Not mine. Don't own. But I hope you enjoy (and have been enjoying/will continue to enjoy) my little story here. Now, off we go! "Come John, the game is... something!"

Chapter 17

"We had grown into one another somewhere along the way. We were officially a team." ~Shannon A. Thompson

The sun had not yet showed itself in all its grand and, in the opinion of Sherlock Holmes, rather ridiculous splendor, when there was a thunderous pounding at the front door of 221B Baker Street. Not a soul was awoken by the racket. However, that was likely due to the fact that the only occupant of the address who was asleep was Miss Mary Watson. The angel slept on in her father's arms while those who loved her best found themselves too consumed by the events that occurred in the daylight hours to rest.

Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs to answer the door, and Watson transferred his slumbering daughter into Irene's arms so he could accompany their sweet landlady, should the caller prove to be of the unsavory or dangerous sort. "It's a woman," Mrs. Hudson whispered, having glanced briefly out her parlor window.

Having no preconceived notions about what a woman may or may not be capable of, due largely in part to the woman looking after his daughter up the stairs, Watson moved to open the door himself. He held his cane ready to strike, should she produce a weapon of her own from somewhere on her person. But when he wrenched the front door open, the woman stumbled and all but fell into his arms. Mrs. Hudson cried out in alarm, but Watson was momentarily stunned by the familiar scent of smoke, the earth, and lavender that assaulted him. The thick, dark curls interwoven with beads and trinkets that cascaded down her back and draped over his own shoulder, tickling his chin, brought forth a flood of memories equally as poignant as when they happened four years ago.

Heart in his throat, he titled her chin up so he could look upon her face. A long gash, hastily stitched and trailing just beneath her cheekbone, marred her tanned skin. One eye sported a nasty bruise and was near to swollen shut. Even still, her dark, piercing gaze was one he could never forget. With a tenderness that belied the fury raging in his chest as he looked upon her beaten form, he pressed one hand to the uninjured side of her face. "My dear Simza," he whispered, "what have they done to you?"

The door to the flat flew open and Watson staggered in cradling close to his chest a woman who, to Irene, looked all but unconscious. "Mrs. Hudson," he called to the, by this point, rather anxious and frazzled landlady, "hot water and bandages. Quickly!" The doctor proceeded to carry the dark haired woman into his room, laying her gently on the bed while Mrs. Hudson ran back downstairs to fetch what he'd requested.

With a graceful swish of her skirts, Irene moved toward where her husband had been sitting in contemplative silence for the past few hours. "Not to interrupt, darling," her bell-like voice softly chimed so as not to wake the still sleeping child in her arms, who had stirred a bit when Watson burst into the room, "but it seems as though one of John's patients has made a house-call."

Holmes frowned. Watson's patients never made house-calls. Their clients made house-calls. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "What manner of patient was it?"

"Of the female variety," Irene whispered, softly bouncing Mary. "Likely bad off. He took her straight to his room. I would venture to guess, judging from his rather panicked expression, he'd known her before."

Now, Holmes opened his eyes. "Was her attire… eccentric?"

"I'd say so. I can think of no better word to describe the baubles dangling from her hair."

Without another word, Holmes vaulted from his chair and raced to the bedroom. "Watson! Watson, is she…"

"For God's sake, Holmes!" Watson snapped from where he sat attending Simza, a bloodied towel clutched tightly in his fist. "Hold your tongue for once in your life!"

Holmes was shocked into silence both by Watson's outburst and the sight of the regal Madame Simza lying bruised and beaten before him.

Watson sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Holmes. She'll be alright. After I get her cleaned up and she rests a bit, then we can find out what happened."

Rather than say anything else, Holmes moved to stand at the foot of the bed, running a critical eye down the length of her body for any hint as to what atrocity might have befallen her.

Watson resumed his task of cleaning her face, wiping away the blood and grime. He cut away the stitching to pour antiseptic on the wound. Simza moaned and tried to flinch away, but Watson placed a steadying hand on her opposite cheek. "You're alright," he crooned. "You're safe now. You're safe." She calmed beneath his touch, and he reached for a needle and thread. His hands suddenly began shaking again, trembling too much to coax the string through the eye of the needle. Before the curse could leave his lips, a pair of chemical stained and calloused hands covered his own. He looked up to see Holmes give him an understanding nod. Taking the instrument from his friend, Holmes easily thread the needle, but was disturbed when Watson stood from his chair and stepped back.

Holmes' brow knit together in a frown. "Watson?"

The doctor held out his trembling hands. "I can't. Please Holmes. I cannot help her in this state."

"Of course," Holmes nodded, moving to sit in the recently vacated chair. He turned his attention to their friend, speaking softly as he began to work, "You know, Madame, my needle-work is no where near the quality of our dear Dr. Watson. But have no fear. I'm sure you will find the results satisfactory. Or, at the very least, not repulsive."

Watson watched the grimace pass slowly over Simza's face as Holmes worked. The gash along her cheek was quite ghastly, but the detective was in fact handy with a needle, and his stitches were small. Likely, there would be very little scarring. Not that it mattered. No mark could tarnish her wild beauty. Watson gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take her hand in his. It was rather cold and he ran his thumb over the back of it in delicate circles. Simza seemed to calm at the gentle touch and lay still while Holmes finished out his task. Watson swallowed heavily as he forced himself to gaze upon her beaten form. The thought of someone harming her made him positively ill. "Who could have done this?"

Holmes felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. He knew exactly who was to blame, but more facts were needed before the case was reopened and the game began anew.