Chapter 2
Author's note: Thanks to Smoke for being my very first reviewer! Warm fuzzies!
I expect this chapter will be longer than the first. Nothing you recognise is mine.
She had placed him under the crumbling canopy of the state bed on the ground floor. His clothes were systematically cut from his body, to avoid moving him any more than necessary. Although the fire was lit, they were not burned. As the footman moved to bathe her guest, she collected the rags and bent over them at a table. Moving quickly from one pocket to another, she placed his personal belongings in a small heap on the tablecloth. A watch, a cigarette case, some papers: all were carefully examined.
A maid entered, her footsteps echoing within the cavernous room.
"The medicine chest, ma'am. Where shall I put it?"
A silent gesture directed her to the table at which her mistress was seated. "Take the clothes and make measurements. Tomorrow, you will take them to a tailor in the city."
The maid thus dismissed, the mistress turned to the footman at the bedside -- "Are you finished there?"
She crossed the room, holding a small bottle and a cloth in her hands. Her guest lay bare-chested on the bed, exposing his bruised sides and scratched arms. His breathing was ragged and an occasional moan escaped his cracked lips. The small bottle was opened, releasing the overpowering smell of alcohol into the stifling air. As she rubbed the solution into his arms, she paused, frowning at the insides of his elbows. Looking up at the footman, she said,
"Go and get two cords. We may have to restrain him."
As the rain continued to storm the walls of the house, and the fire grew dimmer, however, the man on the bed slipped into a motionless slumber.
His body felt leaden. Even his eyelids refused his initial efforts to open. Only one eventually obeyed, revealing forms bathed in a soft grey light, swimming slowly from side to side. His aching chest fell in a groan that escaped his throat with the sound of creaking iron gates. His eyelid fell closed, worn out by the effort.
His sense of hearing was made strangely acute by the pain. His ears were now his only connection to the world. The pain, the weight of exhaustion and hunger had rendered him virtually immobile. He registered the sound of footsteps: A woman. Not much over five feet. Nearby.
His heart began to race, and with it, his thoughts. His brain screamed for him to move, to open his eyes, to be alert in the face of danger. But after days of abuse, his body betrayed him.
"Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Holmes. I expect you will want some breakfast?"
The sound of a human voice shocked him, and it took a few moments for the words to filter through. They were not what he had expected.
"Some broth, then."
He felt something hot touch his lips, and then, quite of its own accord, his body began to drink, swallowing the hot liquid that poured into his mouth, hungry for more. He felt it drip down his chin, onto his chest. In his mind, he solemnly recited the most common poisons and the times they began to take effect. His stomach did not seem to care. Suddenly, the liquid stopped.
"I think that will be quite enough for now."
He tried to open his eyes again. This time, both eyelids obeyed, revealing to him that he was in a bed, with a woman sitting beside him, holding a steaming bowl and an empty ladle.
"You may have some more later. I take it you haven't eaten in some days now?"
It was less of a question than a statement, and he cursed himself for getting into that peasant's cart and allowing himself to lose vigilance. He frowned, but regretted it immediately; his face began to pulse with renewed pain. He turned his head to look around him, and felt the room spinning. He shut his eyes quickly, and his throat made that abominable creaking noise again.
"Rest."
It was a command his body was more than willing to obey, despite his own better judgement. It did not even start when his brain suddenly posed the question, Why English? By that time, his body was again asleep.