Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.
Warnings: Adult Themes, Violence, Light Bad Language
Author's Notes: Ooooo, Holmesian purists aren't going to like me for this one; this is the first time I've deviated significantly from the accepted Canon (aside from the fairly obvious major deviation, of course). But fear not, oh leather-backed tome wielder, it does not change the overall story. I put this in because of a timeline restraint; in the books this story is set over several weeks (or years, depending on how you look at it), but this re-packaging doesn't have that kind of time plot wise. You'll see why later on. Just roll with it; if you can accept Arwen wielding a sword in Lord of the Rings, you can take this.
And just on another, more annoying, point; I never realised my scene break lines (-------) weren't appearing in my previous posts; sorry all, I truly just did not notice. I was irritated when I found out, because the whole rhythm of the story, particularly the prologue, was thrown off by that. But I went back and fixed it, so it's all good now.
Please enjoy this, and feel free to drop me a review (please!).
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Chapter Six – The Nature of Battle
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The two men chatted their way back through the Underground, emerging from the station closest to Watson's hotel. Full night had settled in and the night people of London had taken to the streets, through which Holmes and Watson walked unnoticed and uncaring. They had been covering a range of topics through the stations and trains they travelled which culminated in Holmes deducting facts from their fellow passengers, and Watson trying, in vain, to refute him.
"...just saying there is no way you could possibly know for a fact the man is an unsuccessful stockbroker with a drinking problem from the state of one button on a coat," Watson protested, determined to go down fighting. Holmes had already revealed the stunning causal chain of logic detailing the man's profession and state of lifestyle, though Watson thought privately that it might have gone down a bit better had the man in question and the entire carriage not been within earshot, as they had been for all of the expert dissections of what were private matters. A trail of red faced passengers had been left in Holmes' wake. Watson didn't think he'd been imagining the looks of pure relief that had suffused the other passengers when the two had moved to leave. Clearly they didn't want to become the next object to focus the eccentric madman's attention, a state of affairs with which Watson could sympathise.
"If you want facts, just look at the gibbering look of shock and guilt on the man's face when I said so," Homes voice was an expression of perfect amusement. "Nevertheless, I didn't need his facial tell to know that I was indeed right. The truth of all of existence is in the very shape of it's nature; these shapes and the truths therein are perfectly clear. There is no hiding them. From one drop of water a person can deduce the existence of the Thames or the Niagara without even having seen or heard of either."
"Rot," Watson returned evenly. "There are too many possibilities in life to be able to see every truth there is just from what they look like. Do you know how many diseases have exactly the same symptoms? It's impossible to tell from a glance what the true sickness is."
"Ah, but there is the flaw in your logic, Doctor," Holmes held up a peremptory finger. "The symptoms are all the same, so therefore you must look deeper than just the effects; you ask the patient questions about their life, you run tests; because if the symptoms are all the same, then logic would dictate it's all the same disease, which any encyclopaedia of medicine will tell you is impossible. You look to the cause as well as the effect; and to the very nature of the malady as it progresses, and eventually you find the true sickness. There are many possibilities but there is only one truth. With logic and observation you will eliminate all the possibilities and arrive at the truth. You have, in fact, given me the perfect argument while trying to argue against me. No one in medical science since the Dark Ages has ever said 'this is all we are to know'; they searched for the roots that grew the twisted vines of death that captured the patients before them, and found the true nature therein. It is the same thing as a stockbroker's button or a crime scene. There is always a truth, Watson, if logic and observation are applied fearlessly."
Watson gave up. "Truthfully? You could have kept from airing the poor man's dirty laundry to everyone else on the train, Holmes."
To this, Holmes merely chuckled. "True; but if you're going to walk around London wearing your secrets then you must be prepared to have them revealed by the keen, analytical eye."
"I doubt whether anyone could adequately prepare for you, Holmes," was Watson's half amused and half exasperated assessment.
