Marill: A very short entry today, my loves! Just something to hold you over while I work on the last two chapters. ^_^
--
I received such a fright when I saw Holmes' bruised, marred face colored a sickly grey. Of its own accord my hand went to his throat, his stunningly cold throat, feeling for a pulse. I scarcely cared that my friend's heartbeat was thready and somewhat irregular. I cared that he was alive.
"Not a corpse, not a corpse," I repeated to myself, tears of relief running down my face. So long as my friend's heart was beating, I would do all that was in my range of abilities to save him. I told myself that the grey coloring of his skin was due to the dirt which had seeped in through the broken coffin.
My reprieve was short-lived as I realized that Holmes was in a very poor state. I prayed that Lestrade would arrive shortly to help me transport him to a more sterile and comfortable environment. Holmes was bare-chested, revealing his chest and stomach covered in lash marks, dirt mixing in with the open wounds. His arms were pulled tightly behind his back and I realized with a grimace that they were bound.
Gingerly, nearly sitting in the coffin with him, I lifted him up by his shoulders to untie him. I saw that his back was just as battered as his chest. His right wrist was swollen and hung awkwardly in the bonds. I delicately checked and confirmed that it was broken. It was a bittersweet moment when I saw that he thankfully still had all of his fingers.
I took my knife and cut away the ropes that held my injured friend defenseless. When I lowered him back to a prone position and gently pulled his arms to the front of him, he groaned and shivered.
"Holmes?" I said, searching for signs of wakefulness.
His eyes opened slowly, squinting in the brightness of the morning. His pained expression met mine. "Watson…" he croaked. "M-my leg…" He groped helplessly toward his left leg with his uninjured wrist.
"Take it easy, old boy." I tried to calm him. "Just lie still, everything will be okay." He seemed to settle down and I moved to inspect the leg he had been gesturing toward. I raked away some of the dirt that had fallen there, causing Holmes to cry out in agony before he grew still, having fainted. His reaction, however, was not what startled me so terribly that I lost my grip on the coffin and nearly fell on top of him. There was a long, very deep gash all the way down his thigh, angry red streaks and yellowish fluid mingling with the dirt around it. My mind went back to my days in the service where I had been witness to many such vile wounds, nearly glowing with contamination. It was a knife which had done this harrowing job on him and it was mortally infected.
Holmes shivered and sweated in his damp grave as I finally joined him in his coffin. I did not have any medical supplies with me, but I dared not leave him in this position, vulnerable and fading. I took his hand in mine and began to wipe dirt from his face with my handkerchief, beseeching Lestrade to arrive swiftly.
"It's all right Holmes," I crooned. "I'm here, I'll take care of you now."