, his eyes downcast and focused on his feet. He had lost and the shame was heavy on his shoulders.
"I do apologize," Mrs. Jones said with a bow to Watson and Holmes. "Thank you for finding my necklace. Good day."
Without another word, she turned and led her husband down the street to hail a carriage.
Watson watched them go silently. When the two had entered a carriage and rattled out of sight, Watson finally sheathed his blade back into his cane and turned to face Holmes. He knelt down beside his friend and touched his hand to Holmes' rising and falling chest
The detective was laying flat on his back, breathing evenly with his eyes closed. It looked as if he had simply fallen asleep. Watson cringed at the sight of the black, blue, and purple that started creeping up around Holmes' face and neck. There would be plenty more all over the dark-haired man's body and the probability that Holmes' would be sore the next day was high.
"Holmes," Watson called gently.
"I thought you said it was my fight," Holmes replied casually with his eyes still closed.
Watson sighed. Not even a beating could diminish Holmes' stubborn pride.
"I recall you saying that the fight was justified while residing in the rooms," Watson countered in the same tone. "That was your fight. Outside, it was fair game."
"Right so," Holmes congratulated. "I cannot argue with that logic."
"Give it time," Watson smiled, "I'm sure you'll find a loophole."
Holmes slowly opened his eyes and his dark irises stared up languorously at the sky brightening with the promise of the approaching afternoon.
"Thanks for that," he said finally in a quiet voice.
Watson chuckled. "Consider us even."
Holmes grunted in reply.
"Come on, then," Watson urged. "Let's get you inside before our neighbors call for the police."
Watson carefully maneuvered Holmes into a sitting position and pulled the detective's arm over his shoulder. As one, they stood and Watson placed his other hand around Holmes' waist while still gripping the neck of his cane. Together, they wobbled back up the steps and inside. It was painstakingly tedious to get up the stairs with Holmes' weakening movements and Watson was soon dragging his friend up the stairs rather than guiding.
At last they made it back into their rooms and Watson eased Holmes into the detective's favorite armchair. Before Watson could even start his diagnostic of Holmes' condition, Holmes had reached for his pipe and lit it. He inhaled deeply and blew out a ring of smoke with a tired sigh as he sank into the chair.
"I believe I've earned a decent rest," Holmes declared groggily.
"No, Holmes," Watson ordered firmly, slapping the detective's cheek to wake him. "You hit your head pretty hard. You probably have a concussion."
Holmes turned his head to face Watson "I believe I can safely access whether or not I have a concussion," he said nonchalantly with a snide sniff.
"I'm over here, Holmes."
Holmes turned away from the table he had been addressing to look at the real Watson. "Ah. Watson, I believe I have a concussion," Holmes admitted carelessly. "I think I'll just sleep it off. Like a hangover."
"Holmes. This is serious. Since you do have a concussion, you can't fall asleep."
"But I'm tired; exhausted even," Holmes whined.
Watson lightly slapped his face again. "No sleeping, Holmes. Not until I determine that it's safe."
Holmes waved away the doctor's hands but kept his eyes open. He took another long drag on his pipe and blew the smoke up into the air to watch it swirl and collect in a curling cloud at the ceiling.
"Why don't you tell me have you solved the case?" Watson offered, gathering his medical bag in preparation to treat Holmes.
"You haven't solved it for yourself yet?" Holmes asked incredulously. "My dear Watson, I'm disappointed."
Watson frowned as he shifted through his bag. Holmes glanced at the doctor's change in mood and then looked back to the ceiling ruefully.
"But I suppose I can release my findings to you."
"I would be grateful if you did. And I'll tend to your wounds while you explain."
"If it's the doctor's order," Holmes sighed.
"Please begin," Watson said as he carefully unbuttoned Holmes' shirt and peeled away the cloth to examine the bruising underneath.
"Where would you like me to start?" Holmes asked, allowing Watson to completely remove his shirt.
"The beginning would be best," Watson answered. "At Mrs. Jones' arrival."
"Very well," Holmes nodded and removed the pipe from his mouth to begin as Watson started his examination of the bruised and battered man before him.
_._._._._._._
Brought a little of the humor back with Holmes' concussion. Poor guy, talking to a table and all.
So, how did Holmes know it was the sister who had stolen the necklace when he hadn't even met her? What did he see in the sister's house? How did he know where the jewel was?
All questions will be answered in the next chapter so stay tuned,
Hobey-Ho
