Rache. The word tumbled around in his brain, jostling out all other thoughts. Rache. Revenge. He needed revenge. Funny, though, that he was thinking it in German while all other thoughts were English. Rache… why had that word been the one to come to mind?
It slammed into him with a sudden clarity. The Jefferson Hope case, the first one they'd shared. It had been written in blood on the wall as a clumsy attempt to implicate German radicals. But he'd known better. He was always better than the criminals he faced. He had to be, else his reputation and livelihood might suffer. Or he might suffer, should he be caught slacking by the wrong criminal.
The risk of that wasn't high, but it was always there. He'd accepted it as a hazard of his profession, had made peace with the idea he may not live to be old. He knew that he would suffer. He didn't know if it would be physically or mentally or both: the only certainty was that he wouldn't escape from seeing the worst of the world unscathed. He knew it and had prepared for it. He hadn't imagined it would be Watson who would suffer instead.
Rache. He would have revenge for Watson, for his blood which stood out bright red on snow so dirty it was almost black. Revenge for his skin, which was too pale and his lips which were too blue. Red, white, and blue, just like the union jack, though this was hardly the most patriotic wound Watson had ever suffered. At least when he'd been shot it had been for queen and country. Now, he was once more incapacitated and it was for nothing, not even for the sake of love or loyalty.
Watson hadn't known that there was danger. He'd been busy tending his patients, hadn't known Holmes was working on a case. He wasn't involved, wasn't supposed to be in danger at all. He must have been surprised when he was attacked in the street, must have been unprepared to defend himself. Had they questioned him? Threatened him? Had they even known he wasn't involved? Or had they simply beat him without provocation? Holmes wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He was thinking about his rache as he took the doctor in his arms and carried him into Baker Street. He'd have revenge for the tears Mrs. Hudson cried even as she stoically helped Holmes bandage the doctor. He'd have revenge for the bruises he found on his friend's torso, for the missing tooth Watson choked out in a glob of blood, for the way his friend whimpered in pain long before he came back to his senses. He'd have his revenge. Rache. He'd make them pay.
He thought that right up until Watson reached for him weakly, placing his hand on Holmes' wrist. His friend gazed up at him blearily, smiled very slightly. Holmes broke, then, taking Watson's hand in both of his own and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Watson had come back. Watson would live. Rache was replaced by bruder, and even though Holmes was still determined to run Watson's attackers into the ground, he knew Watson would want die justiz, not rache. And, as long as he was Sherlock Holmes, that was what there would be.
For the prompt from trustingHim17: Whether referenced or used, include another language in today's story.