"Also true," Holmes accepted the critique amicably. "I have not now, nor have I ever, had much use for social graces. I find the ponderous majesty of British law more than stupid enough. I see no reward whatsoever in pandering to the invisible rules and conventional expectations of the social mob. At best, society is like a privileged peer; pompous, hypocritical, dishonest and dull. Also cruel as a torturer and as attracted to glitter as a magpie. Some of the finest people I know are murderers and street emperors. They may be raw and crude and even slightly mad, but at least they aren't confined to some idiotic code of conduct spewing from the grey mediocrity of the mindless herd."
"Good to know, if I'm going to be sharing space with you," was the only thing Watson could think of to say.
Holmes blinked out of some brown study. "I'm also known to play the violin too." He gave his companion a smirk.
"You play it well, so that shouldn't be an issue." Watson shrugged.
"Ah, you almost impress me," Holmes retorted with interest. "What is your chain of logic that leads you to that conclusion?"
"What logic? I just have a gut feeling that you don't actually know how to anything badly," Watson explained sardonically. "Aside from playing by the rules, but that's more a deliberate choice than any lack of actual skill."
"Gut feeling," Holmes dismissed this irritably. "I was right not to be impressed. Gut feeling indeed."
"So I'm wrong?" Watson asked playfully.
"As it happens, you are correct," Holmes replied primly. "But you do nothing to merit praise over it."
"So what does it matter how I came to the truth, so long as I get there?" Watson demanded, but he was smiling.
Holmes clutched his head theatrically and groaned. "Spare me! A windfall is nothing to be proud of! People act like they are entitled to glory for bumbling into truth and good fortune, and then have the gall to act like it is a merited privilege instead of a gross disservice to common sense." He jabbed a finger at Watson. "Your repeated attempts to argue the merits of thoughtless guesses and coincidences are going to give me an aneurysm!"
Watson laughed from deep in his belly. "Alright, alright, forgive me. I wouldn't want that, of course. Who would I split the rent with?"
Holmes muttered deprecations under his breath as they turned another corner. "Honestly. People don't think. They never really think. They guess and hope and pray and then complain when things turn out differently than they expected. If they actually put their brains into it, there would be no nasty surprises around the corner. If Drebber had stopped to think where his killer was taking him, he might still be alive."
"The alcohol was probably an effective means to prevent thought from making an appearance," Watson snorted. "From the look of I had of his liver he appeared quite happy to live his life thoughtless."
Holmes went from frustrated despair to intense concentration in an instant. "Interesting. Long term effect?"
"Well on his merry way to cirrhosis," Watson confirmed. "I may never drink again."
"Hmmm. Self indulgent or guilty conscience? Or both, perhaps," Holmes mused.
"My pathology training didn't cover divination from the entrails, so I can't help you there."
"Of course not," Holmes replied abruptly, and Watson was more amused than annoyed by the snotty tone. "Other than repeatedly stating the obvious, do you have any other vices I should know about?"
"What, you mean you don't already know?" Watson replied in mock surprise, which Holmes parried with a sardonic grunt. "Gambling and nightmares, though the latter doesn't count as a vice so much as an affliction. I have a temper..."
"No, really?"
"...and I don't like fighting. It's getting harder and harder to hide the bodies."
"A worsening problem in this modern age," Holmes nodded solemnly, to which Watson grinned. "Rentable garden mulchers, where would we be without you?"
"I smoke on occasion; and I mean the strong stuff, but if that's a concern to you then you and the herd have something in common," Holmes gave a bark of laughter to this, and offered a cigarette from his case. Watson took one and continued. "Try not to startle me awake because I come up swinging and will be keeping a hunting knife within easy reach; a habit I can't seem to erase. Just stand out of reach and call me, or shake me by the foot." Watson lit up the cigarette and fixed Holmes with a stern look. "I mean that Holmes. My profession taught me to heal but the army taught me to kill, effectively and without thinking. They have gotten very good at it over the centuries." Watson thought it best to get his built-in violent reflexes out in the open as soon as possible. He wouldn't allow anyone to get within striking distance on a regular basis without knowing what they really were.
