Please note: the following story contains spoilers for "The Retired Colourman" and also contains scenes of torture and violence. Readers, please use your own discretion. Thank you, and I sincerely hope you enjoy.
John Watson was woken by a sharp pain in his neck. He couldn't breathe, and he choked as he reached up blindly through the darkness to find whatever was putting pressure on him. Abruptly, whatever had a hold on him let go and he gasped for air, his throat aching. A light came on as he gripped his neck, and he blinked in the sudden illumination.
"Get up."
"Mr. Amberley?" Watson said, his voice weak and his throat burning. He looked up at the man in confusion; was there some kind of threat? What had happened?
"Get up," Josiah Amberley repeated. "I'm no fool. Sherlock Holmes almost tricked me with his little stunt, but I've figured out what he's up to and I'm not about to fall into his trap. Now get up."
Watson stared at him. "What are you on about? You are Holmes' client! We are working on your behalf!"
"Up!" Amberley demanded once again. "Don't play dumb with me, you bastard! I know you're in league with him and I can't have you stopping me or coming after me."
"What…"
"Do as I say!" Amberley hissed, and he raised his other hand. Watson saw the silhouette of a cane a moment before he was struck across the head harshly, the solid wood sending stars exploding behind his eyes.
Watson groaned in pain, clutching his head and feeling hot blood on his fingers.
"Up!"
Watson stumbled to get out of the small bed he'd been occupying. He was in the room next to Amberley's in the hotel in Little Purlington where they'd been condemned to spend the night thanks to that blasted telegram. Watson had been sorely tried by Amberley the whole day and had been glad to get away from him for the night. Now, he wished he had ran back to London on foot.
Amberley struck him again as he struggled to rise, and he covered his head with both hands until the pounding behind his eyes died down and he could breath once again. Amberley was still standing above him, sneering at him.
"And now," Amberley growled, "you will walk out of here silently or I will kill you where you stand. Go." He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a pistol so Watson could see it before secreting it away once more, his hand presumably ready to fire it from inside his pocket.
Watson stumbled to the door, and the two of them left the hotel without raising any alarm. Watson wasn't sure where they were going or how he was going to escape, but Amberley was pushing him along and he had no choice but to follow the madman's orders for the moment. Occasionally, Amberley would shove him or strike him with his cane as they walked along the coastal path, and each time pain would overtake Watson's senses once more. It made it decidedly hard to focus on formulating an escape.
They approached the water, and a rock cliff face was on one side of them while the waves crashed against the rocks below them. There was a natural path etched into the cliff side, which was where Amberley shoved Watson along. At low tide, a man could stand in the cliff face, unseen from above and yet able to follow the path back out to dry ground. At high tide, however, the whole path would be enveloped in water. Watson had seen the place earlier, had admired it as a place of natural beauty and had even walked into the cliff side to escape Amberley's nagging for a bit. Now, Watson knew that Amberly must be planning to throw him into the surf and that at the last he would have to make a desperate fight for life. He knew there was little chance he would live; he would likely be shot and dropped into the water before he could so much as turn to defend himself, but he knew he had to try. He took some deep breaths, pushing the pain away.
A wave came up high, soaking his nightshirt and chilling him to the bone. Amberley hadn't allowed him to stop for shoes or a jacket or anything else, and he was nearly slipping off the rocks as he walked. His feet were long nearly numb, but he dug his toes in with every step, determined not to slip into the water if he could help it. Finally, the natural path that had been worn in the rock faded into nothing and they'd reached the end. Watson was about to turn and spring on his kidnapper when he was hit once more by the cane and his arms were wrenched behind him when he'd fallen on his knees from the force of the blow.
He felt a rope came around his neck and his head was pulled back. The rope must have then been tied to his wrists, for he found he couldn't raise his head without choking. Amberley must have also have anchored the rope somewhere on the rock face, because he couldn't rise, either.
"I wish you were that bastard of a detective instead," Amberley growled as he finished making his knots secure. "I would have loved to sit back and watch him drown, damn him. I would have cherished his screams as he died for trying to cheat me. No one cheats me, doctor."
Watson opened his mouth to speak, but only ended up choking. The rope around his neck was too tight. He could breath, but it was a struggle.
"Yes, doctor. I killed them. I killed both of them. And I may have gotten away with it if Sherlock Holmes hadn't tricked me into leaving my house so he'd be free to search it. If only I'd have seen his deception before! Damn him! But it's no matter."
Amberley was ranting like a madman. He paced slightly, his eyes were wide, and his tone of voice was almost excited. He also pulled at his hair as he spoke, which completed the picture in Watson's mind. Amberley was, undoubtedly, insane. He didn't really look at Watson, but he occasionally spit at him or kicked him where he knelt on the hard stone as he confessed to the crime and told Watson every detail of how he'd done it. By the time he was finished, the water had risen already and they were routinely being splashed by the waves crashing against the rocks.
