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: Welcome to chapter twenty-six of On the Streets of Paris, the sequel to Brother.
Sorry for the dreadfully slow updates—in addition to the busy life I now lead, I have, unfortunately, doing some serious cleaning and re-arranging in preparation for my switching and painting bedrooms. xD
Many thanks to KCS, who beta-read the chapter for me, and thanks also to bcbdrums because she is the one that looked up the French for me that I used in this chapter. Of course, she said it might not be perfect. But I think it gets the point across. XD
This one starts off in Holmes's POV.
I would not admit it, but I was in absolute misery. My hand lay upon Watson's shoulder, but I refused to lean upon him for support. I could taste blood, and the pain in my body was enough to make any man want to double over, but I stood as erect as I possibly could. I did not want to dishearten Watson further; he was already rather shaken from seeing both Hughes's abuse of me and his death.
I was not so disturbed by witnessing the way Hughes had died, but I was rather surprised at the singular turn of events. Now I was quite uncertain of what course of action to take, a feeling that I most certainly did not relish. Pain was clouding my mind; I could not remember hurting this badly in a very long time. I bit back all groans and forced calm resolve into my face, however, and focused my brain on the problem of making a successful escape.
I could see across the roof well enough, and in the corner I could tell there was a drainpipe. That could possibly work; though, with the condition of the building I had seen so far, I highly doubted that it would hold one man's weight, let alone two. We could not jump, lest we meet the same gruesome fate as Hughes, and to go back down through the house would take an absolute miracle to survive. The situation seemed absolutely hopeless. We were backed into a corner, and any action could easily bring forth the wolves. Some of those wolves were none too bright, but that advantage helped us little in our condition. I was rather badly bruised and beaten, and Watson's ankle had been worsened by Hughes's careless treatment of it earlier. We were also completely unarmed, save the stick Watson was now using to walk with.
"You can lean upon me if you need to, Holmes." Watson whispered, turning his face to me.
"No, Watson," said I, forcing the pain out of my voice, "I'm perfectly all right."
I do not think he believed me. Watson was not nearly as observant as I, but he was good at his profession, and I think he could perceive my agony. But, he did not press me further.
"Well, what can we do?" he asked.
I could not help but grimace as I turned slightly to face him; my ribs were bruised, and it was entirely possible that I had at least one broken.
"I do not think it will work, but we can try the drainpipe." I replied.
"At least we won't have dogs to worry about this time if it does." Watson snorted.
We proceeded as quickly as two crippled men could go over to the drain, and I bent as much as I dared to, looking over the low balustrade.
"I don't believe it will hold us..." I winced as I bent further, pushing downward on the pipe.
Just as I had expected, it was too weak to hold us, but to my surprise it gave under my push and fell to the ground, landing with a loud crash. It was not very long before several of Hughes's men came out to investigate what had made the noise.
Thankfully it was not on the same side where their master now lay, or else their suspicions would have immediately been aroused.
With no other alternative and the opportunity of several men being outside, I decided that we would take the chance of going through the house. We had nothing else to try.
"Watson, do you think you can—" I began, but my friend answered before I could even get the question out.
"I'm sure I can make it, Holmes." he said. "You needn't worry about me."
"Good man." said I, patting him on the shoulder.
We started across the roof quickly and silently, and when we reached the door I pressed my ear to it, listening carefully. It seemed only prudent that Hughes should have at least one man at the other side.
"Give me your stick." I said, holding my hand out to Watson.
"My stick?" he asked.
"Yes, if you don't mind."
He gave me his stick, bracing himself with the area beside the doorframe to keep the weight from his injury. I sat my hand upon the doorknob and quickly turned it, flinging the door open. There was a lone man on the other side, and naturally he turned towards me. I used his momentary surprise at seeing me instead of Hughes to attack, hitting him quickly with the stick over his head and rendering him quite unconscious. My chest felt as if it was on fire after the quick strain of dealing the blow, but now was not the time to pay mind to my simple injuries. Watson hobbled his way to the doorway as I glanced downstairs, and I held out his stick for him after I was sure there was no one nearby.
"Perhaps you should keep it, Holmes," said he. "You are much better at fighting with sticks than I."
"Yes, but I cannot carry you at the present, I'm afraid, so you really must take your stick. And do forgive me if I have to take it back from you abruptly."
We made our way cautiously down the empty stairwell, I keeping all senses on the alert for any sign of danger. Ahead of us I could hear the sounds of Hughes's men moving about, though it was quieter than before. After our somewhat laborious descent we finally reached the bottom landing, and I listened through the door for activity. There wasn't a great amount of movement, but there were enough noises for me to know there were men on the other side, though I could discern none nearby. I held my finger to my lips as a sign for Watson to be quiet, though I doubted that he would be foolish enough to speak now anyways, and I opened the door a crack to peer outside.