He was not surprised by Holmes complete lack of intimidation. "Anything else?" was the laconic answer to this dangerous possibility.
Watson relaxed. "Nothing as yet. Once I've healed a little more I have another set of vices which I will give full attention to." He took a drag, and blew out the smoke.
Holmes chuckled. "Fair enough."
"And what about you? Social graces and an inability to understand therein, dissection of the most private secrets by means of the smallest trifles..." Watson began, ticking off the points with the cigarette.
"You're secrets are not many, so you have not enough material for me to keep dissecting with," Holmes cut in, lighting his own cigarette. "So that won't be an issue. Smoking, but that is evidently of no concern. I will have clients coming in and out during the day, for which I might need use of the sitting room." He raised his eyebrows at the Doctor, who loftily ignored this attempt to get him to ask about his profession. "At times I fall into the moodiest black depressions imaginable. I've never endured it from the outside but I hear that they are quite impenetrable once they are going. It's best just to leave me to my devices until the storm has passed."
Watson considered this while the nicotine hit his system. "Bipolar?"
"Twenty eight of the fifty two child psychiatrists I was forced to see certainly thought so," Holmes replied cheerfully. "But really, at least four of them were sued for malpractice so I hardly think their diagnoses count."
Watson stopped walking. "Fifty two?"
Holmes smirked. "That was just during the developmental stage. I more than doubled that at the onset of puberty. Point at any affliction in a psychology textbook and I can almost guarantee that someone, somewhere has claimed I suffer from it."
Watson stared at the man. "And you're proud of this?"
"Not proud so much as deeply entertained," Holmes corrected, taking a drag. "I do count it a point of pride that after the age of fourteen I never had a single therapist able to survive a single session with me. I don't know if I broke a record, but I certainly sent a benchmark with my modest efforts."
Watson, torn between horror and curiosity, had a vision of a skinny teenager hammering observation after observation into a cowering therapist as they backed up against a wall. After months of getting talked down to by the mental health board, Watson laughed until he cried.
"Good grief," he managed after a few minutes of guffaws. "I don't know if I can survive with you as a roommate." He butted the cigarette and packed the butt into his pocket.
Holmes, for his part, was staring at him with an odd look on his face. "Well, that's easily ascertained. We'll take the rooms for six months; by that time it should be quite clear whether we can live together or not."
Watson was about to advise that he wasn't even sure he wanted to split rooms yet, when the space between his shoulder blades tingled. He looked around and took instant note of the following; they were in a deserted patch of street close to the main road when the hotel was, there were no streetlights and one dead end alley branching off the street, there was a suspicious amount of closed drapes and shutters in the windows stretching far above them, and there were at least seven rough looking characters moving in on them.
"Ah, you noticed then," was Holmes' contribution, still finishing his cigarette. "I was wondering when those much advertised covert operations instincts would surface." He blew an unconcerned trail of smoke.
"You didn't think to mention this?" Watson muttered irritably while the dead eyed pack spread out to surround them.
"Well I had planned to reach the main street before they had any opportunity to strike," Holmes returned calmly, tossing the remainder of the cigarette. "But as I now see, this was not about opportunity. Any of them look familiar?"
Watson scrutinised the stalking group. "Oh, it's you two," he recognised the two men who had attacked him some weeks previously. "I can still see my handiwork." Watson felt a trickle of sweat down his back. Damn it, this was bad. Two men he was able to fend off, mostly due to surprise and luck; an advantage he no longer had. And now they had bought friends. And Watson's gun was sitting in his hotel room. And they were officially screwed.
"Probably didn' expect to see us agin' there, ya bastard," one sneered, enjoying the way the two men watched the gang warily. "Ain't you lucky? I wan jus' tellin' the lads about ya an' they jus' 'ad ta meet ya. See, you didn't give us the toll, see, for walkin' our streets. It's very important that we get our toll, see, 'cause it keeps the streets clean an' safe. But you didn't pay, and we reckon that was a mite impolite o'ya."