Watson was shivering as Amberley leaned over him once more. "One hour left until the water will have risen above this ledge, doctor," the man hissed in his ear. "Maybe two at the most. With any luck, the rope will hold and they'll find your body in the morning. Now do me a favor, won't you? And tell Sherlock Holmes hello when you see him in hell!" Amberley cackled, and spit once more in Watson's face. Watson flinched, but otherwise gave no reaction. The killer didn't deserve one, and he didn't deserve to have what he hoped had been lifetime of bravery thrown away in the hour of his death. He didn't plead, didn't beg, and didn't justify the madman in his delusions.
Amberley left him, then, and Watson watched as he disappeared into the darkness. He immediately began to search behind him for anything he could cut the ropes on. Most of the stones had long since been worn smooth by the relentless pounding of the waves, however, and he couldn't find any sharp rock to be his salvation. What he did find were several knots, and he realized that what was tying him down wasn't an actual rope. It was just a cord, likely the man's dressing gown cord. But it hadn't been long enough by itself, Amberley had been forced to find something to lengthen it. He'd tied it to something else, something that felt like fabric. He must have ripped the bedclothes or curtains in his hotel room, Watson decided. If he could only untie the cord from the fabric, his neck would still be tied to his hands, but he wouldn't be anchored to the rocks and could potentially rise.
His fingers were numb as he scrambled to untie the knot, but by then it was wet and tight. He tried to tug himself loose, but it was fruitless and only made the knots tighter. It didn't help that he was cold past the point of shivering and was routinely splashed with more water every thirty seconds or so. It became some kind of morbid dance: fumble with his bonds, brace, get hit with water, gasp for breath, repeat. As the water rose, it became fumble with his bonds, brace, get slammed against the rock face by a wave, recover, repeat. And by the time the water was up to his chest, his attempts to free himself were too weak to have any effectiveness and he was too exhausted to care.
He let himself be at the mercy of the waves, unwilling to let go and let himself drown but also unable to save himself. He wasn't sure how long it had been when he stopped trying to free himself, but he knew the water was nearly up to his chin and the waves that came up covered him entirely. He was, more often than not, underwater, and it was all he could do to gasp for breath every few seconds. Had he been able to stand he would have been safe for a while more, but as it was he wasn't sure he could stand even if he found himself freed; likely he would have been washed off the cliffside into the sea.
He didn't hear the shouting from beyond him, so loud was the surf in his ears. He didn't even hear his name being called until hands were on him. He choked on water, struggling to get his head up and see what was happening. And when he did his heart sank, for there above him, thigh deep in water, was Sherlock Holmes.
"No," Watson groaned, choking up more seawater. He wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real, but he knew that if Holmes was here then he'd led his friend to his grave. Holmes was struggling to keep his footing on the narrow stone ledge, and the crashing waves sometimes reached up to his shoulders. One hard knock and Sherlock Holmes would be swept out to sea. He needed to go back, but Watson was underwater once more and couldn't communicate as much to him. When his head came up once more and he gasped for air, Holmes wasn't there. Wasn't there! Had Watson imagined him or had he been swept away to his death?
Suddenly, Holmes was back again, popping out from beneath the water. "Watson!" he cried, "Hang on!" He ducked back underneath the water, and Watson gasped in relief. He was free! Or, at least, his neck was free from being tied to his hands and pulled backwards. His hands were still held together sightly, but it seemed as if they were at least freed from their anchor because he was being dragged.
He was in half-submerged in the water, and Holmes' grip was like iron on his arm as he pulled him along like a piece of luggage. The waves were relentless, and Holmes screamed incoherently as he struggled to stay on the rock face. Watson was completely helpless, bobbing in the water and gasping for breath. He almost wished Holmes would let him go and save himself, but he knew that wasn't going to happen so he tried to focus on staying alive, which was easier in theory than practice. The waves were relentless, and he was tired of swallowing water and vomiting it up. He was tired of gasping for breath. He was simply tired all around, and even with salvation in sight, he was just so tired… and so numb that he didn't even feel it when he was struck repeatedly until he was vomiting violently once more.
"Watson!" Holmes cried, turning his friend over. "Look at me!"
Watson tried, gazing up weakly. He tried to give Holmes reassurance, tried to smile, tried to speak. But he couldn't, couldn't do anything. He only hoped that, somehow, Holmes would know that at least he'd tried.
Sherlock Holmes watched as what little strength was left in his friend faded, and Watson's eyes closed with what seemed to be a terrifying finality. Were it not for the shallow movements he could feel by his hand on his friend's chest, he might have been convinced that Watson had breathed his last. And Watson still might, Holmes thought with a shudder. How long had be at the mercy of the waves? What had Amberley done to him? What horrors had he gone through? Had he been rescued in time, or would this all prove pointless in the end?
