December 6: "The scariest thing Holmes has ever done" (from sirensbane)
December 12: "Listen to the song 'The Great Pretender' by The Platters and write a story inspired by it" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)
December 20: "The unsolvable case" (from Michael JG Meathook)
December 24: "Watson goes to the wrong address on a home visit and finds himself in trouble" (from mrspencil)
December 26: "Dream" (from V Tsuion)
December 27: "Bloodstained music box" (from Michael JG Meathook)
December 28: "The duel" (from Michael JG Meathook)
December 30: "Holmes is grateful for Lestrade" (from trustingHim17)
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender
Pretending that I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell
– from "The Great Pretender" by The Platters
"My name is Doctor Watson; I'm here to check in on Mr. Holdworth," I said, first to the woman who answered the door, and then to the man in the sitting room chair.
The man slowly closed his newspaper and looked up at me, a menacing smile spreading across his face. He pulled a revolver from his jacket pocket.
"Put down the bag, slowly," he said, rising to his feet.
My mind raced as I tried to calculate my next move. I had nothing to defend myself; it was not as though I brought firearms to house calls, and I wouldn't have time to dig a scalpel out of my bag. And the man was perhaps a decade my senior, but he was muscular.
I'd hardly had time to think when the man stepped within arm's reach, and Holmes' self-defense training kicked in. I knocked the pistol to the floor, and brought my fist back around for a solid right hook.
The man yelled, and I dodged a blow to the head, only to be struck a moment later on my bad shoulder. Now I cried out. The bastard took advantage of that moment and punched me directly in the face.
My vision flashed white and I stumbled into a shelf, sending several loud somethings crashing to the floor. I held my throbbing nose and felt hot blood coating my hand. Vision returning, I saw blood splattering onto a music box at my feet. The next moment, a heavy blow to the back of my head, and I fell unconscious.
When I came to, my head felt like it was about to explode. I was lying on the floor of what seemed to be a small basement room, and there was shouting coming from upstairs. I recognized one of the voices— it was Holmes!
With a struggle, I hauled my aching body to my feet, stumbling a bit with a sudden bout of dizziness. I cringed, feeling dried blood on my face crackle as I did so. The only light came from a single dirty window near the ceiling on the opposite wall, but I could see just well enough. I stretched my stiff, painful limbs and approached the door. I tried the doorknob; it was locked of course.
Thankfully my assailants hadn't thought to take the pocket handkerchief.
I reached into my pocket and fumbled for the small tension wrench and lock pick I kept in the handkerchief. I wasn't very practiced at this, so I had to hope there was no one on the other side to hear the tapping and scratching as I struggled with the lock. Though, the racket upstairs—glass shattering, now— might be enough to keep anyone else in the building occupied, or at least distracted. I just hoped that Holmes was okay. I had to get upstairs and help him, though my better judgment told me I might not be much use in my current state.
I worked desperately at the lock, praying for the final two pins to set this time, and cursed when the lock froze and I had to once again start from the beginning. Another try, and another, and yet one more, and at last, the lock clicked, and the door swung inward. I stuffed my tools back into my pocket and ran in the direction of the fracas, head still pounding, and unsure of what I would do when I arrived.
I skidded into the sitting room to see two unconscious men on the floor, and a bloodied Holmes, fire poker in hand, apparently fencing with the man who had captured me. Metal clanged upon metal as the men swung and parried.
"Watson!" Holmes cried when he saw me, and his opponent took advantage of that momentary distraction to bash him across the face with the poker.
Enraged, I rushed across the room and snatched up a hefty wooden chair, when the sitting room door crashed open and two police constables entered, revolvers drawn, followed by Inspector Lestrade.
"Gentlemen, put your weapons down," Lestrade shouted.
Holmes and his assailant dropped their pokers, and I set down the chair.
"Thank God you're here, Lestrade!" Holmes cried.
"Damn and blast, Mr. Holmes, I told you to wait until we had a warrant!" he groaned, taking in Holmes' bloodied appearance.
"I assumed that would take hours or days," Holmes replied, still panting a little.
"Well, you didn't exactly stick around to ask," Lestrade replied. He turned to me. "It was out the front door of Scotland Yard he went, and straight into this fellow's fire poker, apparently." He gestured to Holmes' assailant, now handcuffed and being marched out the door by three constables.
"Inspector," I cut in before Holmes could retort, "I believe I have a concussion, and Holmes would appear to be in need of stitches. Can you handle things from here, Inspector?"
"Certainly," Lestrade replied. "You two go home and heal up."
The cab ride to Baker Street was quiet for a long time, but for me, at least, it was not a comfortable silence, and it did not seem to be for Holmes either. He stared out the window of the cab, hardly moving.
"This was related to one of your cases, wasn't it," I finally said.
The cab clattered on down the street, and in the distance, a dog started to bark.
"Yes," said Holmes at last.
I sighed. "You've been so reticent about your cases of late," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Perhaps had I known more, we could have avoided this mess. I should have thought by now that you could trust me."
Holmes sighed. "Trust has nothing to do with it. I kept you uninvolved to try to keep you safe. The criminal ringleader I've been pursing is the most dangerous since Moriarty. But it seems that was not a winning strategy; one of his agents gave you that false address."
"So I deduced," I replied dryly. "But surely, Holmes, after all we went through bringing down Moriarty, you know I would much prefer to face danger with you! Those three years were the worst of my life."
"But you were alive, and that's what was important," he countered, still staring out the window.
"Holmes, look at me."
He pulled his gaze away from the steady stream of shops and houses and turned to face me. When our eyes met, it struck me that my friend looked smaller than usual; thin, and even a little frail. He looked…frightened.
"From here on out, whatever danger comes our way, we face together," I said.
Holmes swallowed, the worry lines on his face gently easing. "Very well," he said.
I laid an arm gently on his. "Thank you, old fellow."
Slowly, a wry smile crept across his bruised and bloodied features. "Sometimes I think the only case I'll never solve is 'Why am I, of all people, John Watson's dearest friend?'"
"Oh come now," I said sheepishly. "How about this— it's your turn to pay for dinner the next two times we go out. Three, if I have to stitch up your arm."
"Three it is, then," said Holmes, glancing down at his arm with a grimace. "You know I don't trust other doctors."
By the time we arrived back at Baker Street, our adventure was beginning to feel like it was just a bad dream, though Mrs. Hudson's scream at the state we were in did not allow me to indulge in that feeling for long. Nor did it help my headache.
But I knew that whatever we faced from here on out, Holmes and I would be in it together. And that was all I needed to know to sleep soundly that night. That, and a strong painkiller.
A/N: I think I got all 8 prompts covered! And I so dearly love the scene in "Charles Augustus Milverton" where Watson is fully prepared to attack Milverton with a chair that I had to include a nod to it here.
