Prompt at the end
Thick smoke swirled on a light breeze. The eddying flow drifted here and there, joining the sand and heat and the many bodies to block my view of the battle. We needed to retreat. Now. Before we lost more men.
No. Effort shoved the image away. I wanted to read, not relive the past. A glance confirmed I had closed my bedroom door before I flipped back a page. Where had I left off?
"They gave him a little piece of raw meat…"
"Doctor!" A man several years younger than I leaned against a nearby rock. "Help me. Please. My leg—"
"Easy." Long strides let me steady him to the dirt, a hand on his shoulder halting the rambling before it could truly begin. "You will be alright. Let me see."
A metallic clang on the street snapped me out of the memory. I barely skimmed that page and skipped to the next. Maybe I could finish the story if I did not read that section.
"Avoid that path, young man."
I paused mid step, turning to find an old native standing just out of reach. Hesitant words sketched a rough version of their most respectful greeting.
"And to you," he returned, speaking slowly and clearly to ensure I understood. The elder's age-lined eyes looked more through me than at me. "You would do well to choose a different route back to your people. The fire-headed ones lie in wait in that valley, watching for some 'white-skinned' fool to wander into their grasp. They will not care about your bag, nor will your current errand change their actions."
"Watson, do you—"
The vision shattered as the sitting room door impacted the wall, startling me into nearly dropping my book to the floor. I had not even heard him on the stairs.
Footsteps walked further into the room. "Watson?"
He paused directly beneath me, as if expecting me to reply through the floor, but silence answered him. The lack of a medical bag by my desk would make him think me out of the flat, and while a distraction would probably help anchor me in the present, I would not monopolize his night in such a manner. Better for me to stay in my room.
He would be safer alone anyway. I listened quietly as he ducked into his bedroom for a few minutes then stirred the fire back to life. Crackling pages suggested he thumbed through his notes. If he intended to finish his case tonight, he probably would not sleep any more than I would.
Not that I could help. The short story rested on the end table to let a novel take its place, and I used my pillow to soften the headboard's support. Perhaps a romance would keep my mind out of the war.
Impossible. Mrs. Deighton could not do that by herself. That required a third person. That did not match the facts. He shifted in his chair. How had someone gotten in without notice?
Inside help, perhaps, but with Mrs. Deighton alone in the house, an accomplice also meant she had lied to him. He set the idea aside and kept looking. If he could finish this before Watson returned, perhaps he could convince his friend to help with the denouement.
Maybe. Watson had been quieter than usual these last two weeks, but whether due to the misunderstanding or a more substantial problem, Holmes had not yet deciphered. Watson's response to a request for assistance might provide the clues Holmes needed to help.
He needed to solve the case first, though. A moment shifted to sit sideways in his chair as he flipped back to the beginning.
Mrs. Deighton worked for one of the minister's aides—a Mr. Chapman, whom Holmes had not yet met—as both personal assistant and head housekeeper. Mr. Chapman had gone to the continent for a month with his boss, the minister of defense, along with the rest of the minister's family and servants. The minister had requested one person stay behind to both care for the empty house and have it ready for their return, and Mrs. Deighton had volunteered to skip the coveted trip in exchange for a slightly higher wage. All had gone well until the middle of the second week, when she had risen to find a single window jimmied open and two safes emptied of a bag of jewelry and a large sum of money. She had been the only one in the house, so no alibi, but she had also engaged him before word would have reached her supervisor. He had no reason to suspect her at fault.
Yet. A man's smudged print beneath the window had confirmed the point of entry, but the intruder should have been hung by his ankle until she heard the bell. Why had that trap not sprung?
The kitchen door clicked shut, then soft footsteps revealed Mrs. Hudson's slow path to her bedroom. Patient stillness waited for her to drop her things, change clothes, and put out the light. Silent midnights solved more cases than quiet afternoons ever would.
Unless Watson shared the room with him, but that was another matter entirely. He refocused on the scrawled notes only when silence finally fell below.
