Watson woke slowly, mostly because of the crick in his neck. It dimly registered that he had fallen asleep in his chair; his bad leg attested to that. The fire had died down to deep red embers and a smoky odor permeated the air. That and something foul. Watson groaned as he forced himself further into consciousness. Holmes must have opened a window; the whole room reeked of a garbage flow on the Thames. The rustling near the sitting room door dragged him further out of his haze of unconsciousness, and he listened with half an ear as the familiar footsteps of a weary Holmes slogged across the carpet. There was an odd note to the footsteps, however; they dragged a bit more than usual, and to an uneven cadence. He must have been there for several minutes already; Watson had a hazy recollection of starting at the sound of the door opening down on the ground floor, and of keys falling to the floor in the foyer. Watson could also hear Holmes breathing, long pants that shuddered from his lungs, as if he had sprinted across London and only just stopped running, and was furthermore trying to hide his winded state.
Watson sat up in a rush, book tumbling from his lap and sloughing off his knees. Holmes caught it with deft fingers before it hit the floor and Watson watched him blearily in the half light of the dying fire, too many shadows to discern anything other than that Holmes had thumbed Watson's place in the book and was drawing something off of the mantle to mark it with. "Holmes? What are you – god, it's you that smells."
Holmes paused in his movements long enough to apparently contemplate a number of his usual witty retorts – something about a case or a fight, or the scent of victory, or a tale of an unlikely adventure that accosted him on the way home, something grand and embellished and of his own imagining, like that damn jar of fruit flies he had once collected – but no words came from him. Holmes sort of stuttered in place in front of the fire and then finished his bookmarking. Then he folded the tome closed and set it on the mantle without turning around.
This odd behavior unsettled Watson and he leaned across the arm of his chair to turn up the wick on his reading lamp. He managed a glance at his pocket watch as he straightened, which he had set on the table before undoing his collar to relax earlier that evening. It was past three in the morning. "Good god, Holmes. Where have you been? It's nearly dawn."
Holmes' voice came out as a scratchy rasp when he softly replied, "Walking home."
"Walking?" Watson blinked, head canted to the side. It wasn't like Holmes to be so subdued, not even in his tone. At least, not subdued in that particular manner, as if he feared being struck for too insolent or brazen a sound – like the child of too-stern parents, stifling the noise of his own voice. "I thought you were at the ring tonight."
"I was," Holmes said, still hoarse.
"And you walked all that way home? Whatever for?" It was easily seven miles from the Punch Bowl back to Baker Street. No wonder Holmes was only just getting in.
Holmes shrugged, began to pick at his lip, and then glanced at his fingers before he dropped them back to his side, as if he were startled to have found them there.
Watson narrowed his eyes, his gaze critical in a medical way. "I say, old man. Are you alright?" Then Watson's thoughts darkened. "Have you been at the needle?"
Holmes stepped to the side, toward his own armchair which sat across from Watson, his gait stiff. "I assure you, Doctor, I am quite sober." The mockery of addressing Watson by his title did not carry to his voice.
That tone again, Watson thought; the deathly gentleness of it unnerved him. Just to break the odd silence, he snapped, "Well then, either sit down, or tell me what you're on about."
Holmes wavered a bit on his feet, which was not all that out of the ordinary for Holmes in one of his drug-addled bleak moods, but things had been going well lately, and Holmes had just stated that he had not taken one of his many chemicals; it was not something he tended to lie about, no matter that they fought over it so often when he did indulge. And Holmes didn't sit down; he merely stood there with his back to Watson, shoulders tense and yet settled back, staring at the chair.
"Holmes." Watson sat forward a bit, the better to observe his flat mate. "Holmes, sit down and tell me what's going on in your head. You're worrying me."
"I do apologize, old chap." Holmes continued to regard the chair with an odd sort of wary discomfort. After a moment, he seemed to snap himself back to some semblance of normalcy, and he fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. When he found none there – where, Watson wondered, was his cigarette case? – Holmes patted down the mantle in search of a stray cigarette left lying about. It was only after he found one and drew it to his lips that Watson noticed the way his hands shook. Around the cigarette in his mouth, Holmes added ever-too-politely, "And I prefer to stand, thank you. I am not tired."
"Dear god." Watson was on his feet before he even registered the protest of his old wound. A grunt of pain left him, quickly suppressed, and then he had his hand on Holmes' shoulder, trying to peer past it to catch a glimpse of Holmes' face. "Holmes, what's happened? Are you ill? Injured?" A few scratches and the shadows of bruising caught Watson's eye in the brief flare of the match; the room was too dim for him to see much clearly, but Watson immediately thought concussion. It would explain the strange behavior, to be sure. "Come down to my practice room, Holmes. Let me clean you up." He tugged gently at Holmes' arm.
Holmes tensed and twisted away from him, his movements unsteady as he stepped to put his chair between them. "It's nothing, Watson. Don't trouble yourself." He shook the match out and flicked it into the grate.
Watson crossed his arms, defiant and righteously indignant now that he imagined he had solved the mystery behind Holmes' behavior. It offended his sensibilities as a doctor to let him retreat now that Watson believed him to be injured from the fight. "I am troubling myself whether you approve or not. Now either come with me, or I will bring my bag up here and dog you about the room until you surrender. I won't have you bleeding to death of internal injuries, or lapsing into a coma from getting your head knocked soundly about by some brute of a pugilist."
"I am not concussed."
"You are not a doctor, Holmes. Come. Now."
Holmes shook his head. He wasn't normally so reluctant, not with Watson, not in years. "I am fine, Doctor. It's fine."
Watson's eyes narrowed of their own accord. "No," he countered simply. "Holmes, you're acting strangely." His ire at Holmes stubborn refusals bled off until only a sick worry remained. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."
Inexplicably, Holmes refused again, shaking his head harder this time. If Watson didn't know him so well, he would be tempted to ascribe a peculiar sort of desperation to Holmes' denials at this point. "I am tired. This can wait until morning."
"You are never tired, Holmes." Watson's crossed arms loosened and dropped. "You avoid sleep like the plague."
Irrationally, Holmes insisted, "I wish to go to bed."
Watson blinked at the thready waver of Holmes' voice, and that alone nearly caused him to cave, to let Holmes go. It was also, paradoxically, what hardened his resolve. Something was very wrong. With an infinite gentleness, Watson stepped closer, one hand outstretched in a silent plea, until Holmes had no choice but to either move away again or look at it. "Holmes. Tell me what's happened. Please tell me."
Holmes stared the hand as if he weren't sure what to make of it, as if he might not even know to whom it belonged, and then his eyes flickered up to meet Watson's, his gaze sluggish. "I lost your money."
Watson's brows fought to pull down along with the rest of his suddenly frowning face, but he kept them level. "My money? This is about money?"
In too much of a rush, Holmes promised, "I'll pay you back."
"No," Watson replied, appalled. "Holmes, it was a gamble. If you lost the fight, you hardly need – "
"I didn't lose the fight!" Holmes exclaimed with an irrational degree of anger. "I lost your money."
Watson stared at him, his hand still raised between them. "What, you were mugged?"
Holmes skittered back a step and took to scouring his fingernails, the cigarette dangling precariously between two fingers. Finally, after Watson had written off the possibility of getting a response, Holmes mumbled, "No. They gave it back. But Top Man has my watch; he'll probably pawn it, so I can get that back in a few days too. It's okay."
Watson's eyes widened a fraction as he silently mouthed Top Man into the otherwise silent room. Just for clarity's sake, he asked, "They took your watch and your cigarette case – " He was guessing on the second one, but since Holmes didn't seem to have it anymore, he considered it a safe bet – "but they gave the winnings back?"
Holmes's eyes skittered up to pierce Watson's again, only for a moment, and then they dropped off to the side as if the sight of Watson's bewilderment had burned him. Then he gave a halting nod, his gaze caught in the periphery of the room.
"Why would they do that?" Watson demanded.
