Ties to Tinsel 23

The door fell shut, and Holmes strode down the sidewalk, head down. Firm concentration battled the fear trying to cloud his thoughts.

Where was he?

Not at home. Not with his patient—either one. Not at his club or at the closest motels. Holmes' last hope had been the Yard.

"I haven't seen the doctor in several days, Mr. Holmes, but I can certainly start a search. Last known location?"

That cursed manor. Watson had gone to that sprawling, decrepit cottage to treat a child's injury, and while neither he nor Holmes had had any reason to expect a problem, obviously something had happened. Afternoon sunlight announced well over twelve hours since Watson should have returned home.

Could the late hour have kept him past medical necessity?

No. Watson had promised to help Holmes early this morning. Nothing short of an urgent patient would have kept him away, and while young Scott Russell had certainly needed a doctor's aid, the injury did not qualify as urgent.

He had left the Russell's shortly after midnight, anyway, according to the butler. Had someone waylaid him on the walk home?

Unlikely. A chance patient should have resulted in a telegram to Baker Street. Nothing had arrived as of two hours ago.

Had he been attacked?

Possible, Holmes admitted with a twinge of worry, even probable. A lack of an actively dangerous case would not stop a mugging, after all, and with no other leads, he scanned the many alcoves between the Yard and that old cottage, then aimed for home. If necessary, he would search every alley in London to find his friend, but Watson would only have taken one path home last night. The mile-long route to the flat both provided a logical place to start and would take less than an hour.

Empty. No hiding places. Full of debris. Abandoned but for the cat watching him from a low wall.

There. A person curled into that corner, and Holmes quickened his pace only to find a sleeping stranger. He retraced his steps before the man could wake.

Empty. Filthy. A shop used that as storage. Two gangs had fought there before sunup. Empty. Several footprints, but none belonging to Watson. Another alcove.

Another person. He turned away only after confirming the semi-familiar man could not help him search.

Several Irregulars had used that path last night. Empty. Too many boxes. Blood streaked one wall, but nothing suggested Watson's presence. That one held nothing but several overflowing rubbish bins.

And the tie pin glistening in the shadows. Rusty would probably want that back. The keepsake disappeared into his pocket as he moved down the street.

Empty. A homeless adult had set up a rudimentary shelter. The shopkeeper had swept any clues from that alley. Empty. Empty. What was—

"Mr. Holmes!"

The call came from the main street. He abandoned the suspicious footprint to dart toward the alley's entrance, where a quick scan found a young boy frantically pushing through the crowds on the opposite sidewalk.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Adam."

Small feet detoured on sighting him, and Adam nearly skidded to a halt a moment later, panting hard enough to reveal a full sprint from Baker Street.

"He's home. Some—" Hands landed on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. "Somethin's wrong," he managed. "Bad wrong. Don't know what. St—staggered inside without noticin' me. Hurry."

Staggered?! His initial intention to pull information from Adam vanished beneath a shot of urgency. One hand dropped a coin into the boy's pocket, the other clapped a silent "well done" on his shoulder, and Holmes dodged through the press at top speed. Had Watson been attacked? Was he ill? What would make Adam skip gathering details to reach Holmes as fast as possible?

He would find out soon enough. Less than ten minutes saw him through the front door.

"Watson?"

No answer, but a floorboard creaked in the sitting room just before something hit the rug with a muted thump. Large strides skipped more stairs than he touched, and Holmes reached the doorway to find his friend leaning heavily against the table, head bowed.

"Alright, Watson?"

The barest hint of a flinch acknowledged the question, but a shaking hand groped for the nearest chair without a true reply. Holmes' worry escaped in a frown. Watson should not look that pale.

Nor should Holmes be able to cross the room without his friend waving off the concern. "Where are you injured?"

Silence. Watson's arm fell limply to his side, and leaning against the table became leaning on the table. His knees buckled a moment later.

"Watson!" Holmes' dive around two chairs narrowly prevented his friend from bouncing off the table's edge, but Watson remained limp despite a firm tap on one cheek. While steady breathing and a regular—if somewhat rapid—pulse eased Holmes' immediate fear, blood on Watson's head and chafing on both wrists just as clearly announced a thwarted kidnapping. Watson had not come home last night because he had been abducted.

And Holmes had failed to find him.

Later. He could deal with that later. Careful nudges laid his friend on the floor, and one hand continued tabbing that racing pulse as the other searched for injuries. Pale skin glistened with sweat. The shallow cut had not bled enough to cause worry. His foot twitched from a spasm. Dark shadows announced a lack of sleep.

Gently inspecting his shoulder produced a flinch. Weary eyes blinked the room into focus as Holmes shifted into Watson's field of vision.

"Can you hear me?"

