I'm back again with another chapter! Thanks yet again for all the great reviews.
"Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade cried out as he took the stairs three at a time, nearly falling himself. He kept his revolver ready. If it was Wilson who rose, he would not remain standing for long. Lestrade was all too happy to save the state the trouble of hanging.
Just before he reached the bottom of the stairs he noticed movement. A few seconds later Mr. Holmes cautiously pulled himself up into a sitting position.
"Mr. Holmes, thank God!"
Holmes nodded in acknowledgement and immediately wished he had not. He had struck his head against a stair on the way down, and had aggravated the wound in his shoulder as well. His ribs ached and his legs were unsteady. Otherwise, though, he seemed to be all right.
"Here, let me help you," said Lestrade, offering his arm. Holmes took it, too tired to care about his pride. They both looked down at Wilson. The front of his shirt was drenched with blood, and his neck was bent at a sharp angle.
The sheer relief was almost as overwhelming as the tension had been earlier. It is over, Holmes thought. At long last it is truly over.
Then his thoughts snapped back to Watson.
"Watson! Where is he? Did Gregson-?"
"Yes, I'm sure he did," Lestrade said reassuringly. "Come on, now. We'll go to Charning Cross and meet up with them there."
The entire ride there Holmes prayed that Watson would be all right. His injuries were so severe, and his eyesight- Holmes remembered what he had learned once in the mines. If a person was deprived of any sort of light for more than two days, it could lead to long term loss of vision.
Bile rose in the back of Holmes' throat. If Watson died or was left permanently crippled from his experience, then Wilson would have claimed victory from beyond the grave.
Don't think that way! Watson will be all right. But Holmes could not stop the ugly thoughts from invading his mind. Wilson was gone, but Holmes was still in the dark about Watson's survival. He wanted to take Watson home to Baker Street, but common sense told him that Watson needed to be in the hospital. his injuries were far too severe.
"When we get to the hospital, you should let the doctors have a look at you," said Lestrade, interrupting Holmes' thoughts."A change of clothes wouldn't hurt either. Now, don't look at me that way," he added when Holmes glared at him. "I am only saying that seeing you injured and covered with blood would not help Dr. Watson's state of mind."
Holmes glanced down at himself and saw what Lestrade was talking about. His clothes were drenched with both his and Wilson's blood. No, it would not be good for Watson at all. Holmes nodded in agreement.
"Good," said Lestrade. "After I get you into the hospital, I'll stop by Baker Street and bring you a change of clothes. What do you want me to tell Mrs. Hudson?"
"The truth," Holmes whispered. She had turned out to be an enormous help, and more importantly, she had been just as worried about Watson as Holmes was. It would be cruel to keep her in the dark now.
They arrived at the hospital to find Gregson waiting outside. "The doctors just took him back," the inspector explained, visibly relived to see Holmes and Lestrade alive. "They know I was waiting out here for you."
Lestrade remained in the cab while Holmes jumped out. "Now remember what I said," Lestrade told him. "Let the doctors treat you. I will return shortly."
Who gave him the right to give me orders? Holmes wondered indignantly. Wilson had been controlling everything from the beginning, and now Lestrade had taken over. Watson's fate, of course, was up to God. When do I regain control?
Holmes wearily shook his head as the cab left. Gregson grabbed him by his good arm.
"Come along, then. Let's go inside."
"When you brought Watson here, did he-" Holmes caught himself before he could ask, did he ask for me? "Wake up?" he asked instead.
"Not entirely," answered Gregson. "He did ask for you a couple of times though. Oh!" Gregson added, as if suddenly remembering. "He also asked for Thurston as well. That was the same poor devil who had commited suicide a few days ago, wasn't it?"
Holmes nodded curtly. Thurston, of course, was completely undeserving of sympathy. It was he who had lured Watson into Wilson's trap. So weak that he had sold his own friend to the devil for some petty sum of money. At least he had had the decency to feel guilty.
Holmes thoughts suddenly came to a halt. "He asked for Thurston? In what way? As if he were worried or-?" Considering all that Watson had went through, it was possible he might not remember how he had been captured. If that was the case, then that meant that Holmes would have to explain to him what had happened.