"Yeah, some folks ain't got not respect," jeered another man from behind him.
"My apologies, I never saw the booth or the signs or anything. I'm a bit new to the area," Watson kept a grip on his cane and kept the ringleader in his sights. He didn't feel fear. He wouldn't let himself feel it. If fear came, death would follow soon after. "If you let my companion go about his way, you and I can discuss it."
Holmes' snort of disbelief was echoed by the guttural chuckle of sincere amusement from the gang leader, the dark piggy eyes of his lighting up with glee. "Aw, no, we cain't do that, man. See, you didn't pay th'toll, so now you owes double, see? And there two o'ya now? That what I's call serenippy, that I do."
Holmes lips moved. "You mean serendipity, I think."
Watson risked a glance at the man. Holmes was standing completely still, almost disdainfully, for all the world looking like a man forced endure some distasteful manure as he took an evening stroll. If he felt fear he certainly was good at hiding it. Watson gritted his teeth. His leg was not in good shape after a long day, his bad arm was useless except for blocking and he was outnumbered. Even if he could give Holmes an opening to escape, there was no way he could be certain he wouldn't be chased down before he could get to the main road. Damn it!
"And you're correct, this is certainly a serendipitous event, for I have been absolutely dying to try out some more of my experiments on fighting physicality and psychological affects therein," Holmes turned to Watson and said confidentially. "It is very hard to study this without subject to test on, and it's not like there would be any volunteers."
"Holmes," Watson replied, his voice hard as bedrock. "Run."
"Hmmm," Oh for Christ's sake, the man actually looked affronted. "No. I'm sorry, but I don't get these opportunities very often. You there," Holmes pointed to a behemoth, easily the biggest predator there. "You look like an excellent subject. Come on then, don't just stand there. I'm sure you can at least rub two brain cells together to make a spark and get your body moving," Holmes danced from foot to foot, his hands balled into fists, looking like a fly about to fight an elephant.
Watson heard an oily chuckle. "Aw hell. Give 'im what 'e wants. This in gonna be fun." Cold eyes mentally tagged Watson as his own personal prey, and he looked as if he was prepared to wait patiently while the terror overtook his victim, because he was that sort.
Watson ignored this, too busy nearly falling over in disbelief from his companion's attitude in the face of near certain death. Holmes was bouncing around like a deranged bird, huffing and jabbing the air dramatically. It would have been a fantastic technique if you were trying to cure depression; it didn't measure up so well as a method of prolonging life in battle. Watson desperately hoped these weren't experienced fighters, but he knew it was a vain one just by looking at them. He shifted his stance and tried to scan and plan tactically.
The pack moved to strike.
Watson's first thought was; they are going to make this last, because they like terror and pain. His second thought was; the man off to the side is going to try to grab me, because the ringleader is the kind of brainless sadist who like to hit people when they are helpless.
His third thought came from the corner of his eye, and from deep in a dark cave of his soul where an unblinking soldier forged by the army had been chained. Holmes' footwork is perfect.
Watson swiped his cane in a feint at the leader which earned him a sharp pain in his bad arm, but which also brought his other arm cocked around to strike his approaching would-be restrainer hard across the jaw with his elbow. The pain went all the way to his collar bone, but the crack of splintering bone was gratifying. He followed up with a steel hard thrust of his lead-cored cane knob to the solar plexus that forced ribs inwards, and the first assailant was down for the count.
The second fell in almost the same instant as Holmes dodged a bowling ball sized punch like it was a casual wave, and followed up with a jaw snapping strike of his own which nearly swung the behemoth around like a top. Holmes spun like a dancer and slapped the man next to the staggering behemoth, three quick strikes in succession, culminating in a double blow to either ear.
Holmes didn't look focused or fierce; he had an almost dreamy expression of tranquil contemplation on his face.
Watson was forced to pivot and launch off his braced leg and tackle the man coming in from behind him, accepting a punch in the process, but managing to bring a knee up into a tear-inducing area hard and crunch down onto his assailant as they both toppled. The man howled in agony, and Watson rammed his cane into the man's temple to silence him.