A nonspecific shudder coursed through Holmes' frame where he stood on visibly uncertain feet, cigarette forgotten in his hand as it dropped ash on the carpet. "Said it's only right to pay…to pay the…"
The helpless gesture that Holmes finished with didn't really tell Watson anything, but the rest of it clicked somewhere in his mind. He felt the urge to swallow as his nostrils drew in, eyelids lowered in a farce of languidity over his slackening face. It was all he could manage to breathe, "Oh my god."
"I'll pay you back," Holmes insisted again hollowly, as if fixating on that one point were keeping him sane. "I shouldn't have left it."
Watson was shaking his head by now, horrified and furious in a remote way that he could hardly quantify. In a shaky voice, he replied, "Holmes, I don't give a damn about the money."
"It's my fault it's gone. They gave it back, and – "
"Hang the damn money!" Watson roared. He immediately regretted it.
Holmes startled backwards and thumped against the wall next to the fireplace. "But the rent," he quibbled. "We have to pay the rent."
Watson didn't know why that, of all things, should finally bring a sting to his eyes, but it did. "God, Holmes. We're not poor anymore – you didn't lose our rent. And even if you had, it wouldn't matter."
"But it's your money."
Watson covered his mouth with one trembling hand and blinked to clear his vision. He would not succumb, not here, not now. When he was certain he could speak without the thickness marring his words, Watson let his hand fall away and merely said, "There is no debt between us."
Holmes' eyes wandered aimlessly around the sitting room to Watson's right. "And I ruined your shirt." He plucked restless fingers at the stained and muddied fabric he still wore, noticing the cigarette again in the process. It had burned nearly all the way down and he stared at it in confusion, as if he didn't recall lighting it. Then he dismissed it, tossing it into the grate in a nearly normal gesture of impatience, and met Watson's eyes as he usually would. "At least allow me to reimburse the cost of your shirt."
"Fine," Watson agreed, if only to forestall any more fits of irrationality. "But if you try to convince me that a shirt costs fifty pounds, so help me, Holmes…"
Holmes nodded and attempted a quirky smile. "We'll go to the tailor together so there will be no room for deception."
"Very well," Watson whispered. He continued to stare at Holmes, however, seriously disconcerted by his oscillating behavior, and abruptly said, "Allow me to treat you."
Holmes' tenuous grasp on himself seemed to fade as his posture folded inward. He maintained eye contact, though; Watson considered that a point in his favor.
"You could have injuries that you're unaware of," Watson pressed gently, his mind attuned to the wariness in Holmes' expression. "Please, let me make certain you're alright."
Holmes' eyes lowered, flickered back up to Watson's for a split second, and then meandered away altogether. But he nodded once he couldn't see Watson's expression anymore.
It was not possible for Watson to contain his sigh of relief, but after letting it out, he immediately forced his mind into medical contours, for Holmes' sake. If he didn't keep his head about this, he couldn't effectively tend to Holmes' injuries. He needed to maintain his cool exterior long enough for that, at least. With manufactured neutrality, Watson enjoined, "Let's go to the washroom. You need a bath."
Holmes nodded, but he made no move to leave his corner behind the armchair, or the patch of wall that seemed to be supporting a majority of his weight. When Watson sidestepped the chair and reached out, Holmes didn't react to the hand that grasped his shoulder, so Watson tugged him gently forward. He didn't know what to make of it when Holmes twitched and looked at Watson's collar, and then Watson suddenly had an armful of the man. It took him precious seconds to realize what was going on, and then he grabbed Holmes back and crushed him close. The force of the embrace had to hurt, but all Holmes did was lean into him and wrap his arms around Watson's torso, drawing fistfuls of Watson's shirt into his fingers to anchor his hands against Watson's spine, his face buried under Watson's chin. Holmes' chest heaved once in an enormous sigh and it seemed like the tension finally drained from him with the force of that tattered exhale, as if it were finally alright now.
That nearly undid Watson altogether. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the stench of alley filth and of what must have been other men that clung to Holmes' body, and ducked his head in against Holmes' shoulder. He had to hunch a little bit due to their height disparity, but it hardly mattered. He could feel Holmes shaking, and then to his mounting horror, Holmes began to speak, his lips pressed to Watson's starched collar. He apologized for clinging to Watson like a distraught maiden, and then he protested when Watson excused it. A few mumbles about shoes came out next, followed by an incomprehensible string of what must have been observations of his attackers – "There were forty two buttons, Watson. I'm certain there were. I marked it." And then he finally babbled that he hadn't understood what they were doing, and he thought it was just a mugging, and he'd taunted them before he comprehended the truth. He lamented in the third person that Watson would be so mad at him for egging them on because he never knew when to shut up, as if Watson weren't right there, wrapped halfway around him.
That was when it truly hit Watson, how appalling this crime really was. Somewhere between Holmes' mumblings that he hadn't understood their intentions, and that he'd tried not to react but he didn't know how to stop it – somewhere in the midst of that, It became clear to Watson that not only had they attacked and brutalized his very dearest friend, but the bastards had taken his innocence too, in every sense of the word.
Watson felt his own chest hitch and he squeezed the breath right out of Holmes just to stop him from saying more. He couldn't hear this right now; he couldn't listen, and then stop himself from going out like a madman to beat someone to death with his bare hands and then empty his revolver into a cold body just to sooth the last dregs of his temper. Watson didn't know how many there had been, only that there had been more than one, and he felt impotent with rage over knowing what they had done to his friend – to Sherlock Holmes – to make him come home like this and throw himself into Watson's arms like a child too traumatized to cry. Because Holmes wasn't crying; he was shaking and mumbling, and his breathing was ragged and chopped, but Watson could feel the dryness of Holmes' cheeks against the skin of his own neck. Some pack of blackguards had grievously mistreated his friend, and Watson would decidedly wreak his revenge for it, but not yet. Right now, all Watson could do was swear over and over, "I'll see them hang, Holmes," in a voice that could not have been steady or hale to save his life. "My word, I'll see them all dead."
The worst part for Watson had to be that he didn't think Holmes was even listening to him; he just seemed so relieved to be there, breathing in Watson's scent and clutching the solidity of Watson's shirt in his trembling hands. Holmes even said at some point that it was all he'd come home for, because Watson was waiting by the fire with his book. And then he stiffened and forcefully asserted, "I couldn't let you find my body, Watson. I had to let them – I couldn't let you find it – you'd have to bury me if you found it." And then he apologized for that too, for making Watson care about him enough that it would matter if Holmes died.
Watson had no idea how he managed to pry Holmes off of him and then get him down the stairs to the washroom; it all seemed a blur after Watson himself began to quake and threaten all sorts of cruelties if Holmes dared to apologize for such a thing ever again. He left Holmes standing in the middle of the gaslight-illuminated room while he tripped back up the stairs to retrieve clothes and a blanket, his medical bag, and Holmes' dressing gown.
Holmes had gone silent and still by the time Watson returned, and he didn't argue when Watson turned his back and ordered him to strip. Watson slipped the dressing gown over Holmes' shoulders himself without looking away from the ceiling. He had already seen far more than he wished in the harsh light: the ligature marks on Holmes' throat, the fingerprints bruised into his jaw, the angry chafe marks on his wrists, the blood crusted in the corners of his mouth that led Watson to believe that he'd been gagged for at least part of it…the welted mark where his neck met his shoulder, so like those left by teeth…
Without speaking, Watson shoved Holmes' clothes into a sack to save for evidence, pointedly not thinking about the fact that Holmes scarf and belt were conspicuously absent and that woolen fibers would leave just such marks on Holmes' wrists if pulled too tight. He set the entire bundle out in the foyer, then drew a shallow breath to fortify himself before he returned to the washroom and shut the door.
