On the Streets of Paris

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter twenty-one of On the Streets of Paris, the sequel to Brother. I recently thought of a way I could have done Paris differently, and I think it really could have made it so much better, but I'm this far into it, so... This is how the story's going for now. XD

This chapter starts in Holmes's POV.

Enjoy!

It had been nearly two hours since Hughes had left, and it was true that I was starting to feel the damp chill. I pulled my legs up closer to my chest. Watson had been fairly silent, and was now lightly dozing, having wrapt himself in the threadbare blankets. My mind was still on the seemingly hopeless problem of our escape when again I heard voices from the other side of the door.

There was a noise of a key being inserted and turned in the lock, and it quickly opened to admit two solid men, and following them was Hughes himself. Apparently the affair that had taken him away had angered him greatly, for despite his obvious attempts at a calm composure his fair features were somewhat flushed, and his chest rose and fell quickly with each breath.

As he calmed himself his breathing evened out, and his fiery green eyes scanned slowly over us. They at last fell upon Watson's ankle—the injured one—and narrowed deviously.

Before I could shout a warning, Hughes drew back his leg and kicked my friend's foot sharply, eliciting a gasp of pain from Watson as he started awake violently. I clenched my teeth and repressed the intense anger I was feeling. If Hughes thought his torture of Watson didn't affect me, he may not continue. Though I doubted the likeliness of that.

Hughes then turned around to face me, his eyes flashing. Without hesitation he boldly stepped over and punched me furiously in the jaw, my head snapping back dangerously with the force. He wasted no time before dealing another harsh blow. With my hands cuffed firmly behind my back, I could do very little to resist. I struggled and succeeded in softening some of the blows, but the man's anger was apparent.

Even though he had just begun, I knew that if he continued striking me this way I was very likely to be seriously injured, or even killed. I curled into a ball, trying to protect my abdomen and face.

Just then, the door to the room opened, and a man peered inside.

"Mr…um, Boss, sir…" he muttered, his voice timid but loud enough to be heard over the din of Hughes's rage.

Hughes stopped, turning to face the newcomer.

"What is it, Smith?" he asked.

"Mr. Rochester is in the parlour for you."

Hughes's eyes widened a bit in surprise.

"Rochester? What the deuce is he doing here?!"

He then turned back to me, scowled, and grasped me by the throat.

I was sure then that he had finally decided to kill me. He pulled me up and pushed me against the wall; his strong fingers tightened on my throat menacingly as he fixed me with an icy glare.

"I'll finish this later," he said, putting his face as close to mine as he dared. "You will regret sticking that long nose of yours into my affairs."

I gave no response. I met his gaze with a frigid look of my own, devoid of any emotion. He released me and gave one last glare before turning on his heel to leave the room.

"MacDonald, stay and keep your eyes on them." he said to one of the men with him as he left.

The other two followed him, and when the door closed behind them I sighed and straightened myself carefully, biting back what pain arose. I seemed to be all right, despite my mistreatment. I was very fortunate that yet another piece of business arose for Hughes, and that what abuse he did manage to inflict wasn't more damaging.

As I thought, I suddenly remembered Watson. He had witnessed that entire ordeal. I turned my head quickly to see how my Boswell was faring.

He was staring at me, and his face—now fully alert—was full of absolute horror at what he had just seen. I felt a distinct tightening in my chest...What had just occurred must have been completely terrifying for him to see.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" he breathed after a moment.

I nodded, and tried my best to put on a reassuring smile.

"Yes, Watson, I'm fine." I replied.

Hopefully, his medical instincts wouldn't tell him otherwise.

WATSON:

I didn't believe Holmes entirely, but I could see that I was going to get no more from him on the subject. With his pride, he hated anyone worrying over him, especially when it came to emotions. His keen eyes were now focused on my ankle.

"How is it?" he asked.

"It hurts again." I said, gingerly checking it as much as I could with my manacled hands. "He may have reversed what healing had occurred."

"How badly?"

"It's difficult to say."

Holmes sighed softly, casting a sidelong glance to the guard. I could tell that he wanted to talk to me more, but he would want to use discretion with that guard here. We were nowhere near each other, so we could not whisper, and unlike Holmes I could not read lips very well.

Holmes shifted—he was worried, yes, but I could see that he was also getting very bored, and his spirit was despising this inaction. We would have to converse…there was nothing else to do. But before I could think of a subject, the guard initiated the conversation for us.

"You're bloody lucky the boss had a visitor," he said with a half-grin. "That first bit o' business had him angry—I reckon he was nearly ready to kill you just now. He blames this whole mess on you…Every time something new comes up he's been 'bout wantin' to cut off yer head. I'd say he was lettin' off some steam."

"He certainly has a temper." said Holmes dryly.

The man laughed, repositioning his muscular bulk on the small seat more comfortably.

"I'm not going to deny that, sir. I'll tell you well enough, it doesn't pay to make Mr. Hughes angry."

"Why did you come to France along with him, if he's so harsh?" Holmes asked.

"The boss' persuasions are very good." The guard replied, his tone a bit less good-humoured than before.

The man stretched a bit, yawning slightly.

"Besides, it's 'cause of you my brother got the rope, so I got something against you, too. I don't know when the boss is gonna kill you, or how he's gonna do it, but I wish he'd get it over with. I want to go further onto the continent. 'S supposed to be pretty this time o' year." He looked over at us with a smirk in his brown eyes. "The boss would've killed you already if it wasn't for all these people showing up. Yer a bit lucky, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I'd enjoy what little bit of life you've got left."

This morbid conversation ceased, and I was left with a very ill feeling in the pit of my stomach. Our time grew ever shorter, and we were excrutiatingly low on options.

I prayed that this would not end as I feared it would.

KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!

Sorry for the short chapter. I have a new SH pic on dA to make up for it, perhaps. xD