Prompt at the end
"Where is he?"
I ignored the growl, head down. Nearly closed eyes gave the illusion of sleep. He knew by now that I would not answer.
Though the knowledge would not stop him from trying. His fist hit my ribs yet again, then short, thick fingers grabbed me by the hair.
"I asked you a question." That pug nose rammed so close to mine I failed to focus on his face. He shook me when I stared through his shoulder instead. "When does your precious detective usually return to that disgusting pit you call a flat?"
Our home was not a pit, but I did not even try to wipe the saliva from my cheek. Holmes was not here. Nothing else mattered but that Holmes was not here. This nameless thug would not reach my friend.
My silence earned me another knot when he threw my head against the wall.
"We have ways of making the dumb talk, Doctor. You would do better to answer me."
Better for switching places, perhaps. Holmes should be at the docks by now, and he had probably neglected to bring back-up in the form of the Yard. One word from me would send far too many blackguards after my friend. My chin simply touched my chest again. I would never betray him like that.
No matter what these men decided to do. An underling melted from the shadows at the leader's next growl. The dim light glinted on something in his hand, but I did not identify the shape until fire raced down my back. My reflexive cry earned another lash.
"Answer me, Doctor, and this will stop."
No. I would tolerate any beating, any amount of pain to keep my friend safe. Every minute I occupied these men here was sixty more seconds Holmes did not experience the same—and that he could use to lock up the rest of the gang. My locked jaw prevented all but the lowest grunt at every crack.
"Change the tip."
The whip paused, then metallic sounds carried from behind me. The next lash impacted several places shoulder to hip, and blood finally trickled down my back. Effort battled instinct to relax my entire weight against the ropes. The position pulled my shoulder uncomfortably, but any additions to such a whip would do less damage if I did not tense with the impact.
Though it also made them think I had lost consciousness. Jeering taunts called me every insult they could conceive then laughed all the harder when I still did not react. Would this make them stop?
No, but they did lose interest faster. When five more lashes received less response each time, the underling tossed his whip back on the table with a complaint of this being "boring." The leader hesitated for only a moment before he grumbled a "fine," and the door closed a moment later. Had they truly left?
Yes. Cracking one eye found the leader absent from his corner, and a slow scan of the room saw no one waiting to pounce. For the first time since tying me to this chair, they had left me alone—with the door open.
And I could do nothing about it. The ropes and cuffs meant my hand could not reach either the knots or my lockpick. Hours of beatings made my head swim with every inhale, and my shoulder's protests paled compared to the full-body ache of his many punches. When an injudicious movement stole my breath and tinged the room red, I finally stilled. Causing further injury would not help me escape.
Did I have anything that would help me escape?
Very little. My lockpick remained in my sleeve—useless until I untied the ropes. Small blades in my trouser and shirt hems remained far out of reach—I had not factored being tied to a chair. Blood still leaked from far too many injuries to be anything but worrying, and moving my head too quickly made the room tilt a full circle. Several hard blinks found me slumped in my chair, my full weight once more awkwardly on my shoulders.
Did I have any reason to escape? Immediately? Risk getting caught and beaten further to try now?
No. Holmes would not notice my absence until tomorrow at the earliest, and my presence here kept at least three ruffians from trailing my friend. I could wait until the opportunity presented itself. Careful readjustments shifted my weight off my bad shoulder as I let my thoughts wander. If I could not leave, I could at least think about something besides the pain for a while.
"Where is he?"
Disguised, obviously, I thought with a smirk. Holmes had not left the flat as himself in nearly a week. My captor's leader had sent multiple threats to drop the case, and Holmes had barely eluded the one the man had fulfilled. The longer Holmes evaded their hunt, the more evidence he could compile, and the closer he could come to their leader. Like the hydra of myth, this gang would not die until Holmes cut off the primary head.
"Immortal head, Holmes. The hydra had an immortal head. Not a head head. This is not a school, where the head boy made highest marks in class."
He had waved the correction aside, a twitched grin at the imagery failing to hide behind feigned indifference. He had purposely mangled the phrase solely to get a rise out of me.
"Mr. Holmes knows that. Do not think I missed the mythology books under your bed," she chided when he tried to scowl at her. "Someone has to clean under there."
My entire body protested a huffed laugh. His affected scowl had become slightly truer irritation at being called out, and the next time Holmes left, she had shown me the basic references he kept under his bed for every major mythology. I no longer believed his claims of ignorance of "impossible drivel" when his short time in university had obviously included one or two literature classes. As with Shakespeare, the more people that knew about a topic, the higher likelihood of Holmes encountering a case that required it. He did not have to enjoy a subject to learn the basics—or have a reference book in his library.
"Stay out of my bookshelf."
I never looked up, one hand steadying me against the wall as I claimed my book from his bedroom.
"Like you stay out of mine?" His ears flushed when I displayed my target. "Don't steal my books, and I won't have to steal them back."
"Holmes, I am not helping you break into a bookstore! Especially when you refuse to tell me why you want inside."
The scene changed to place me in a back alley, my back to a door with Holmes in front of me. A small voice in the back of my mind chimed something about staying awake, but I ignored it. I could still hear something dripping behind my chair.
"The bookstore is a front," he growled. "Now move!"
A front for a zoo, perhaps, based on the grumbling I faintly heard, but footsteps sounded around the corner before I could ask. Faced with the choice of getting us—him—caught or helping as I had promised, I finally scowled and let him pick the lock. The door shut behind us just before the guard rounded the corner.
Now what?