Watson failed on his first attempt to call Holmes' name, and then croaked out, "Here, old boy," instead. Holmes barely met his eyes as he turned, and then he stood without complaint while Watson pumped water into the wash basin and ran a wet cloth over the scruff of stubble on Holmes' cheeks, frightfully passive, one hand closed over the collar of the dressing gown to hold it shut. Watson was accustomed to the unending activity of Holmes' limbs, to the ever-changing, subtle expressiveness of his face; he didn't know quite what to do about the way Holmes merely stood there, still as a statue, his eyes roving at random over bits of Watson's figure – just tiny, flickering movements so languid that Watson diagnosed shock without thinking. When he pressed the cloth against Holmes' neck, Holmes swayed with the pressure, giving ground without realizing it, loose and detached and hardly himself anymore.
It startled Watson when Holmes laid his fingers on Watson's cheek, and even more so when Holmes admonished, "You shouldn't get so worked up, old man."
Watson swallowed, his face crinkling as he averted his gaze and raised his own fingers to feel the wetness that Holmes had sought to touch. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm very…" He didn't want to say upset because he didn't want Holmes to start apologizing again, so he eventually cleared his throat and settled on, "I'm very angry."
Holmes met his gaze, brown eyes soft in the gas lights. Very quietly, he inquired, "At me?"
"For you," Watson corrected in like manner.
"Ah." Holmes' hand drifted back to his side and his gaze went with it. "I understand. I should be very angry too, if it were you."
Watson nodded because he didn't trust himself to speak, then busied himself at wringing the cloth out in clean water. With his eyes trained on the contents of his medical bag, Watson said, "I'll need to examine you now. You may want to sit." Then a sickening thought occurred to him and he squinched his eyes shut to ask, "Can you sit?"
A pregnant pause, and then Holmes flatly replied, "I would prefer not to."
Watson shook his head in denial, but he had already known… "Kneel, then. You're exhausted. I don't want you to pass out." He was going to kill them. Slowly. He was going to feed them their own manhoods on a gilded plate.
Behind him, he heard Holmes' bare feet shifting on the floor, and then the faint rustle of cloth as he sank gingerly down. His voice floated up a moment later, subdued and yet reassuring in tone. "It's not that bad, Watson, I promise. They were gentle in that regard, I think. Top Man eased the way with his fingers. I do recall reading that it's the proper way to prepare for such things."
"God…" Watson stifled himself in his palm, the other braced on the dry sink as an unexpected wave of nausea momentarily overwhelmed him. It passed quickly and he forced himself to respond, "That was considerate of them."
"Indeed. Watson, I beg you, contain yourself. I'm fine."
Watson breathed through his mouth even though it was covered in fingers. "I know."
Politely puzzled now, Holmes asked, "Is this still your anger?"
"Yes, it is still my anger," Watson ground out. He felt as if pebbles had been shoved down his throat. "It is my most profound anger."
"You do have quite the temper, Mother Hen."
"I shall have to try harder to contain it, then." Watson swiped the heel of his hand over his cheeks and then cleared his nose before he picked up his medical bag. He kept Holmes in his periphery as he turned and knelt in front of him, reaching back to bring the wash basin to the floor as well. He was aware of Holmes studying him, and he suspected that he looked a right blotchy mess – nothing like a man in a foul temper. Holmes said nothing more of it, however, and for that, Watson was grateful. "Just bare your shoulders for now. You may keep your lower half covered."
Holmes didn't obey right away, and Watson made himself look to determine the reason. Holmes had managed to sit mostly on his left hip, both of his legs curled up to one side, but he had his head bowed so that Watson couldn't read the expression on his face, and his knuckles had gone white where they held the dressing closed over his throat,
Watson whet his mouth before murmuring, "Let me." He watched his own hands come up as if they didn't belong to him, and he worked the fabric gently from Holmes' fingers, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle on the back of Holmes' hand as he did so.
Eventually, the cloth came away and Watson fumbled against Holmes' subdued and yet persistent reluctance. His hands posed no true resistance as he sought to keep them raised against Watson's ministrations, and yet they were a definite hindrance. Watson had to keep enjoining him to trust him, and he promised over and over not to hurt him or to comment on any of the marks he might find. What finally made Holmes relent was Watson's muddled assurance that he thought no less of Holmes for this – that he was only glad that Holmes had come home to him afterwards. Obvious shame colored Holmes' cheeks at that, but he glanced up regardless to read the truth of the statement on Watson's face. It sufficed; he allowed Watson to lay his hands aside and brush the dressing gown down his arms to gather in the crooks of his elbows. It left Holmes swallowing convulsively, however, and he refused to look away from the bathtub fixtures that he had trained his eyes on, his breathing forced and uneven.
Watson focused his attentions on the bite mark first because it offended him the most at the moment. Such a trophy should be borne after making love in the passionate manner, not as a blatant reminder of such a depraved assault. "How many were there?"
Holmes ducked his head a fraction and Watson felt Holmes' breath stir his hair. "Four."
"You called one of them Top Man." He didn't want to ask these things, to hear the answers, and yet he needed them all the same. "He took your watch. He was the ring leader?"
"No," Holmes replied softly. "Fourth Man was the leader. He gave my watch to them as payment."
Watson bit his lip for a moment and reached for the antiseptic. "Describe him. Fourth Man."
"I…cannot." Holmes grasped Watson's sleeve such that Watson doubted he was aware of it. "He remained in the shadows for most of it. To watch. I believe he was a gentleman. He wore richer clothes than the others." As an afterthought, Holmes mumbled, "And he didn't smell as foul."
Watson nodded and forced back the sickening knot in his throat. "You say he paid the others for their trouble. They targeted you?"
"They knew my name."
Watson sniffed, but only to keep his airways clear. Thankfully, his hands had ceased their trembling so that he could continue to treat his friend.
"I was unforgivably arrogant," Holmes said out of the blue. "I saw the three behind me, but I failed to notice the one in front, in the alleyway. I wasn't paying attention."
"Holmes, no part of this is your fault."
"You are always telling me to take care, and I did not."
Watson paused his ministrations to cup Holmes' jaw and force his head up. He ignored the way Holmes sought not to cringe, studiously avoiding Watson gaze all the same. "Holmes, desist this instant. This was not for your lack of care. You were sought out on purpose. They knew you."
"I should ever be prepared," Holmes countered, blinking off to the side. His voice carried a vicious undercurrent of self recrimination. "I should be vigilant. I know better."
"They knew you."
"Yes," Holmes breathed. But it didn't seem to convince him of anything other than that he should expect to be a target of the sort of men he hunted.
Watson released him, his stomach churning with emotions he couldn't even begin to put words to. And he a writer. Since he couldn't seem to convince Holmes not to blame himself, and he didn't want to start any sort of argument over it, Watson backtracked. "Tell me about Top Man. What did he look like, what's his profession, where does he live?"
Holmes shuddered and shrank a bit under Watson's hands, which were once again absently cataloguing injuries and marks that should not have marred his pale skin.
As a sort of afterthought, Watson remarked, "From the bruising, you've probably suffered some damage to your right kidney. You can expect to find blood in your urine for a week or so."
Holmes grunted in acknowledgement. It was nothing he hadn't dealt with before, actually; he managed to do himself serious injury on an almost monthly basis, between cases, chemical experiments, boxing, and just general Holmes-iness. "I am not surprised."
At some point, Watson realized that he had stopped treating Holmes, and was now merely touching him lightly here and there: some fingers on Holmes' elbow, a brush of the hand past Holmes' cheek, an incomprehensible dance of their fingers, which never made it to the point of interlacing or gripping, and yet they still interacted in a vaguely comforting manner. To Watson, at least. It was the flinch the Holmes gave – and obviously tried to gloss over – at Watson's hand on his face that alerted Watson to what he was doing, and he quickly drew back. He would have preferred not to feel shame at what he had been doing, but the heat and the color to his cheeks came anyway. After clearing his throat in a hasty, transparent manner, Watson reminded him, "Top Man. Tell me everything you know of him, Holmes. Now, while the memory is still fresh."
Holmes looked down, his lower lip caught between his teeth. If Watson hadn't known him as well as he did, he may have been moved to call the sheen over Holmes' irises a film of unshed tears. But even now, Watson could not imagine Holmes actually crying, even in prelude form. Almost desperate, Holmes breathed, "Watson, I beg of you. Must I go over it again just to satisfy your curiosity?"