"Y's." Watson checked his surroundings, then a shaking hand made to push him upright. "S'rry. Tried to—"

The quiet sentence broke behind a grimace as both leg and shoulder jerked. Holmes easily kept him flat on his back.

"Stay there. Where are you injured?"

An aborted shake of his head suggested continued vertigo. "Not. Need to—" He paused, one hand pressing against the floor as his eyes squeezed shut. "Fine after I eat," he rephrased, the clearer words still softly betraying a headache. His eyes remained closed for another worrying moment. "Haven't—since Simpson's. Lemme up."

"No." His longer reach easily dropped several pieces of meat on a convenient plate, then one hand steadied Watson to a sitting position. "Where were you?"

"Warehouse near the docks," was the short reply, the rather tough meat already half gone despite his trembling. "Jumped me. Never—saw his face. Their faces. At least three. Wanted to ransom me to you. Don't—know names. D'you have 'n active case?"

"Not one that warned of an attack." He dropped several more pieces onto Watson's plate. "How long were you trapped?"

"Few hours?" A shrug produced a more obvious gasp. His left arm pointedly stopped moving. "Jumped between midnight and one. Left me alone. Escaped before dawn."

And he had been walking ever since, Holmes finished. His shoulder obviously pained him, as did his leg. Slightly glazed eyes could indicate lack of sleep—or a head injury. The tremors making eating a challenge slowed after several pieces of meat, but Watson did not appear to notice how heavily he relied on Holmes to stay upright. Holmes' next question waited only for his friend to start taking normal bites instead of the overlarge too long without food mouthfuls.

"What did they do to you?"

"Jumped," he repeated simply. "Literally. The leader landed on my back and sent me to the ground. Blindfold first, then ropes." He pushed the plate aside, scowling when Holmes kept him on the floor. "Are you going to let me up?"

"Are you going to collapse if I do?"

"No." Another attempt to remove Holmes' hand succeeded only because Holmes allowed it. "I told you I just needed to eat."

He needed more than that, but while the other symptoms remained disturbingly constant, the shaking had subsided—slightly. Holmes stayed within reach as Watson levered himself into a nearby chair.

"Stop staring at me. I'm fine."

He knew better than to believe that. If not for Holmes' attention, his friend would have used the table as a pillow. "You are not fine. What else is wrong?"

"You've seen what happens when I skip too many meals." Watson settled into the hard wood, casually adjusting to rest his head on the back of the chair even as his right hand claimed a piece of bread. "And when I'm on my feet for too long," he added between bites. "It'll pass."

Watson finished that piece and shoved two more in a pocket before using the table to reach his feet. He obviously intended to catch his nearly hopping gait on the back of the settee, but Holmes lurched forward first. Concern grew when Watson made only a token effort to push him away.

"Do you have a head injury?"

"No. 'M fine." A misplaced sheet of paper nearly sent Watson back to the floor, and Holmes shifted his hold to drape Watson's arm over his shoulders. This arrangement did not rely on Watson staying conscious to keep him upright.

"We both know that you cannot lie for anything."

"Not…lying." The muttered contradiction nearly drowned beneath a grunt of pain when his leg buckled. "Was hungry. Now tired. Bed."

"Settee," Holmes countered. "You cannot manage the stairs."

That sounded like grudging agreement, but Watson made no reply as they slowly rounded the furniture. Holmes supported more of Watson's weight with every step, and by the time Holmes helped him turn, Watson dropped onto the cushion more than sat. The bread quickly disappeared even as he leaned back against the pillow.

"Stay awake."

"No." Heavy eyes closed despite the attempted scowl at the exam heralded by his medical bag. "Jus' needed to eat. Still need to sleep. Stop hovering."

"I am not hovering." Cautious prods sparked an irritated—however bleary—glare. "You have a cut on your head, and you do not hide pain as well as you think you do. Did you lose consciousness before returning home?"

"Don't—th'nk so." Small movements used gravity to lie flat. "Headache from no food, sleep, 'n the cut happened later, after I 'scaped. Tripped on a pall't. 'M…f'ne, H'ms. Jus'…J's' n'd t' sl'p…"

Watson sighed, the insistence fading to a jumbled collection of sounds as he relaxed into the cushion. Deep, even breaths announced him soundly asleep before Holmes could intervene, and a muted grimace provided his only response to a spasm twitching his leg completely off the edge of the settee. Holmes aided the slumbering adjustments to lie on his side then covered him with a blanket, thinking all the while. His own medical lessons had not progressed far enough to be confident in identifying a problem. Did he need to send for another doctor?

Not yet, he decided. Every symptom he saw could stem from a lack of food and rest, and he could always send for Agar if something changed. When a careful exam found no other injuries and no hidden symptoms, he set the bag within reach and dragged a chair to keep watch. Any potential problem would declare itself within a few hours.

And a case would form shortly after. Whoever had done this would not escape jail time.

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