There were men some distance away with their backs turned to us, chatting casually and smoking cigarettes, and several in the other direction were doing very much the same thing. Directly in front of us was a corridor leading to the front hall, intersected by openings that led undoubtedly to the parlour and some other similar room. It seemed as if we would have very little trouble in making it to the hall door, as long as we moved quietly and swiftly. But that would do us very little good if the front door was locked, which it would be, in all probability. I quietly shut the door and turned to Watson.
"I believe we must try to find another way out." said I. "I believe, if we remain inconspicuous, we should be able to make our way to some other, more suitable exit."
"How many men are out there?" Watson asked.
"Ten that I could see."
"It doesn't sound like it will be so simple."
"No, but just remain quiet and out of the way…and especially out of sight." I opened the door again, peering out with utmost care. "It seems like an apt time to go out…Come, Watson."
WATSON:
Holmes opened the door further silently and slipped out first, motioning for me to follow after he saw that it was clear for the moment. Apparently Hughes's men were comfortable with his facing us alone; they hadn't seemed to give even a second thought to how long it was taking. It seemed as if their conversations were as low and vulgar as they were the last time I had listened months ago, tied in Hughes's rich house. How different the setting was now! The surroundings, though in difference with Hughes's comfortable, lavish, and spoilt nature, seemed to fit the crude henchmen much better.
I followed Holmes's lithe form around bends and corners, again reminded of a jungle cat as it weaves silently and searchingly through the forest. Once we hid behind a plant as one of Hughes's men turned to pour himself a drink, but after he turned back to face his comrades we continued. We managed to slip past all of them, unnoticed (a bit of a miracle that I was extremely grateful for) and found ourselves soon in the kitchen. It was empty, save for a lone rat that scurried across the floor out of the way of our feet, and quite dirty. In the back there was a lone door, the white paint peeling off it in places from neglect. It seemed ideal.
Holmes was over to it in three long, silent strides and turned the handle. Locked. In an instant he whipped out the same piece of metal that he had used to unlock the attic door and began to insert it into the key hole, but the sound of a person clearing their throat behind us made my heart nearly stop.
We both turned to see a man standing behind us, a revolver in his hand. He was standing as tall as his slightly short stature would allow, and was watching us warily with hazel eyes.
"Mr. Holmes…Dr. Watson…leaving so soon?" he said with a smirk. His pleased expression vanished in an instant. "Where is Mr. Hughes?"
"I'm afraid your boss is no longer with us." said Holmes calmly.
The little man's brow furrowed.
"So he's dead, then? How'd you manage that?"
"He fell from the roof during our fight."
"Oh?" the man said, tilting his head slightly and looking at my friend in an amused manner. "So you fought him? That explains your sorry condition, then. How'd you manage to lure him into that one?"
"Your late employer greatly underestimated his chances with us."
"Ah. He was always just a little arrogant." Hazel eyes flashed. "You did me a nice little favour there, Mr. Holmes. He wasn't paying as well as he used to."
"And now," said my friend, "you may step into his shoes and make everything right."
The little man smirked.
"It will take a while to rebuild the organisation to what it was, but I hardly think I'll have too much difficulty with it. You seem to know my records very well, Mr. Holmes."
"I do, Mr. Smith," said Holmes knowingly. "Better than even the police know you. Of course I studied the career of Jackson Hughes's right-hand man closely to make sure he saw gaol, but you were very clever and had guarded yourself even more closely than Hughes. I found plenty of clues against you, but nothing that would hold up in a tight British court."
"Of course. If Mr. Hughes slipped up, I didn't want to go down with him. But I didn't think the whole gang would fall through as it did….That would be your fault." A scowl came to Smith's sallow face as he straightened his aim and tightened his hold on the trigger.
"Oh, come now, Smith. You're just going to murder us?" Holmes asked.
"What else have I to do? I cannot let you go, or else you'll bring the coppers on us, and we can't have that."
"Your record in the law's eyes is nearly blameless," Holmes shifted slightly. "Murder is too messy for you. You surprise me, Smith."
As my friend shifted again, I realised he was trying to tell me something.
"You're right…it is a bit beneath me. But I don't have any choice now, unfortunately. One little gun-murder shouldn't be too hard to clean up." A venomous smile flashed across Smith's face. "We've done it for Mr. Hughes a dozen times before."
"I don't quite think you can manage it." –another slight shift, and I then realised what he wanted— "You'll swing for sure if you do..."
As he continued with Smith, his entire demeanour shouted that it was time. I leapt forward and struck the gun from Smith's hand with my stick. As I struggled with him, trying to knock the villain senseless, Holmes snatched the pistol up from the floor and shot the lock out—a risky move, but we certainly had no time to pick locks. Not when Smith's cries would soon draw the whole house.
I was very glad that Holmes had taught me a few things about wielding a stick as I felt the impact against Smith's skull through the wood and saw the man fall to the floor, unconscious. Holmes pushed the door open and before I could even utter a word of protest, Holmes slipped the arm of the side of my injury over his shoulder and we began to run.