"I swear to you, Holmes, I would much rather go on to the grave never speaking of this again. But I cannot." Watson leaned forward in hopes of catching Holmes' eye; he failed, but implored anyway, "Tell me, Holmes. If I can find them – "
"No." Holmes dragged his gaze up to Watson's just long enough to pierce it, and then shook his head as an excuse to look away again. "You will not go after them. You would only get yourself killed." He hesitated, seeming uncertain as to whether he should add to that, and then whispered, "Or worse."
Watson stared hard at the top of Holmes' head, hair askew and matted and in bad need of a thorough washing, then snapped, "I must do something. I cannot sit idle while you suffer."
"You are doing enough already." Holmes murmured, his softened tone a marked contrast to Watson's rapidly escalating one.
Watson wished he could tell if it were emotion that so gentled Holmes' voice, or his swollen and bruised throat. "You do not intend to let this go." It was a flat statement – nearly an order, at that.
"If there is anything to be done, then let Scotland Yard do it. Not you."
"Then you consent to allow me to send a wire in the morning?" Watson pressed. "To bring Lestrade here? You will speak to him?" Many in Holmes' place would not, Watson knew; the indignity could bind a man's tongue like little else. It would hurt Watson to know that Holmes would rather confide in a casual acquaintance than in him, but this was not about Watson's comfort or feelings; he would make himself be content as long as someone knew, because the alternative was to have no one looking for the fiends, and that was not something that Watson could stomach. When Holmes appeared indisposed to answer, Watson asked, "Someone else, perhaps? Gregson? Jones? Name him, and I will see to it that he comes."
"Watson…"
Watson's next plea came out a veritable hiss, and not a very solicitous one at that, but he could not amend his tone. "It will be one of us, Holmes. Me, or a Yard man, I care not which. But you will not allow this – this assault on your person to go unaddressed. Do you understand me? I won't allow it."
"I don't – " Holmes cut himself off and winced down at his fingers as if he had just done something painful with them.
Watson could feel his entire demeanor gentle. "Holmes, look at me." He extended a hand but stopped himself before he touched Holmes' face.
A pair of unnaturally bright brown eyes contemplated those digits for a moment, and then Holmes shied from them. "Don't."
Watson closed his fingers around his own palm and withdrew it. "Finish the thought, Holmes. What don't you want?"
"I don't – " Holmes stopped again, visibly biting his tongue, and picked at his knuckles. His voice unbearably softer this time, he finished, "They'll think… Watson, imagine…what they would think."
"They would think that you were alone and outnumbered," Watson replied stonily.
"No," Holmes countered, his voice hollowed like an old tree stump. "They would not."
Watson gave a minute shake of his head and leaned closer, if only to hear Holmes better when his voice seemed so quiet that a gust of wind could have occluded it. "I know that this is not easy, old man. It is embarrassing – mortifying, even. But that is no reason to let it go unspoken." Watson hesitated, hoping for some sort of reaction, but he received none. "Is it your reputation you fear for?"
Holmes made a noncommittal sound and grew to fidget while obviously trying to remain still. "It was not…could not have been as bad as you imagine, Watson. It was nothing. Now please, let it go."
Watson bristled. "I will not. Holmes, I can see how bad it was; I have no need of imagining worse."
"Just stop!"
The abrupt fury startled Watson, but less than it would have in a different context. And indeed, Holmes seemed surprised at the edge to his own voice; he deflated as quickly as he had tensed to yell. After taking a measured breath, Watson pointed out, "You have trusted me this far already. Let me act, Holmes. If you cannot bring yourself to speak to an inspector, then allow me to know the details so that I may record all of your observations and pass them on. I can say that I have a gentleman patient who is leery of involving the Yard. They need never know your name or connect you to this in any way."
"You are lying," Holmes stated flatly. "They would have to know eventually, if not from you, then from them."
"It would not be made public," Watson insisted. "Holmes, I know you are frightened – "
"I am not frightened!"
Watson's protests died with a small series of uncertain nods, and then he bent himself to cleaning the grit from Holmes' left hand, from his abraded knuckles. He knew damn well that his next words were meant to be a manipulation, and yet that didn't stop him. "You could forget an important detail if you wait too long to put it down."
If Holmes saw through the ploy for information, he didn't show it, though he didn't cooperate either. He made a feeble attempt to snort in contempt of the notion, but he appeared faintly ill afterwards. At length, he merely stared at the overlay of Watson's fingers and his own knuckles, and let out a distressed sigh. His voice was hardly fit for a great detective when he fairly begged, "Watson, please. I'd rather not talk about this right now ."
"Holmes – "
"I assure you, I will not forget."
Watson's mouth went dry and he found his hands fumbling with a flask of medicinal alcohol. "No," he breathed. "I don't suppose you will." Without much thought, Watson poured some of the antiseptic onto a cloth and took to cleaning the cuts and abrasions in front of him. He didn't so much refuse to contemplate their origins, as simply have no energy left for it. As he worked, he lowered his voice until it was barely audible, even to his own ears, and tried to explain himself in terms that Holmes would understand. "You must let me act, Holmes." He moved on to Holmes' wrists and took a moment to pick bits of woolen thread from the raw chafe marks there with a pair of tweezers. "If I have nothing to distract myself with at the moment, then I will soon be of little use to you."
"You were ever a man of action, my dear Watson."
Watson nodded, numb on every level. "Can you expect otherwise of me now?" His eyes flickered to Holmes's other hand, twisted up in the hem of his dressing gown, and then on to the pale skin of his abdomen, now marred by the angry prints of frightfully large and brutal hands. Watson picked the washing cloth out of the water bowl and tried to be gentle about scrubbing away the grime that stained his skin. "I am not capable of doing nothing about this, Holmes. You may consider it a weakness if you wish, but if that is so, then I embrace it."
Holmes didn't reply right away, and Watson was able to distract himself for the most part, his hands divorced from the rest of his body as he tended to a number of crescent-shaped gouge marks – fingernails that had broken the skin. Eventually, he heard Holmes whisper, "It is not a weakness."
Watson couldn't be sure that Holmes meant to be heard, so he kept quiet and coaxed Holmes to lean forward to allow Watson easier access to his back. Holmes squirmed some as Watson prodded to check for broken ribs, but it could have been any kind of discomfort that prompted it; aside from the bruised right kidney, there was a mottled purplish mark across Holmes' stomach that might have come from a knee to the gut, but it seemed that few other blows had been landed to Holmes' body. The most obvious evidence of struggling came from the finger marks imprinted on Holmes' arms and neck, and the fabric burns on his wrists. The two blows to his torso could just as easily have been obtained at the Punch Bowl, which led Watson to wonder if it only appeared that Holmes hadn't struggled much, or if he actually hadn't.
Dismissing that for contemplation later – or never – Watson angled Holmes upright again and moved the disinfectant cloth up to Holmes' face. The cuts at the corners of his mouth needed to be cleaned out, and one cheek carried an abrasion that looked to have come from being raked against the ground; there was dirt in it. Holmes leaned away from Watson's hand, so Watson raised his other to cup the back of Holmes' head, thinking only to hold him still for a moment. Holmes ducked to twist out of his grasp and scooted backwards, his eyes on the ground, and then on the wall over the bathtub.
Watson sighed in frustration. "Holmes, you must let me clean the wounds, or they'll become infected." When he got no reply, Watson pursed his lips and concentrated on refolding the cloth he held, mildly ashamed at having expressed frustration in the first place. Holmes was in shock, shivering still though he had ceased to quake as he had in the sitting room; he wasn't accountable for himself at the moment. "Shall we come back to that one, then?"
Holmes lowered his head until his eyes found Watson's, as if by accident. Watson could actually see the struggle that Holmes made to bring himself into the moment and catch up to what Watson was talking about. He didn't reply; in fact, he seemed to dim right in front of Watson, his gaze tracing a sagging line back to the floor.
