"Doris!"
Jackson's panicked cry came from the other end of the alley, and uneven footsteps dodged debris to sprint towards them.
"Doris! Mr. Holmes!"
"We are clear," Holmes called, still shielding Doris from stray pieces of building. "Stay back until the bricks stop falling."
The approaching footsteps abruptly slowed, inching forward with the settling dust as Doris wiggled beneath him.
"You're heavy."
A glance ensured that none of the bricks fell towards them before he pushed himself upright to check her. "Are you injured?"
She shook her head. "Don't think so. Maybe a couple scrapes. Thank you."
She sat up, then small arms wrapped around him in an awkwardly seated hug. He rested a hand on her shoulder.
"You are most welcome."
She merely hid her face, the fear she had smothered escaping as tears that wet his jacket.
"You are alright, Doris, and you did very well."
"I thought I was never gonna get outta there." She paused, then squeezed tighter. "I'm glad you came."
Came back. Came today. The phrase carried both meanings, and both combined with their conversation to imply a worrisome third. Jackson reached them before he could form a response.
"Doris!" The young man hit his knees, including Holmes in the embrace that claimed his sister. "Thank you," he whispered just loudly enough for Holmes to hear.
"Are either of you injured?"
Agar's bag dropped to the ground on Holmes' left, and the doctor himself kneeled a moment later. Doris pushed away from her brother to indicate a negative.
"Just a few scrapes. Mr. Holmes pulled me out of the way."
Agar directed the question at Holmes, but he merely shook his head. The equally small scrapes on his elbow did not qualify as "injury," and he needed to get to Simpson's, anyway.
"What were you doing in the wall?" Jones moved closer, George next to him, as Holmes gained his feet.
"Trying to find a hidden room for a safe house," Jackson replied, one arm still around his sister. "There's an adult gang near here that doesn't like us much, but they like the tunnels even less. We're looking for a few small places we can hide some food and a blanket or two for when one of them decides to harass us. Doris was already inside when the wall started to go."
Jones glanced between them. "You live on the streets."
"Yes, sir, in a way. We live in a courtyard on the other side of town. Some of us work for Mr. Holmes, others have apprenticeships, and the oldest take care of the younger. Doris and George have spent the day alternating between hunting for food and establishing a safe house."
Jones thought for a moment before replying with something about bread. Holmes stopped listening. They did not need him to mediate, and Doris nodded at his silent question. He hurried out the other side of the alley to wave the first cab he saw.
A detour by the flat ensured Watson had not declined the invitation, but the cab still dropped him at the restaurant a few minutes early. He claimed a bench outside to scan the crowds. Watson would arrive any minute.
That man was too tall. That one was too short. Watson did not have a beard. Time passed slowly, evidenced more by the changing shadows than by a familiar face in the crowd. He checked behind him frequently, but even a scan of the restaurant revealed no sign of his friend. Holmes merely resumed his bench. Perhaps a patient had come as Watson left. He could wait a few more minutes.
Watson still did not show, however. Finally, Holmes could delay no longer. He hailed a cab. If his friend would not come to him, he would use the missed meeting as an excuse to go to his friend.
The cab stopped in front of a dark practice, and Holmes could not stifle a frown. Drawn curtains and shuttered windows gave no indication that Watson was even home. His friend might not have heard Jackson's knock over a patient, but no patient would come to an obviously empty house. Had something happened?
Silence met his knock, and he moved from the main door to the kitchen entrance. If there was a problem, Watson may open the back door when he ignored the front.
"Watson?"
No response, but movement inside announced Watson's presence. Holmes knocked again.
Still nothing.
His worry only increasing, Holmes fumbled for his key. The door swung open with the creak of rusted hinges.
"Watson?"
No answer.
Cobwebs covered much of the cooking space. Empty cabinets stood open. The stale remains of a piece of bread had crumbled onto the plate on the table. A used tea bag stained the counter. The space dedicated to the practice might be cleaner, but Watson's personal kitchen had remained unused for far longer than the week Watson had stayed at Baker Street. The small patch of functional space indicated only tea, coffee, and the occasional loaf of bread. Could Watson have been using the practice's smaller kitchen to make meals?
Unlikely, but rustling came from the sitting room before he could think on it further. Holmes abandoned the empty kitchen to follow the noise.
Watson sat in his chair, staring blankly through a dying fire as Doris had described. He still wore yesterday's suit, deep shadows revealed a sleepless night, and he somehow looked more drawn than he had the day before. Holmes' frown deepened as he moved closer.
"Alright, Watson?"
No response, but Watson inhaled deeply, as if just waking though his eyes had been open. A too-hollow gaze blinked the sitting room into focus, then he sighed. His thin hand retrieved the empty mug from the side table before he painfully gained his feet. He visibly startled when he noticed Holmes not three steps away.
"Oh. Hello." A feigned smile of greeting could not renew the light that had dimmed since yesterday. "What are you doing here?"
What was that? Why are you sitting in an empty house? Why did you leave if you did not have patients?
"You never showed at Simpson's," Holmes replied with a faint scowl. He stepped forward to scan his friend in the dim light. "You are alright?"
"Fine," Watson said immediately, his tone firmly closing the topic. "Since when were you expecting me at Simpson's? I told you I had appointments today."
A pointed glance surveyed the darkened house and the lack of visitors. If Watson had had appointments, they had canceled before dawn, but Holmes did not comment.
"Did you not receive my telegram?"
"No." Watson limped past him to set the mug on the counter. "When did you telegram?"
"Earlier this morning." Holmes paused, noting everything from the questioning gaze to the wary hope that repeatedly sparked and died in Watson's face. What would cause this cautious withdrawal when Watson obviously wanted to spend time with him?
"Join me now?" he tried. "I have nothing pressing the rest of today."
The hope that had sputtered at Holmes' scrutiny slowly reappeared, somewhat less wary, and Watson nodded. At least he would not turn Holmes away.
Poor Watson sure is struggling. Do you think Holmes can figure out what's going on? Don't forget to drop your thoughts below. Reviews are always very much appreciated :)
Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter one!
Jean-Moddalle: they are good at that, aren't they? lol. leave it to the creativity of a child to get themselves stuck in a brick wall (or just Doris. Doris is rather unique that way. redheaded Firecracker)
Fireguardian: happy to have you following along! hope you continue to enjoy :D