"Holmes!" I gasped in surprise. "You can't do this! I will be fine, go on your own!"
I saw the agony breaking through my friend's stolid mask.
"You have an injured…foot, Watson." he gasped, seeming to choke over his words. "You are in no shape to run."
I heard the shouts and heavy footfalls of pursuers behind us as we dashed through the backstreets, desperately seeking some place of refuge. I was certain the trick we had used before with the public house would not work this time.
The quick, strained, agonised gasps of pain my friend gave as he ran drove to my very heart. He was worsening his injuries and putting himself through such terrible pain just to help me along! I tried to assist him by using my stick, but I do not think that it helped much.
"A…c-cab…or…a police station…" Holmes panted harshly, "…we must find…something."
I wanted to tell him to conserve his breath, but I was almost breathless myself. I grew deathly afraid of our recapture; they would waste no time in killing us. We could not find just one constable for help, because that would offer no protection. Holmes was right: we would need to find more, and do it before they caught up with us.
Our only defence at this point was Smith's revolver, which had five bullets in it at most. That would not do very well against a group of ten men or more all with fully-loaded pistols. But I had to remain strong. I could not falter now. I only hoped that we could find help. I knew that Holmes had some knowledge of Paris, but I doubted if he could locate a police station from memory. I wished that he still had his police whistle, but I knew Hughes's men had taken it in their search.
I was growing tired, and I could see that Holmes was clearly exhausted. Things were looking bleak for us as we blindly ran through the back alleys of the great French city. Finally, Holmes gave a cry of relief.
"Ha!!" he gasped. "Just ahead, Watson!!"
My eyes followed his, and before us I saw a station for the Parisian Police. I nearly cried aloud to God with my absolute joy and relief.
My heart leapt into my mouth as shots rang out from behind us—obviously the blackguards did not want us to inform the law of their presence. I was thankful that not only were we a moving target, but the men had obviously been drinking some, as the bullets struck to our left and right. Perhaps our fortune would last and they would continue to miss.
We stumbled up the steps of the station and Holmes sat his hand upon the heavy door—a bullet struck, just above his middle finger. He had no time to be astonished, however, and slung the door open and ushered me inside. I stepped forward quickly after entering, leaning heavily upon my stick, and Holmes slammed the door behind us.
"Les hommes… qui travaillent… pour Jackson Hughes…" he breathed as he stepped forward, and collapsed on the floor.
"HOLMES!!" I gasped, falling to my knees at his side and wincing at the pain in my ankle.
My friend was barely conscious, his face contorted with pain. My medical instincts took over and I began to treat my friend as he lay in the floor. His coughs and gasps aroused my suspicions, and as I ran my hands carefully along his thin ribcage in search of fractures I found two broken ribs. He broke into a much heavier fit of coughing and writhed in pain, and as I tried to calm him two constables and a sergeant came over, concern and question written clearly upon their faces.
"Qu'arrive-t-il ici?" the sergeant asked. He spoke quickly, but I understood well enough what he asked.
"Er…" I muttered, trying to remember what to say. It didn't help my concentration that Holmes was muttering something incoherently. "Mon ami et me suis échappé des hommes de Jackson Hughes. Ils nous suivent. Ils ont des fusils. Nous avons des blessures."
The sergeant's brow furrowed, looking a bit confused. I realised that my French was hardly perfect, but it would be understandable.
"Jackson Hughes? L'homme voulu par la police?"
"Oui," I replied, very glad that they knew who I was talking about.
The sergeant's eyes widened. He turned to the constables beside him.
"Vous! Allez, amener quinze hommes. Dépêchez!" he barked. He then turned toward me. "Où ils sont?"
I sighed heavily as my mind raced to remember the exact location of the building we had just fled from. I would have to be precise if the official force was to arrive before the villains could take flight and possibly be out of the law's reach for ever. Holmes coughed and tried to sit up with a gasp of fresh pain, and I caught him to make sure that he did not fall back and jar himself. I could tell that he was feeling the pain more intensely now that the thrill of the escape was wearing off. His breaths were quick but shallow, and I could tell that he was trying to speak.
With an effort, he gasped out something—it was in French, but I could not understand. He looked at the sergeant and repeated it again, more slowly, and the policeman's furrowed brow unwrinkled as he understood.
"Oui, monsieur!" He turned to a constable behind him, shouting for a police doctor to assist us, and marched off.
Holmes relaxed in my arms, though he was still quite tense.
"They'll get them, Holmes," I reassured him. "Just rest for now."
Holmes's thin face turned to me, and I saw a brief smile flash across his pale face.
"Never leave officials unsupervised…especially foreign ones."
KS: Thanks for reading! There might be a couple of errors in there...was a little too lazy to read again...XD But there are only a couple of chapters left now! Don't forget to review!