During his investigation, he had purposely sprung the trap to prove it worked, then carefully learned how she had set it up. Only by avoiding physical contact with the entire windowsill and jumping at least four feet into the room could an intruder avoid the trap, and they would have had to leave the same way. Whoever had entered should not have been able to avoid the catch, nor did he have any reason to believe they would know of the trap's existence.
This did not make sense. The papers slapped the table before quiet movements moved the armchairs out of the way of the settee. Perhaps a different perspective would help.
Or not. A slow read through his notes once more found that large hole. He did not have all the necessary information to solve this case. Had Mrs. Deighton stolen the jewels after all?
Unlikely, he decided, but she did hide something. He would have to meet with her again in the morning. A convenient folder left the notes in the middle of an end table, then he settled on the settee with a light quilt. Whether his friend returned ten minutes from now or ten minutes after dawn, Holmes preferred to know he had returned. Last month's misunderstanding had left Watson withdrawn, almost wordless, and prone to spending days at a time in his room. More than once, Holmes had feared Watson intended to leave despite Holmes' apology. He would sit up to avoid the nightmares of an empty flat, of finding himself alone because of his own actions.
And the silence would let him think outside of his notes. Did he have any other information proving the intruder?
No. Mrs. Deighton had been his only contact, and everything he saw corroborated her account of an empty manor. He would need further searching to prove or disprove that initial finding.
What about Mrs. Deighton herself?
Also no, though one less certain. She could have set the clues and emptied the safe, but he saw no motive, no reason for giving up her luxurious position.
What about—
The thought fled behind faint rustling. He slowly sat up to frown at the ceiling. How had Watson reached his room without Holmes hearing him on the stairs?
The noise paused, then became something closer to murmuring. He must have gone to bed before Holmes returned, which meant the empty place beside his desk could indicate a larger problem. Holmes nudged his quilt aside to gain his feet. Provided he moved quietly, he should be able to check on his friend without waking him.
Unless his friend had already woken. Cautiously slow movements froze when rustling became a muffled cry. Silence reigned for a long moment, then a pillow fell off the bed, barely audible above the wooden grating of Watson opening his nightstand drawer. Metal scratched against wood before Watson planted both feet on the floor.
And loudly cocked his revolver.
NO!
Holmes abandoned discretion to lunge for the door, heedless of the papers the falling blanket scattered around the room. Awake, asleep, or caught in a regression, Watson should not need to fire his gun in his bedroom. Near panic tripped him on the stairs once, then twice, before he finally reached the landing.
"Watson!"
Nothing. Everything in him screamed a need to check on his friend, to ensure some nightmare had not turned that weapon around, but Watson would never forgive himself if Holmes' entrance prompted a bullet. When a quick check found the knob unlocked, he pushed just hard enough to swing the door halfway open then quickly stepped behind the wall.
"Watson?"
Still nothing. He peeked around the doorframe to find Watson staring blankly, book in his lap and barrel aimed at the stairs. Holmes had been right to stay out of sight.
Though he could not deny the sheer relief at the danger pointing anywhere but at his friend. "Can you hear me?"
Not consciously. That vacant gaze scanned the room as if searching for the source of the question, but his aim never wavered.
"Watson, you are safe. Put the revolver down."
No, that tightening grip replied, but he did shift to cover the wardrobe rather than the landing. Holmes slowly edged into the room, watching to be sure he did not cross some unknown boundary.
"I will not hurt you. You know that." He kept his arms away from his sides, fighting to remain non-threatening. Whichever battle Watson saw, Holmes needed to stay friend rather than foe.
He also needed to pull Watson back to the present. "You are home, Watson. Safe. Do you remember the case I told you about yesterday? I think Mrs. Deighton is hiding something. You should come with me tomorrow. I am sure you could find her secret faster than I will."
Confusion mixed with disagreement to whiten his knuckles around the grip. Holmes put his back to the wall, ready to dive beneath the desk if necessary.