Perhaps more sharply than he ought to, Watson snapped, "Holmes." He only meant to recapture Holmes' lagging attention, not startle him.
Holmes had never been particularly jumpy before, or flighty, though he occasionally let his eyes glaze or shut entirely to block out the shock and confusion of too much noise and chaos in a crowded place. Watson should have known better; Holmes was not himself right now. It wasn't even anything dramatic. Holmes merely stammered a faint breath devoid of actual syllables, then hastened to look at his hands as he twisted them up in his dressing gown.
Watson shut his eyes for a moment in self recrimination and then opened them to lay a hand on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes flinched, hard enough to shake Watson's hand off, and then he went right back to worrying the fabric between his fingers. "Holmes… God, I'm sorry. I just…I don't know how to deal with this. I'm…trying." He waited in vain for an acknowledgement, a reaction – anything – but when Holmes merely absorbed himself deeper in his distractions, Watson shook his head, his horror and grief overwhelming him. His friend had been raped. His friend – his very dearest, closest friend, had been dragged off of the street by four men, held down, bound, and sodomized. It wasn't as if he had just gotten into a brawl on the way home. They had stripped him bare to the soul and used him like a common whore. He had not been Sherlock Holmes at that moment. He had just been a man too small and weak, for all his cunning and skill, to overcome four others.
They had done something to Holmes that couldn't be fixed with salve and antiseptic, and Holmes…emotionally unable to deal with even simple things like common friendship and reciprocity, and determining that discussion of murder methods did not make appropriate topics for dinner conversation…Holmes the hopeless logician was stuck there, trying to make sense of it. Trying to apply his great mind to unraveling a feeling that had little to do with rationality. And Watson had yelled at him for it.
"Did I tell you about the buttons, Watson?"
Watson lifted his eyes but not his head, drawing a faint and off-kiltered breath through his open mouth. "Yes, Holmes." He spoke hoarsely, as if to a child; he couldn't not anymore. "Yes, you did. Forty two of them."
"Right," Holmes replied. He sounded normal, which was all wrong and hollow now, here with finger marks still bruised into his skin and the crescents of fingernails dug in red lines about his hip bones. "And the cuff links – Watson, I require a pencil. They displayed a most particular pattern of tarnish. I have memorized it." He almost – almost – managed to look smug over that accomplishment.
Watson nodded numbly, trying to find the shadow of Holmes' avid self anything other than heart-rending. "I will get you a pencil."
"Thank you, Watson." Holmes still wouldn't, or else couldn't, look directly at him, though he had at least ceased to twist at the folds of his dressing gown. "You have always been very kind to me."
Under his breath, Watson merely breathed, "God." Then he heard footsteps outside the door and rested a hand on Holmes' knee to forestall any possibility of upset. "We've woken Mrs Hudson. I'll see that she returns to bed."
"Is she not allowed to be about in her own house?" Holmes' brows furrowed as Watson struggled to gain his feet. "Wait – where are you going?"
"To the hall. I'll only be a moment."
Holmes plucked at Watson's pant leg with a startling ferocity. "Watson – "
"It's only a few feet, Holmes – I'll be right by the door."
"No! Wait – Watson, wait – "
"Alright! It's okay. Calm down." Watson crouched again, ignoring the scream of his strained leg, and tore Holmes' hands from his shoulders. With those long fingers clasped in his own, Watson promised, "I won't leave the room if you don't want me to – "
"I most certainly do not! You cannot go – Watson, you must – "
"I won't! But Holmes, you must calm yourself." Watson pressed Holmes' hands together and then let go of them so that he could pull Holmes' dressing back up to his shoulders. Without comment, he pulled it securely closed and then tied the sash before lightly cupping Holmes' cheek in the hopes that it would be reassuring. Holmes threw his head aside to avoid the gesture. "Alright. I'll be right here. You'll be able to see me the whole time."
Holmes nodded vigorously, his fingers all but tearing into the fabric of his dressing gown.
Watson straightened again with one hand braced on the door jamb, just as Mrs Hudson knocked and called out a somewhat irritated complaint about the god-awful hour. "A moment, Mrs Hudson." Watson smoothed his rumpled clothes down, including the creases from where Holmes had grabbed onto him in the sitting room, and then planted his left foot so the door could only open a few inches. Through the sliver, Watson said, "I know how late it is, Mrs Hudson, but I must beg your indulgence once more. We won't be long."
Mrs Hudson looked scandalized at finding her two male lodgers closeted in the washroom together in the middle of the night. "What on earth – my god, the smell! Don't tell me he's brought some filthy experiment into my washroom. Doctor Watson, really."
"It's a medical matter, I assure you. We are very sorry to have woken you."
Something in Watson's demeanor or poise must have given away something that he hadn't intended, because Mrs Hudson closed her mouth on her next retort. She eyed Watson and then stepped back, wary and angry still, but more discerning now. "You're paler than I've ever seen you. Was the boxing ring so cruel tonight?"
Watson pulled in a breath through his nose and glanced over to where Holmes sat, staring at an empty spot of air somewhere midway to Watson's feet. He tore his eyes away and fixed Mrs Hudson with what he hoped looked like his normal doctor's demeanor. "There was an incident. I assure you, everything is – "
"What's happened?" The last vestige of anger left her and she craned her neck in a vain bid to see past him. "Is Mister Holmes alright?"
God, Watson thought. How in Heaven's name was he supposed to answer that? "I haven't time to explain, Mrs Hudson. If you'll excuse me." He pulled back, intending to shut the door on that look on her face, the one that betrayed suspicions that probably hit close to the actual mark, at least on some points.
Mrs Hudson didn't try to stop him from closing her out of the room, and yet something on her face made him pause. When he steadily met her gaze, his own expression crafted to warn her off of saying anything at all, she merely stated, "I'll put a kettle on, Doctor. If you require assistance, I'll be in the kitchen."
Watson wasn't entirely sure what to make of her solicitousness. Mrs Hudson was often kind to him, but she never expressed anything other than irritation toward Holmes. Her reaction now, he was almost certain, had nothing to do with himself; the way her eyes trailed to the door, as if she could see Holmes through it, spoke to some brand of caring that Watson could not remember seeing her direct toward Holmes before. Then again, if she truly felt no sympathy or fondness at all toward her most difficult lodger, why had she consented to allow him to stay for so long?
Watson offered a guarded nod in response and then watched her retreat into the darkness of the ground floor hallway before he quietly closed the door. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood for a moment, waiting for the sound of her footsteps to fade away. He could feel Holmes' eyes on him, actually looking at him this time, and Watson swiveled his head to meet them. Holmes merely blinked at him, and Watson dropped his gaze; there was a lack of affect to Holmes' features that he could not bring himself to see. "Come on, Holmes." Watson reached down to grasp Holmes' shoulder. "Let's finish cleaning you up."
Watson knelt back down in front of Holmes, then hesitated indecisively. He wanted to offer some word of encouragement, but he wasn't sure what would work best for his purposes. After a few false starts, Watson settled on, "Halfway there, old boy." Though on the inside, Watson didn't think they had gotten that far at all yet.
Holmes nodded, but to Watson's shoulder, and then he inexplicably reached out to brush some speck of dust from Watson's shirt. Once he had done so, Holmes sat back on his heels and appeared self-satisfied for the barest moment.
"Thank you." Watson cocked his head to the side, but he wasn't really sure what to make of all that. "Shall we get the rest over with?" He was not looking forward to this part, but it had to be done. The risk of injury, of tearing…if Holmes wasn't even comfortable sitting, then there was some form of damage… Watson swallowed hard and looked away as the haze of anger washed over him again. What they had done to his friend… "Holmes…the sooner we begin, the sooner you can get some sleep. Come, now." He covered one of Holmes' hands where it lay twisted in the hem of the dressing gown – long, bony fingers with an abundance of knuckles – masculine hands, and yet the violinist could be seen in the graceful curves of the digits, and the hard calluses at the tips. Those fingers tightened when Watson sought to insinuate his own beneath them, and Watson sighed in what he hoped was sympathy, rather than pity. "It's alright, Holmes. You can let go."