Holmes struggled to take Watson into his arms, to take him to safety, but it was not such a simple task. His own body was shaking from both terror and cold. His fingers were numb, his limbs were trembling, and it was hard to draw his own breath. He would have been grateful when he felt someone's hands on him helping him rise had he not desired to be by Watson's side.
He knew it was for the best, though, and made no protest as Watson was taken away from him. He watched rather helplessly as the doctor's frail nightshirt stripped off of him and someone's large overcoat was wrapped around him. Holmes, too, found that someone had stripped off his outer layers and had put a new overcoat over his shoulders. He and Watson were ushered back towards the hotel, himself stumbling and Watson carried in between two police constables. When they reached the hotel there was talk of a doctor, but Holmes knew that the nearest doctor was some miles off and wouldn't arrive straightaway.
He also heard talk of drawing a hot bath for Watson, but he began waving his arms through the air to get their attention; that was a bad idea and he knew it. He wasn't certain of the exact reason for it, but Watson had told him once that hot wounds could be treated quickly but to treat cold wounds one must act slowly. It was for that reason a man suffering from the heat could be dunked in a pool of water but a man with frostbite on his fingers must come in from the cold, wrap his hands, and wait. That was what Watson needed now, to be warmed slowly, and that was what Holmes commanded be done.
He was shown into a washroom to dry himself and given a dry dressing gown. He was still trembling, but donned it as fast as he could, emerging to find Watson had been bundled under a mountain of blankets on the bed. He didn't care that his rival, Barker, was sitting by the bedside, he climbed in beside Watson and reached out to him. He felt his cold skin, his shallow breaths, his rapid heartbeat. He moved closed to Watson as if his body heat could be transferred to his friend and his own strength could somehow seep into him and bring him back to the land of the living. He had a feeling that the former may be true, and hoped the latter would be as well.
"You know, Mr. Holmes," Barker said, his voice a low rumble, "Though it's amusing, I've never really seen myself as your rival, not really. You will never be replaced as England's greatest detective and I know that. But if I did see myself as your equal, if I wanted to show you up and convince the world I was better, I don't think I'd be able to. I think I'd need a Watson for that."
"Because of his stories," Holmes murmured darkly.
"No." Barker stood, interlacing his fingers and stretching. "You leave Josiah Amberley to me, Mr. Holmes. And maybe one day, when the doctor has recovered, you will tell me how you knew he was in trouble to begin with."
"I didn't," Holmes whispered once he was gone. "I just knew. When I discovered how Amberley had done it, I knew he was as dark and dangerous and conniving a criminal as I've ever faced. And I'd sent you, my loyal Watson, to be alone with him overnight. I knew I'd made a mistake, and I had. I'm so sorry, my dear Watson."
Watson, of course, didn't answer him, and his skin was still as cold as ice. Holmes himself was shivering violently but he didn't dare move away and leave Watson alone. He knew that his friend was in serious danger even if the cold didn't take his life, but for now the only thing he could do was try to get his friend warm again.
The doctor, when he finally arrived, said as much and wasn't very helpful beyond that. Holmes stayed up with Watson all night, watching helplessly as Watson's body jerked and spasmed violently. He tried to soothe him as best he could, but he wasn't sure if his words or actions were helping at all. Nevertheless, he spoke softly and held Watson through his trembling. If it would Watson at all, even the smallest bit, then he would not withhold it from him.
He pushed away the guilt that was gnawing at his soul. There would be time enough time to apologize and grovel if Watson lived, and time enough to languish in guilt if Watson died. In either event, there would be time enough to hate himself for sending his friend to spend the night with a murderer. He'd been a fool. A damned, overconfident, egotistical fool. He deserved to never again be given a case and to have whatever reputation he'd gained be stripped from him. If Watson died, he'd turn himself in to the police as a murderer. And if they wouldn't take him, well, he would have his day in court someday, and would let the good Lord judge him for his hubris.
He spoke to Watson in soothing tones until the wee hours of the morning. His friend's temperature had since risen to an acceptable degree, but he remained lost to unconsciousness. Reluctantly, Holmes left him as the sun was rising to make arrangements to bring Watson back to Baker Street. It would be a miracle indeed if, in the best case scenario, Watson only suffered from pneumonia. At worst, the experience would yet kill him. Holmes wanted to get him back to Baker Street before the onslaught of the symptoms set in, whatever those would be.
Watson woke briefly on the train back to London, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he looked up at Holmes. Holmes had Watson laying against a pillow which was propped against his leg. He had covered Watson with blankets and had one hand gently laid on his cheek to keep his head from being jostled. His hand remained there even though Holmes had his eyes closed and was sleeping as the train moved along. Watson looked up at him for some time, confused and frightened, until he closed his eyes once more and slept without Holmes ever knowing he had woken.