He was then yanked off the unconscious attacker from behind by his bad shoulder, his arm twisted viciously in the process and wrenching an unexpected yell from him. The ringleader just smirked and struck the affected joint repeatedly until Watson's vision greyed out and he curled to the ground, listening to the crack of flesh hitting flesh from Holmes' side of the fight.
Holmes was dancing his way between three assailants, using the confusion to his advantage. The behemoth moved to crush his skull with a blow, but Holmes had enticed a smaller gang member to try to headlock him from behind. Holmes slipped neatly down and out of the grasp leaving the smaller attacker vulnerable to the behemoth's swinging fist, which knocked him flat. He turned to the third man who had darted in to take advantage Holmes' attempted escape and instead ran straight into a classic one-two double blow.
A metallic sound refocused Watson's attention, and just as he saw the bowie knife the ringleader had pulled out with a triumphant smile, Watsons arms were grabbed and twisted above his head by another man, creeping in from a blind spot.
"Ooooo, I'm gonna make you bleed," the ringleader crooned in delight.
Watson didn't allow himself to think. His head jerked back into the restraining man's forehead, and his braced leg swung up as the knife came down. The knife sliced his leg, but skittered across the metal and plastic of the brace, lodging under one strut.
The ringleader frowned because he had been momentarily thwarted the unexpected armour, but was at least clever enough to pull the knife back and out before it stuck irrevocably. But he wasn't quite quick enough avoid Watson's steel capped army boot on his other foot smashing into his face. He was thrown back, his nose satisfyingly flattened.
Watson felt behind with his hand and managed to grab a handful of greasy hair, which he yanked hard. The man holding him gave a yell and was forced to let go as he grappled with the Doctor's gripping hand. Watson took a blow to the head and then to the shoulder blade as the man tried to force him to loosen his grip. He received a kick to the sternum from the cursing man when he released the hank of hair. The attacker backed off a step to regain his breath.
Struggling to breathe as he lay on his back, Watson fumbled for his cane and was forced to roll and drag himself towards it to where it had fallen. The attacker after him reached him just as he reached the cane, and he was fortunate enough crack the edge of it across the man's kneecap, if only with moderate force. The man fell with a howl, and Watson used the brief respite to get his legs under him, ruthlessly ignoring and suppressing the pain by turns as they took his weight. He could barely use his braced leg, and was forced to put most of his weight on the other for fear of falling.
At the other side, Holmes was still fending off attackers. The behemoth was down, the second man was vomiting in a shivering huddle near one wall, but the third attacker had armed himself with a length of pipe ripped from one of the derelict walls, which Holmes was dodging desperately while we looked for an opening.
Watson tossed up and gripped his cane in the middle. "Holmes!" and tossed the heavy thing toward the other man.
Holmes snatched it midair and thrust like a fencer, blocking and striking with ease which spoke of practice. The sound of the two weapons clashing echoed off the walls.
The man with the pulled hair was approaching him warily, breathing hard. He wasn't a confident fighter, which suited Watson just fine. He was no longer in any condition to take on a man more able than himself. Or even less able, come to that.
Pulled Hair threw a punch, hard but without much verve. Watson let the blow throw him against the wall, because there was no way he could remain standing without support. A second blow was tried once his attacker had checked that the first one had worked. Watson dodged the hook, bringing up his bad arm after the fist whistled by and pushing the attacker's punching arm sideways, forcing the man's body to twist much further than the man intended. Watson swung his braced leg up in a half circle awkwardly but successfully knocking the back of the man's knee. His attacker now twisted and unbalanced, Watson used his good arm to curl around the man's neck and drag him around in a reverse embrace, pulling the man almost intimately against his body, feeling the man's tight shoulder blades against his chest. Bracing across the back of the man's neck with his bad arm, Watson pulled up and back, constricting the arm across the man's neck. The man struggled and strained, but Watson kept the pressure until he slumped.