Watson expected reluctance at this point in the proceedings, especially when he pried Holmes' fist open and dragged it from the belt of his dressing gown. What he did not expect was for Holmes to curl so violently away from him, and then suddenly lash out when Watson refused to back off.
Watson narrowly avoided a good bump on the nose, and then he held his hands out defensively when it appeared as if Holmes might try to strike him again. "Holmes. For god's sake. It's only me."
Holmes sucked in a sharp breath and held it as the wild panic flared and then bled from his countenance. He sagged back against the wall, panting lightly, his mouth moving soundlessly as he visibly struggled to calm himself, his eyes wide as a spooked horse and fixed on the innocuous tiles of the floor between them. The trembling returned with a vengeance and Watson held himself firmly in check, lest his instinct to wrap Holmes up and crush him only make things worse.
When it appeared that Holmes had calmed, or at least that he had divorced himself once again from the moment, Watson scooted across the floor toward him. He rested a hand on Holmes' knee only to have Holmes recoil with a purely animal sound, then held his hands out and away. "Alright," Watson murmured. "Alright." He backed away toward his medical bag, nearly beside himself to see Holmes cowering against the wall with his limbs drawn in close to his body, protecting himself even from Watson's well-meant ministrations. "Holmes? Look at me, please."
Holmes made a vaguely negative sound in the back of his throat and then shook his head.
"I would like to give you a sedative," Watson pressed. "Just enough to calm you. Is that alright?"
"No."
Watson felt himself waver for a moment in sympathy, and then swallowed it back down. "Holmes, I must treat you. It's for your benefit."
"No!"
"Okay," Watson breathed. He watched Holmes trying to make himself smaller and then blinked to clear his vision, his own emotions roiling with a bewildering blend of fury and protectiveness. His hands were already sifting through his bag, and Watson glanced over at Holmes for a brief second before he turned to finding something to knock him out with. Watson tried to justify it by telling himself that Holmes was hardly in a position to know what was best for him, and yet it still felt like betraying him. This would be easier for them both, however. Watson wished for that thought to alleviate his coming guilt, but he didn't think that it would.
There was morphine, but that would require getting a needle into the man, and Watson didn't think that Holmes would let him do that right now. Besides that, Holmes was already prone to agitated sleep; morphine would make his dreams worse. Watson had chloral, but that would require him convincing Holmes to drink something, and would take too long to work. The only thing left was chloroform.
"Watson?"
"Just a moment, Holmes." Watson used his body to shield his hands as he uncorked the small bottle and poured a measure onto a clean cloth. He tried not to anticipate what he intended to do because he was certain that he would not be able to go through with it if he did. If this were any other patient, he would have administered a sedative long before now, and he would not have questioned the need to do it by any means. If only this were any other patient.
"What are you doing?"
Watson felt even more a cad when he heard the mistrustful edge to Holmes' voice. He couldn't answer without lying, so he said nothing at all until he had recorked the bottle and returned it to his bag. When he pivoted on his good knee, he encountered Holmes' wary scrutiny. "I…" He pressed his lips together and then simply said, "Forgive me."
It took but a moment for Holmes to realize what Watson intended – he was still the world's foremost logician. He managed a strangled No! before Watson was on him, and then the cloth muffled any further exclamations. Watson held on as tightly as he dared while Holmes thrashed and tried to escape the drugged cloth. Holmes growled and held his breath at first, his fingers clawing at the arm that Watson had slung across his chest, and then he tried to twist free, but the wall got in his way. When he realized he was trapped there between Watson and the wall, a great sob escaped him, but he still refused to inhale.
Watson held him tighter, his lips next to Holmes' ear to deliver a litany of soothing reassurances. "Shh…Holmes, it's alright. I've got you, it's alright…" Holmes kept struggling, but he was exhausted and sore, and Watson held onto him easily, the back of Holmes' head pressed to his collarbone. "I'm not going to hurt you. No one's going to hurt you, Holmes, please…it's alright. I swear, just breathe."
Eventually, Holmes had to take a breath, and even as his eyes grew wide and fluttered at the wash of the drug, Holmes' struggling intensified. He kicked aimlessly and then scrabbled to pry Watson's hand off of his mouth. Watson had to hide his face against Holmes' neck to avoid being clawed at, and when Holmes' flailing hand found his hair and yanked, Watson teared up from something other than pain. He could hear Holmes whimpering behind the drugged cloth, desperate, broken sounds, pleading with him to stop. Holmes next inhalation sent his eyes rolling back, but he still squirmed, bare feet pushing against the bath rug until it bunched up in the corner, and then a horrible, muted wail drifted past Watson's fingers.
Watson ascribed the sheen to Holmes' eyes to the effects of the drug until it spilled down his cheeks, and then Watson's own tightly reigned composure crumbled. He folded himself around Holmes' slackening body and apologized over and over for any number of things – he didn't mark them at all. Fingers plucked at Watson's arms, at his shirtsleeves, the knees of his trousers, helpless against him, and Watson's stomach broiled as he discovered himself wondering if it had been like this with the others – if Holmes had struggled and cried like this, and begged and worked his fingers in vain at his attackers to get them off. Had their arms been around him like this? Had they held him as they violated him, shushed him and lied and told him it wouldn't hurt, like some sick parody of an embrace?
It took Watson an interminable handful of seconds to realize that Holmes was actually saying things from behind Watson's hand, and when Watson loosened his hold, he heard his own name repeated like a mantra, over and over again, and then Holmes started telling himself to go home, mark the book, sit in the chair and smoke a pipe – go home to Watson, just go home…
It was too much. Watson pressed the cloth back over Holmes' mouth to obscure the words again; he couldn't bear to hear them. The strength fled Holmes' body quite suddenly as he gave up the effort to hold his breath and panted in the noxious fumes instead. Watson kissed his temple because he couldn't stop himself, a wet affair what with the dampness on his own face, and Holmes mewled through one last bid for escape, weak as a kitten as he pawed at Watson's chest. The drug finally pulled him down, heavy lids fluttering shut as Holmes grunted and twisted against the floor. Watson dragged him closer as he sagged under the weight of unconsciousness and let the chloroformed cloth drop in favor of holding Holmes' limp body to his chest. Holmes twitched a few times, as if he were still fighting to stay awake, and then his head lolled into the crook of Watson's elbow. He went still, his breathing deep and even, save for an occasional hitch, as if he were lost even now, and fighting still.
Watson waited until he could be certain that Holmes would not wake up for a while and then carefully laid him out on the blanket he had brought down earlier. He arranged Holmes on his left side because he imagined it would cause him the least pain, his hand lingering on Holmes' face where it had made him flinch before. After bundling part of the blanket under Holmes' head as a pillow, Watson stumbled to his feet, weaved his way over to the basin, and threw up.
It was some minutes later that Watson's ears pricked to the sound of footsteps in the hall, and he hastened to spit the last of the foul taste from his mouth and wipe his lips with a handkerchief. His old wounds ached and he held his left arm stiffly to his ribs to reduce the strain on his shoulder as he stood and made his way to the door. He opened it to find Mrs Hudson seated on the stairs that led to his and Holmes' rooms, the sack of Holmes' ruined clothes open at her feet. "There is blood on these," she remarked with ghastly calm. She was holding Holmes' trousers; Watson hadn't even looked at them when Holmes had removed them.
Watson shuffled out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, and then sank down the jamb until he hit the floor. "Pray leave them be," Watson rasped. "They're evidence."
"I've gathered that much," Mrs Hudson replied. She fingered the fabric for another moment before folding the garment back into the bag and tying it closed. "You can't live with Mister Holmes for any length of time without picking up at least some of his methods."
"That's very true." Watson lowered his head into his right had, his left arm cradled to his chest in the bend of his updrawn leg. "Mrs Hudson, have you a strong stomach?"
"Strong as needs be." She set the bundle aside with a delicate sniff and turned on the stair to regard Watson's defeated form. "I heard a struggle just now, I'm sure."