"I have been working a burglary case. You told me you had rounds today. Mrs. Hudson returned a couple of hours ago. She went straight to bed. Listen to me, Watson. No one here will hurt you. You are in London. You are safe. The war was years ago. Put the gun down."
The barrel wavered, then fell slightly as Watson flinched. Vacancy retreated to let him focus on something Holmes could not see.
"You are in your room. We are in London, in the Baker Street flat. Whatever else you see is false. You are sitting on your bed. You face the wardrobe. The door to the landing is open. You have a romance novel on your lap. Your viola case is within reach, as are a half dozen other books. You propped your cane against the wall. Your watch reads close to midnight. You are—"
Watson flinched again, then horror abruptly concentrated on his hand. Shaking fingers carefully decocked his revolver before he nearly threw the weapon over the edge of the bed. Holmes took a single step closer, words low.
"Can you hear me?"
Watson startled—violently. Two books slipped to the floor with a loud thud, and Watson's breathing quickened as wide eyes shot to meet Holmes'. He glanced at the weapon, then back at Holmes, before a host of possibilities joined pure terror in his gaze. Faltering movements shoved him back against the headboard.
"Watson?"
"N—" The word faltered. Watson swallowed and hid his shaking hands in the blankets, but he inched further across the covers in a clear go away.
No. Holmes slowly moved to stand at the footboard instead, hands still at his sides. Watson's posture announced he already fought off another one. This might explain his recent silence. "Join me downstairs?"
A silent refusal became another few inches. Watson would fall off the bed if he went any further.
"You did not threaten me, Watson. You aimed at the doorway, then at the wardrobe."
Watson hid his face in running one hand under the spare pillow.
"Join me downstairs," he repeated when Watson made no reply. "You did not threaten me, and you will not. Leave the knife there."
Metal clattered to the floor instead. "Could."
"Did not," Holmes corrected. "I told you I want to help. Why did you stay up here? You heard me come home."
And you promised to tell me, he left unspoken. Every way he knew to say that sounded accusatory. He wanted to help, not push his friend further away.
"Safer," was the short reply. Regressions always stole Watson's ability to speak, but another moment provided a longer response. "Every—few seconds. Weather. Date. Safer alone."
Alone. The belief lodged a hard ball in Holmes' chest. Watson still refused to look at him, but whether Watson referenced himself or Holmes, if Watson thought he should leave—
No. Not an option. Anything would be better than losing his friend. Any discomfort. Any fear. Any conversation. The resolve finally put thoughts to words.
Somewhat.
"Not true," he managed. Heat flooded his ears though he forced himself to continue. "Would music help? A distraction? You could help with that burglary case."
Watson shook his head. "I haven't—replaced the string. S'ok. Jus'—take the revolver with you."
He would rather leave the revolver up here and take Watson with him. The continued tremors suggested a different tack.
"This sitting room is warmer, and I still owe you a few of Vivaldi's."
A flicker of bewilderment announced the question Watson would not ask, but Holmes would not admit to inventing the debt to serve his purpose. His gradual approach offered a hand up without either blocking Watson's exit or making himself a threat.
"The settee is more comfortable than your headboard, as well."
Watson stared, obviously weighing the positives and negatives. Clear desire wanted to leave his room. Wanted to come downstairs, wanted the distraction Holmes offered, but the same fear Holmes had first noted on his return held Watson back. Long seconds wavered between yearning and withdrawal—and increased Holmes' worry—before desire finally won. He avoided Holmes' hand to reach for his cane.
Which was better than hiding upstairs alone, Holmes reminded himself. He simply stayed within reach all the way to the sitting room. If Vivaldi did not ease the ghosts haunting his friend, Mendelson might.
As would the company. He noted but did not comment on how much Watson relaxed simply by watching Holmes move around the sitting room.
He would remember that the next time Watson retreated upstairs.
From Riandra: Lifeline
Hope you enjoyed, and reviews are always very much appreciated! :)