Dropping the unconscious man, Watson leaned against the wall and focused on not sliding down it into a heap. His shaking legs certainly wanted to. The pain radiating from his shoulder was hideous, and one side of his face was beginning to feel tight and hot. A rush of coiled, rolling nausea welled in the bottom of his stomach and it was just as well his stomach was empty; all he did was dry heave as his body trembled and spasmed. For a long minute, all Watson could do or understand was breathe. The adrenaline which had sustained him vanished, leaving only pain, toxic sickness and a heart hammering fit to burst. Wetness radiated from the burning slice beneath his brace; itchy, sticky and uncomfortable. Sweat was trickling from every pore. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.
There was a hand gripping his ankle. Watson looked down to see Holmes down there, lightly bruised but otherwise fit as a fiddle. "Well, you did say not to wake you suddenly," was his impertinent explanation. He held out Watson's cane. "Thank you for the loan."
Watson murmured his thanks, gripping the thing and using it to take some weight but otherwise making no move.
Silence reigned, with the exception of the groans and coughs of the luckless pack of thugs strewn about the place. Watson felt Holmes rise to stand alongside him, leaning against the wall much like Watson was doing.
"Watson?"
"Yes, Holmes?"
"Would you be so kind as to block the knife coming to stab you in the chest?"
Watson's eyes shot open and his cane shot upwards, crossing the bowie knife the ringleader had stabbed at them with malice aforethought, half his face, neck and chest crimson with rivers of blood. The knife was forced upwards and Holmes levelled a solid iron punch at the ringleader, right in his ruined nose. The man rocked on his feet, face expressionless, before slowly tipping backwards like a tree.
"Well done, Watson," Holmes massaged his hand.
"It was no trouble, Holmes." Watson closed his eyes again. Everything felt surreal, and Watson let it stay that way. The minute he started thinking, he would lose it. "Are you hurt?" he asked Holmes.
Holmes' lip curled into a sneer. "A few bruises, but they would need to be far better than they were to do any damage to me."
Watson nodded as he looked out over the tableau. "Any ideas on what to do now?"
Something rectangular and knobbly was pressed into his hand. "Call the police. Whatever deficiencies they have in terms of logic, when it comes to cuffing ruffians for a well deserved sabbatical behind high walls they have got it down to a fine art. I'll see to some restraints until they arrive."
Watson did as ordered, fumbling with his ID card to get a number off it while Holmes dug around in various pockets, coming up with a handful of plastic ties that could be used as handcuffs in a pinch.
Watson noticed he took a certain amount of scientific interest in tying the prostrate gang members up in as many different ways as possible, including tying one man's wrist to his ankle, another one upside down against a wall, and using a belt around the massive wrists of the behemoth.
When he was finished, he rejoined Watson at the wall, while Watson was wavering on his feet.
"Steady on, old man," Holmes told him cheerfully. "Not much further to go."
"Holmes, the only place I'm going to is the ground," Watson groaned in a heartfelt way. "There is no way I can make it back to my room."
"How about around the corner?" Holmes replied. "There's a little Italian place just there that runs all night and do sublime ravioli. I don't know about you but I'm starving."
Watson raised an eyebrow. "Don't you know the police want to talk to us? They were pretty definite that we answer their questions when they get here, mostly I think because they didn't believe me when I gave them the sit-rep."
"Easily accommodated," Holmes replied airily. "You there!" he jabbed a finger at one conscious gang member who was covered in blunt force contusions.
"Yes sir!" he squeaked.
"The Doctor and I will be in Marcini's at the end of the street. Be sure to tell the police that when they arrive. Understood?" Holmes face promised pain if wasn't understood.
"Yes sir!" the gang member agreed hastily, no fool. "Whatever you say, sir!"
"And try not to die in the interim!" Holmes ordered, while we offered a shoulder to Watson. "I hate paperwork and testifying and all that nonsense."
"Er...yes, sir."
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End Chapter Six