He waved away the silent question. A gesture bid me to follow him, and we zigzagged through and around a multitude of shelves only to stop in front of a small, oddly colored cabinet.
"Ready to talk yet, Doctor?"
"Search for the catch," he murmured in my ear. "Do not open the door."
A nod told him I understood. He took one side and I the other as we slowly tested each board. I reached the end of my section without finding anything, glancing up to ask where he needed me to look next.
My signal cut off mid word. Holmes no longer tested books a few feet away from me. Had he moved to the next shelf?
Footsteps approach on my right, that low voice rumbling something about questions or pain.
No, and the next remained empty as well. I searched three aisles before rustling sounded above me.
How had he made it above me?
I had no idea, but quiet footsteps creaked the ceiling. They went one direction, then the other. A momentary stop directly above me produced indiscernible words. Perhaps he tried to lead me toward the stairs.
If he did, he needed to move slower. I lost the footsteps in less than five seconds. Where next?
Hide.
The floor vibrated in a subtle warning, then the far wall exploded inward. I barely dodged the flying tomes.
Pain!
But not completely. Burning fire raced across my back, and I woke with an involuntary cry, startling hard enough to aggravate every injury. A wave of agony made me fight encroaching darkness.
An exploding door. Many pairs of feet. Screaming. The remnants of my dream mixed with reality, and my captor fled when a lion's roar shook my cell. How could he—
A stampede of elephants. The low tones of angry Yarders. Another roaring lion. Heavy footsteps alternated rattling the ceiling above me with pounding the floor somewhere in the rest of the house, then two pairs of feet raced closer. Blurred vision found my captor returning.
Returning to use that knife on me, based on the vengeful leer twisting his mouth. I doubted the blade would contact the ropes, but I had no time to brace myself before another thunderous roar echoed in the narrow hall.
"CONNER!"
The man stumbled, nearly falling against his own blade before his other hand found the wall. He barely managed two steps before a strangely glowing Holmes slammed into him.
No. Not glowing. Backlit by a perfectly positioned window, but the knowledge did nothing for the terrifying image of a furious Holmes with no regard for the law. Whatever this blackguard had done, my friend wasted no time in blackening both eyes and pinning his face to the floor. Only a familiar inspector in the far doorway made Holmes limit himself to clamping a pair of cuffs as tight as they would go—and ripping some kind of fabric with the confiscated knife. Holmes spotted me before I could decide what he had done.
"Watson!"
An accidental kick produced a grunt of pain from Conner, but Holmes lunged into my room without hesitation. One arm supported me while the other used the blade to cut my bonds.
"Where are you injured?"
Too many places to bother listing. I made no reply as metal cut the ropes but clanged against the cuffs. His low growl suggested he did not have his lockpicks.
"Sl've."
I had only the one, but pain and the posture-caused shortness of breath rendered the word a barely audible mumble. He knelt out of sight behind me without signaling he had heard.
"H'ms?"
"Hold still."
I could do that. I could do little else. Fighting with my restraints required small adjustments that sent sharp protests lancing down both arms—a discomfort that became hot fire when the cuffs clicked a minute later. The same position that caused the least pain when bound caused the most as soon as I was free, and I needed several seconds to let the joints stop complaining.
"Watson?"
"Hm—mm?"
A flinch cut the sound in half—and revealed how heavily I leaned against Holmes' shoulder. Relief tempered his frown when I falteringly pushed myself upright.
"Didju—" No. I refused to slur, and cautious movements let me slowly shift against the hard wood. "Did…you—get the others?"
He did not comment on the blended words. "I did. Are you injured anywhere besides your back?"
Yes, in several places, but he did not need to know that. At least the pain had helped his search somewhat. I ignored his question to scan the room. Where had Conner thrown my revolver?
There. Half a gesture directed Holmes' attention at the silver glinting against the far wall.
"Would you get that?"
He frowned but stood, that keen gaze never leaving me as the weapon disappeared into a pocket. Another moment brought him back to my side.
"Can you walk?"
I nodded. In a minute, probably. Connor had focused mostly on my chest and back. Provided I moved slowly, I would be able to walk out of here.
Maybe.
"Are you going to tell me where you are injured?"
"Bruises, mostly," I grunted. I would not admit otherwise. "Are the cuts on my back still bleeding?"
Silence answered me, then he ducked around behind me to lift my shirt. He must not have realized just how recently Conner had wielded that whip.
No matter. Better to admit the lashes than the cracked ribs I suspected. One of those concealed the other.
"Some," he confirmed. "How long ago did he do this?"
An hour or three, but I waved the question aside instead of saying as much. I had no way of knowing that for sure, and I wanted to get out of this room before the sum of my injuries caught up with me. Bleeding lacerations did not constitute my only problem.
"Watson?"
"No clock," I answered shortly. My shoulders halted an attempt at using the wall to stand. My cane had apparently disappeared when he grabbed me, and my back heavily denied standing without support. While the vertigo of earlier had eased with freedom, everything above my waist protested the slightest movement. I finally lifted a hand in a grudging request for help. I would have preferred to do this myself.
I would have preferred to not be kidnapped, but as I could not change that, I could at least ensure Holmes did not hover for the next week. He willingly steadied me upright, worry flaring when a twinge made me flinch.
"Alright?"
So many hours tied to a chair kept my attention on my feet. I hummed an agreement but did not look up. This would be a long walk home.
And an even longer night. Holmes deduced most of my other injuries before we reached the front of the house.
From YoughaltheJust: Watson sometimes forgets how terrifying Holmes can be when he's angry.
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