Watson nodded. "I've sedated him."
"Are you alright, Doctor?"
Watson scoffed and glanced up, a mirthless smile painted on his face; he could feel it stretch his skin thin.
"I've sent the servants out," Mrs Hudson volunteered. "It's a God-awful hour, but I thought it best."
Watson sucked on his bottom lip and ducked his head in gratitude for that much.
"What help do you need?"
"Brandy and oblivion," Watson replied sourly. "Neither of which I can afford to indulge in."
Mrs Hudson offered a sympathetic smile and tilted her head in mild reproach.
"Hot water," Watson said with a sigh. "And I'll need help…finishing…in there." He indicated the washroom with a curt gesture. "And a telegram will need to be sent to the Yard. Tell Lestrade to come as soon as he gets in." As an afterthought, he added, "Tell him to bring Clarkey. Holmes likes Clarkey."
"I'll send a boy with the message," Mrs Hudson told him, referring to the Irregulars who seemed always to haunt Holmes' vicinity. "And I already started the water heating."
Watson merely nodded again and squeezed his eyes shut, the heel of his hand digging into one socket. "God, what they've…I can't imagine… Four of them, Mrs Hudson. He hadn't a chance." He heard Mrs Hudson swallow and shift where she sat, and immediately apologized. "I shouldn't burden you with this. It's indecent – "
"Doctor Watson, if you imagine a woman can't understand such a thing, then you're a bigger fool than I ever could have thought. Damn indecency. I already know what's happened."
Watson started to hear her employ even moderate profanity, but she was right. "I apologize, then. Again."
The swish of fabric brought Watson's attention up again, to find Mrs Hudson pulling her nightclothes about her as she stood. He watched in a daze as she strode over to him, and then found himself at eye level as she crouched before him, eyes ablaze. "Stop pitying yourself; there's nothing you can do to take it back."
"I know that – "
"And don't go running off half-cocked," she interrupted. Not for the first time, Watson wondered how such a woman never came to rear children; she had the fortitude and the insight for it. "I know you, Doctor Watson. And you'll be of no help to him if you get yourself hauled in for murder."
Watson worked up enough saliva to swallow. It didn't surprise him that Holmes had deduced his likely urges, but Mrs Hudson? "Am I so transparent?"
Mrs Hudson offered a kind if sad smile. "No, Doctor. But if it were such a friend of mine, I would be sorely tempted too."
Watson pressed his lips together for a moment, sucking on his teeth to maintain a thin veil of composure. His vision blurred anyway.
Gently, Mrs Hudson said, "I'll go send the boy off now. Have a swallow of brandy yourself, Doctor, and take some heart. You won't lose him to this."
Watson nodded and breathed thickly through his nose when the queasy feeling invaded his stomach again. He barely managed to thank her, and then after she had gone, he swiped in anger at the moisture covering his own face. There was no excuse for it; he wasn't the one hurt. Feeling impotent about the whole thing didn't help. He should have been there; he was always there.
By the time Mrs Hudson returned, Watson was certain that she had lingered on purpose to give him extra time to collect himself. In addition to a ewer of steaming water, she brought ink and paper with her from his consulting room, and Watson took another few moments to jot down a doctor's report on what he had treated so far. Lestrade would need it for his case notes. Watson included what little Holmes had said so far about the attack, though it sickened him anew to write the bit about the money at the end. Then he handed the writing materials back to Mrs Hudson, nodded to her, and pushed the washroom door back open.
Holmes lay exactly as Watson had left him, curled on his side on the floor with his dressing gown covering him from neck to ankle, the blanket insulating him from the cold tile floor. Watson heard Mrs Hudson pause on the threshold and imagined her taking in both the lingering smell of the alley that clung to Holmes body, and the more nauseating scent of male issue that hung faintly but unmistakably in the air. That, and the few marks not covered by the gown – hands, wrists, neck and face… Watson stooped to tug the collar of the dressing gown back up over the bite mark at the base of Holmes' neck; he did not want to see it, though he would need to take an impression or tracing of it before this business concluded.
Mrs Hudson did herself credit, in Watson's eyes, by keeping whatever oaths or comments she had to herself. She knelt on the floor where Watson indicated and then accepted the bottle of chloroform that he held out to her, along with the used cloth. "If he stirs, sprinkle a few drops on it and cover his nose and mouth. Count four breaths and then remove it. Any more, and we risk sending him to sleep forever."
Mrs Hudson nodded and set the supplies aside. "Do you expect him to wake?"
"I don't know," Watson admitted. He eschewed looking at her in favor of laying out the instruments he thought he might need. "I haven't seen the damage yet."
A moment later, Mrs Hudson asked, "Do you think it was deliberate?"
Watson stopped cataloguing supplies, a suture needle loosely pinched between his fingers, and merely looked at her.
"I mean, was it random, or did they target him specifically? Could it have been about a case? A…warning?"
Watson blinked and then glanced down at Holmes' prostrate form. "He said they called him by name. But I hadn't thought…I hadn't even considered that it could be about a case. He seemed to think they had only followed him because they lost a bet against him in the ring." But if that were the case, Watson thought, how to explain the gentleman Fourth Man, or the fact that he had basically paid the other three to commit this crime? Those details didn't fit the idea of a spur-of-the-moment fit of drunken revenge.
"What is he working on?"
"I don't even know for sure," Watson replied. His own disbelief colored that statement; he couldn't imagine that Holmes would have taken a case, and not told him about it. "I hadn't thought he had anything in hand right now."
Mrs Hudson looked down and Watson watched from the corner of his eye as she smoothed a few matted curls back from Holmes' brow. "They must have had a reason."
Watson wondered that petty gratification didn't strike her as reason enough for this sort of crime, but she had a point even if she didn't know all that Watson did, which was still precious little so far. "Support him for me." Watson gestured at Holmes' upper body, and Mrs Hudson braced an arm beneath his shoulders as Watson rolled him mostly onto his back. He pulled Holmes' left knee toward himself without opening the dressing gown, positioning Holmes with his legs just slightly spread.
Mrs Hudson had shifted to cradle Holmes partly in her lap, and Watson observed her looking away to preserve his privacy as Watson finally reached for the flaps of the dressing gown. She had slipped a hand beneath the curve of Holmes' neck so that her fingers rested lightly over his pulse point, not as a doctor's might, but in that way that women have when they seek to assure themselves that the heart of a dear one continues to beat. She would feel it the moment Holmes stirred, if he stirred; any faint groan of waking would vibrate against her hand long before either of them heard it.
Watson dismissed the pang of jealously that Mrs Hudson's consideration engendered in him and turned back to his task. He should be grateful that the woman actually did more than just tolerate her most trying lodger, and yet he suddenly wanted nothing better than to drive her from the room and lock the door on her. He needed her assistance, and as she had said herself, she already knew what had happened. Watson would simply make it clear afterwards that she was not to let Holmes know that she had been in here throughout any part of this. Holmes was not normally prey to embarrassment, owing to his insurmountable ego, but in this case, Watson preferred not to risk it.
With almost angry gestures, Watson flipped the dressing gown from Holmes' legs and pulled it back, then stared for a moment. The blood… How could he have failed to notice the blood before? Watson must have made some small sound because Mrs Hudson turned her face even more resolutely away and found one of Holmes' limp hands to grasp in her own. Crusted brown streaks had dried in grotesquely patterned swirls all down Holmes' inner thighs, mixed with dirt and grit from being taken against the unforgiving ground, and dear god… Watson reached for a sponge and soaked it in the hot water, then ran it over Holmes' legs and up to dab his genitals. He would need the tweezers again. They must have pressed Holmes half naked into the filthy cobblestones of the alley… Watson felt the room spin for a moment and he closed his eyes to let the nausea pass.
"Doctor?"