Sherlock Holmes was resigned to his ling vigils by Watson's sickbed. He'd been at it for two weeks when Watson finally woke up as himself. It happened while Holmes was lying on his back near the wall, his feet thrown up onto the windowsill, and tossing a pouch into the air and catching it as a form of amusement.
When he heard Watson stir, he rose and stretched with his arms thrown above his head and his fingers wide. He yawned; it had been a long day and now he was inevitably going to have to deal with Watson's fever driven ramblings. He didn't resent his friend for it, of course; it wasn't Watson's fault that he wasn't back in the land of the living. Still, it was tedious and heart wrenching to care for Watson while his friend was lost to misery. Every time Holmes put his friend back to sleep, either naturally or with a painkiller, it was as if another piece of him broke off and sunk into a despair from which it would only return if Watson did. He wasn't expecting Watson to speak as he padded to his bedside.
"Holmes?"
His friend's voice was weak and broken, but it was his own.
Holmes flew to his side, reaching out to him but stopping short of touching him. He stared, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. "Watson," he breathed.
"Holmes," Watson said again, and his eyes were kind and his lips were quirked in a very slight smile.
"Watson," Holmes breathed, and he laid his hand on Watson's shoulder very softly. "Oh, thank God." He knelt beside his friend's sickbed and laid his head on the mattress, overwhelmed by emotion. He let out a few choked sobs into the mattress, his whole body shaking. He never thought he'd be able to hear his friend's voice again. He felt Watson's hand come and rest on his head. It was a weak gesture, but a welcome one, and Holmes took the hand in his own as he looked up.
"Watson. I… I am so glad to have you back."
"What about Amberley?" Watson croaked.
Holmes shook his head. "He'll never molest you again, Watson. He's dead; he killed himself before Barker could arrest him. I daresay he will not be missed."
"Who's Barker?" Watson asked.
Holmes smiled weakly. "Doesn't matter. Tell me, Watson, what do you need? How do you feel?"
"Like I was drowned," Watson murmured. "I feel like my every muscle has been pulled tight." He shrugged slightly with one shoulder and offered Holmes a weak grin. "But you saved me from that, Holmes. Thank you. I…" he was taking over with a coughing fit and Holmes wrapped his arms around him, helping him sit up and rubbing his back.
"I tried," Watson groaned when the fit was over. He laid his head on Holmes' shoulder, shuddering. "I tried, Holmes."
"I know, Watson. I know," Holmes soothed him.
"Amberley confessed to me," Watson murmured. "I know how he did it."
"So do I, Watson. Don't worry about that."
"He told me where he…"
"Stop! Enough about the damn case!"
Watson cringed, whimpering slightly, and Holmes immediately apologized.
"I'm sorry, Watson," he murmured. "I'm sorry. But he's dead. It's over. Let that be the end of it. I hate him, and I never want to think of him again. I never want you to have to think of him."
"I will always think of him," Watson murmured. "My every vision, every dream, has been about him."
"I am sorry," Holmes murmured again. "We found you half drowned, and when you were saved from the water we discovered that you'd been savagely beaten about the head and torso as well. What did he use?"
"A cane," Watson murmured. "I wasn't suspicious of him, and I was asleep. He caught me in my bed and I didn't have the chance to defend myself. I was going to try and fight him again, but I… I failed."
"No, Watson," Holmes said. "It is I who failed. In my hubris, I allowed you to be at the mercy of a madman. I sent you on a contrived errand and thought Amberley would be none the wiser. It is my fault, my friend, and I hope you can forgive me."
"Of course I can," Watson replied weakly. "After all, you came for me."
"Of course I came for you, Watson, and I'm so sorry it took me so long to find you."
"But you did find me, Holmes. And even if you hadn't, I would have forgiven you."
Holmes felt emotion well in his chest once again, but he simply gave Watson an affectionate squeeze of his hand. "Mrs. Hudson," he declared. "I need to go get Mrs. Hudson. And I need to call for a doctor. I'll be right back. I promise."
"I know," Watson said. "I trust you. I always have. But Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
"Next time, won't you tell me if our client is actually a killer?" he asked with a touch of humor.
"Watson, from now on, I will never allow you to be out of the proverbial loop again."
"I doubt that," Watson sighed without being harsh. "You like being dramatic far too much."
"I do like to surprise you," Holmes admitted with a slight smile. "But not like this."
"No," Watson agreed. "Let's keep the 'you're spending the night next to a murderer,' surprises to a minimum."
"Of that, Watson, I can assure you. Watson…"
"Hmm?"
"Are we alright, you and I?"
"Of course we are, Holmes."
"Thank you, Watson. I… thank you." He turned, and as he ran down the steps and called for Mrs. Hudson, he had the wonderful feeling they really would be.