"His tone was pleading, the same way it was when he had asked for you."
By this time they were inside the building and two nurses came over, bringing the conversation to a halt.
"If they have any news about Dr. Watson, I'll make sure you hear it," Gregson promised as Holmes was lead away.
The whole time Holmes was getting cleaned up, his thoughts remained on Watson. He was vaguely aware of the doctors telling him that the gunshot wound had been a through-and-through, and a rather nasty bump on his head from his tumble down the stairs that thankfully was not a concussion, but he should take it slowly all the same.
Holmes reluctantly had to admit that he did feel slightly better(if only physically) once his shoulder had been patched up and he was able to change into the clean clothes that Lestrade brought back.
"Don't you have to return to the house with your superiors?" Holmes asked the inspectors, as he suddenly remembered that they had just left Wilson's corpse behind, without even putting a bobby on guard.
"I sent a telegram to the Yard before I came back here," Lestrade told him. Holmes did not fail to miss the look Gregson sent the other inspector.
"We're going to need more than a telegram to explain our actions, Lestrade," Gregson said softly.
Lestrade gave him a look that clearly said, not now.
"What do you mean?" Holmes was only half interested, and mostly asked to keep his mind occupied.
"We-we did not exactly have a warrant when we broke into Wilson's home," Gregson said, rubbing the back of his neck. Lestrade glared at him again.
"If we hadn't, the good doctor and Mr. Holmes here would have died. We made the only decision we could."
"I'm not disputing that. I am only saying it might be hard to prove it."
"Their injuries are not proof enough?" Lestrade asked indignantly.
"It might give them a reprieve for the death of Wilson, but it might not help our cause. We may just find ourselves out of work." Gregson's tone was one of defeat. Lestrade apparently could not think of a decent reply to this and instead turned to Holmes.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I suppose we're not really being much help here, are we?" Neither inspector made any move to leave, however.
"You can stay," Holmes said softly, realising that they both were worried about Watson as well. Perhaps it was not entirely fair to blame them for Watson's kidnapping. After all, the evidence against Wilson that had been available at that time might not have been enough to hold up in a court of law. Then there was the fact that both men had just jeopardised their careers, and lives, to make things right.
Holmes cleared his throat, then added, "If you are looking for a story to tell your superiors, you can always claim you were passing by the residence when you heard a cry for help, followed by gunshots, coming from inside the residence. Naturally you had to break in and intervene. I'll testify before any court of law that I cried out in a final desperate attempt to survive."
Gregson nodded. "That could work."
"We still have Mr. Holmes' note as well, Gregson, don't forget that. Lying may not be necessary," Lestrade pointed out. "And with Wilson dead, this case might not get much beyond the paperwork stage. Mr. Holmes may not even have to go to court."
Before Gregson could reply, a doctor walked over to where the three men were sitting.
"Were you the ones who brought Doctor Watson in?"
Holmes wanted to leap to his feet, but his legs had started trembling and he doubted they would hold him up.
"Yes," Gregson answered for him. "Will he be all right?"
Holmes held his breath, anticipating the worst.
"He was dehydrated and malnourished," the doctor answered, "the most severe wound, the one on his shoulder is slightly infected. But it seems though that that wound and the others had since been cleaned and treated. "
That piece of news made Holmes shudder. Wilson had really wanted to prolong Watson's suffering as long as possible.
"He also seemed to be exhibiting side affects from some sort of drugs, perhaps opium or morphine. "
To keep Watson under control, Holmes guessed, wishing the doctor would just get to the point. Was Watson going to live or not?
"His eyes have become extremely sensitive to bright light..."
Holmes had stopped hearing the doctor's words. His heart was pounding so loudly it was drowning out all other sound. He focused on the doctor's face, trying to read his expression.
Finally, he was rewarded with a small smile. His heart rate slowly returned to normal and sound filtered through once more.
"He is going to need plenty of rest and lots of peace and quiet if he is to recover. No strenuous activities of any kind."
"May I see him?" Holmes asked, his voice hoarse. The doctor nodded.
"Keep it brief, though. He does need his rest."
"Of course." Holmes followed the doctor to Watson's room.
To be continued...