Watson's eyes flew open and he growled, "I'll kill them." He abruptly set the sponge aside and set to work with the tweezers, a tenuous force of will the only thing keeping both his hands and his vision steady. "I will string them alive from a gibbet and let the carrion birds have at them." Fury and indignation served him so much better right now than shock or horror ever could, though he could feel the latter two hovering about the edges of his mind. There would be time for them later.
Mrs Hudson didn't reply and Watson wondered dimly if she had snuck a glance after all, but that would not have been like her. She was a proper if unconventionally assertive woman; she would never dare look unless she truly had to.
Watson worked in silence for some time, picking clean a number of abrasions on the most sensitive of regions and growing more wrathful as the minutes ticked by. He had to keep reminding himself that Holmes was safe now, and vowing that he would never, for a bare moment, allow the man out of his sight again, not even to visit the water closet. It was a ridiculous notion – he could hardly sew himself to Holmes' side for the rest of time – and yet it brought Watson a measure of comfort to think it.
At some point, Mrs Hudson enjoined him to wait a moment, and Watson had to hold Holmes' hands out of the way while she administered more chloroform. Holmes barely struggled, couldn't even manage to force his eyes open, but he voiced a slurred protest and made a number of distressing, grating sounds that left Watson certain he didn't realize where he was. And it hurt Watson to hear them, in ways he had not anticipated.
Once Holmes had quieted again, Watson finished the distasteful task he had been engaged in, and then cracked his back as he straightened from his awkward bend over Holmes' body. One last thing to tend to, he told himself. He spent a few moments delaying the next bitter leg of this journey by washing the last of the grime from Holmes' legs and tending a skinned knee, and then he set his mouth in a grim line and motioned for Mrs Hudson to shift to Holmes' other side. She did so, and Watson rolled Holmes back over, half into her lap, to expose his backside. Mrs Hudson slid a hand under Holmes' knee when Watson drew her attention with a word, and she held the limb in place where Watson indicated. Holmes required only two stitches, which was far better than Watson could have hoped after seeing the amount of dried blood that had stained his legs, but even so, Watson was glad that his stomach had already been emptied once, for it surely would have done so now when he took in the marks of hands and blunt fingernails across Holmes' hips and in the creases of his thighs that had been used to hold him steady earlier in the night.
Watson finished shortly and Mrs Hudson departed without a word to dispose of the bloodied water, and the soiled cloths and sponges. Watson ran a measure of cold water from the taps into the bathtub and then waited for Mrs Hudson to return with pails of boiled water to temper it. He spent the solitude taking deep breaths and repeating to himself that Holmes had asked him not to go after the men who had attacked him. He was loath to cede to those wishes, and yet he could not, in good conscience, refuse to even try to do as Holmes asked. All he could promise to himself, however, was to let Lestrade have his chance, but if the inspector failed to apprehend the blackguards, then Watson would do it himself no matter what Holmes wanted. He could not let this go unpunished. God help him, he could not. A traitorous part of him almost wished that he had simply allowed Holmes to go to bed when he had claimed to be tired. If he had, then he probably never would have known what deed had been done this night. Holmes would have sequestered himself until the wounds had healed, if poorly and slowly in the absence of proper treatment, and they could have both gone on in blissful denial and ignorance, respectively. Watson wondered if it would have been better that way, and then cursed himself for a coward for even thinking it.
The next time Holmes came around, Watson had a firm hold of him and Mrs Hudson had already come and gone with the hot water. There was no resistance this time; Holmes merely laid in Watson's grasp and stared into the empty air in front of him while Watson tried to coax him into speaking. It took a fair bit of cajoling, and strength that Watson didn't have in half his limbs, to get Holmes into the bath, but once in the water, Holmes hissed at the sting of the bath salts and Watson ended up soaked as he tried to both hold Holmes and hold him down. They eventually compromised without words and Holmes clung to Watson's shoulders while Watson scrubbed him down properly, dislodging the last of the filth from his pale, and now mottled, skin.
Watson could hear Holmes wheeze on every inhale, and ascribed it to the wild thump of his heart where it rested against Watson's chest. Holmes hadn't said a word since waking, and it concerned Watson, but he couldn't think of what to do about it except keep talking himself in the hopes that Holmes would respond to something he said. Watson commented on the day he had spent in the park, the transparent plot of the book he had been reading when Holmes came home, and made frankly ludicrous deductions about the postman's personal life based upon the manner in which he delivered the mail.
Holmes responded to none of it and Watson had given up the exercise by the time he strained to snag the drain plug with Holmes still plastered to him. "Okay, old boy. Up you get." Watson shoved himself to his feet and caught at Holmes' elbows when he lost his grip on Watson. "Come on. We're almost through."
Holmes all but crushed Watson's hands in his own, and he refused to relinquish them, which made it awkward getting a firm enough grip on him to haul him out of the tub. Somehow, Watson managed, just as he had all night. Holmes staggered a bit but kept his feet, and as long as Watson let him hang onto some part of him, Holmes didn't mind letting go of his hands. In this manner, with uncharacteristically trembling fingers pulling at his shirt, Watson was able to towel Holmes off and get him into clean night clothes. He wrapped gauze around the seeping sores on Holmes' wrists, which the hot water had aggravated, and then gently thumbed away the speckles of blood that had appeared in the cracked corners of Holmes' mouth. That was the only thing Holmes still flinched from, and though Watson had his suspicions as to why, he purposefully neglected to complete those thoughts.
Mrs Hudson hid behind her own sitting room door as Watson emerged, Holmes in tow, to make their agonizingly slow journey up the stairs. Watson didn't think that Holmes noticed her – he was too busy paying resolute attention to nothing – but Watson caught sight of her staring out, her features creased in worry, before she politely withdrew. Watson snaked an arm around Holmes' waist to steady him, because he could see the shivering weakness in his friend's overly cautious movements, and in the way he placed his feet on each step. By the time they reached the first floor landing, Holmes was listing alarmingly against Watson's not-so-sturdy frame, and Watson all but poured him into his bed, lifting and pushing at him until his consented to roll over to where he might be comfortable enough to sleep.
It was just passing six in the morning, and Watson estimated another three hours before Lestrade would arrive. He asked if Holmes needed anything for the pain, and to his everlasting relief, Holmes responded this time, if only to shake his head against the pillow. Watson hesitated at the side of the bed, trying to decide how best to act next, and then he grasped Holmes gently by the shoulder before simply asking, "Do you want me to stay?"
Holmes curled in on himself, but he glanced over his shoulder with huge, unguarded eyes. Watson took that as an affirmative and slid into bed behind him. He didn't intend to invade Holmes' space, but Holmes grabbed at his arm before he could withdraw it and dragged Watson flush against him. Several blankets separated them, and yet Watson could still feel every shudder that passed through Holmes' frame. Watson spooned up behind him, slowly enough that Holmes could pull away if he wished to, but he did no such thing. If anything, he pushed back to fit himself more securely into Watson's embrace, and at that, Watson pulled him in as firmly as he could, the fingers of his right hand interlaced with Holmes' and pressed to Holmes' chest. Watson tucked them together and shared Holmes' pillow, his breath falling against the back of Holmes' neck, watching the flicker of Holmes' eyelashes as he blinked now and then.
Eventually, Holmes drifted off as the a pale gray light began to seep into the sky outside the window they faced, but sleep refused to come for Watson. It didn't occur to him to change out of his damp shirt or find a blanket for himself to ward off the chill of early morning. The fire was lit at least, for which he imagined he should thank Mrs Hudson, and a fresh pot of tea sat atop Holmes' shaving table, growing cold. Watson ended up smoothing the sweat from Holmes' brow as he dreamed, and whispering over and over in his ear that he was home now, and safe. He held Holmes to him every time he jerked awake and started to panic, and then soothed him back into restless slumber with more vague reassurances. It was the most harrowing three hours of Watson's life, keeping vigil over Sherlock Holmes on that cold morning. He hoped never to have cause to repeat the experience, but by the time Lestrade and Clarkey arrived, Watson had garnered enough from Holmes' uncensored nocturnal mumblings to be truly incensed. And it was in that state that Watson stepped from the bedroom to greet them.