Chapter 4

My recollection of events henceforth are but vague and disjointed. Therefore, this is one instance where I am obliged to defer to Watson's notes in accordance with the man's vivid, reliable memory for the purposes of advancing this account.

Two bobbies on the beat were rushing in through the alleyway, breaking through what remained of the significantly rotted planks of worm eaten wood that passed for a fence. More could be heard calling out in reply to Inspector Cartwright's furious blowing of his whistle.

With an incriminating bit of evidence for all the world to see and an unconscious consulting detective slumped in his arms, the good doctor resorted to the desperate act of firing a disarming bullet into the Inspector's shoulder. For his troubles, he was all too cognizant of the fact that the only thing separating him from a gaol term himself was time -- and that it was quite likely the Assizes may go so far as to convict him as accomplice to whatever deplorable act I myself was accused of.

As I said, reliable to a fault.

From there, he informs me of how he put to good use his once considerable rugby skills for the purpose of kicking loose crates at our pursuers, which I should think was a crude escape plan at best. Nonetheless, I suppose it did have its merits. Not the least of which being how it provided ample diversion, enabling him to weave through our pursuers and exit the way they had entered.

He informs me that part ways down the alley, he slipped upon a patch of ice concealed by shadows and a fine layer of grimy snow, and that is when his pace was sufficiently slowed to grant one of the dazed bobbies the opportunity to put a bullet in his back, mere inches below the ribcage. It appears that, even in this unhappy position, the doctor was able to right himself and drag me by the lapels of my coat to the relative safety of a passing hansom. It also seems that quite the row ensued, with the cabbie obviously disinclined to take on such a disreputable fare. In the end, though, it was Watson's Eley's No. 2 * which emerged the victor of the quarrel.

It does seem that as I was unceremoniously heaved into the cab like a bundle of rags, I regained lucidity to some small extent; enough, at least to direct him to the nearest of my bolt-holes on 19 Pinchin Lane before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.

My next intelligible memory is that of waking underneath several stifling layers of bedclothes. I wearily creaked open my eyes to catch sight of Watson sitting at the edge of the bed, bereft of waistcoat and shirt, gingerly stretching an arm behind his back to adhere cotton bandaging to a bleeding wound on his lower back.

The very vision of it startled me into full wakefulness.

I did make a valiant attempt at speech, but found my throat was unbearably parched, and burned like the very devil at the simple act of trying to form a sound. My own head was wrapped in several layers of bandage, the feel of it under my fingers reminding me of a man shrouded in black, standing above me, his laughter tangibly evil.

A fire was crackling in the hearth, and on the dusty bedside table a gas lamp flickered with light that caused a spasm of intense throbbing to flare though my temples the very instant my eyes met with it. I sucked in a breath, attempted to sit upright against the headboard -- which only intensified the pain tenfold and induced a particularly violent bout of sickness that would have otherwise stained the linens had Watson's reflexes not been so quick. He had a basin shoved underneath me and a rug over my shoulders in practically the same instant -- I oft find cause to believe him bereft of deductive abilities, but one would be unable to deny the man is quite the competent physician.

"Glad to have you with us again, old fellow," he remarked as the last of the retching subsided.

"How long have I been so … indisposed?"

"Going on a full four-and-twenty hours." He rose from the bed, depositing the basin on the floor before forcing me to lie back down despite my sensible protestations regarding this unprofitable pastime of dawdling when I might otherwise be occupying my profound faculties resuming an investigation of vital import.

"Holmes." He was rubbing his temples, never a very promising sign as it is almost always a precursor to a flaring of his redoubtable temper. I do not consider myself a nervous man, but air guns and Watson's bull-pup do have the tendency to stir the reaction in me.

"I am not sure you grasp the concept of concussion. Us medicos, you see, have an amusing theory amongst ourselves, that when one suffers grievous injury to the head and loss of consciousness ensues, the patient requires considerable rest to facilitate the healing process. Also, we've the absurd notion that the application of ice at regular intervals relieves any swelling that may further injury to the brain. Not to mention that you, my dear fellow, are exhibiting symptoms of by far the most severe concussion of my medical experience. But again, all this is merely outlandish conjecture."

"Bah. It is a widely known truth that doctors are foremost amongst exaggerators. I am well enough to --"

Halloa. That thought fluttered off rather expeditiously. I was musing over the matter for a short moment when the doctor, I dare say, began staring at me with far too much amusement in his features.

"Do go on, then. Pray, enlighten me as to precisely what it is you are well enough to do."

"Continue this investigation." Ah, That was the very thing. "I must -- there is something I must do; I am sure of it! He told me, but I cannot -- oh, confound it all!"

Watson lowered himself back onto the side of the bed, one knee bent on the mattress while he leaned over, checking me for fever with the back of his hand.

"Holmes, who is 'he'? Was there another man in that yard with you?" "Of course there was!" I tried my hand at sitting upright again but managed to swerve into my companion's bad shoulder for my efforts. He winced instinctively, but otherwise ignored the throbbing I know succeeds any pressure on the limb, and propped me up against the headboard. Once the room ceased its infernal spinning, I was able to continue.

"Of course," said I in a measured tone. "He was there, Watson, and what's more, he confessed to -- no, that is not it. Why can I not remember clearly?"

"When one suffers a blow to the skull, it is no remarkable thing for a lapse of memory as to what immediately led up to the injury. Though, you are certain there was another man in that yard before Inspector Cartwright discovered you?"

"Entirely certain. Jove! I can hear him whispering to me but whatever he is saying I do not know. But it was vital, Watson. That I know surely as my own name."

"And that would be?"

"Your sense of humour, doctor, does not amuse."

He chuckled and patted my knee before heading off into the water closet with the soiled basin. It was a testament to the state of my disorientation that I had not noticed just how profuse was his wound until this point. Only moments ago I'd seen him apply a thick layer of gauze and bandaging to the area, but blood was plainly seeping afresh through his dressings.

"Watson, you're bleeding! We must get you to hospital this instant!"

"This from my recalcitrant patient, eh? Really Holmes, do not panic yourself so. I should be a poor physician indeed were I unable to manage such a trivial wound." My friend finished off the thought with an exasperated sigh as he re-entered the room and slipped on a wrinkled, blood encrusted shirt draped over the foot of the bed.

"That does not appear trivial to me; and I thank you to observe I am decidedly not panicked," I sniffed, rather put out by the man's highly unmanageable obstinacy. Verily, it worsens with each passing year, and I am utterly at a loss to pinpoint its origin. I cannot say it was present when we met, therefore, I believe there is some outside influence impacting him so profoundly.

"Besides," he went on, reclaiming his seat at the side of the bed. "Half of Scotland Yard must be on the lookout for both of us by now, so neither of us are at liberty to freely roam the city."

"Now, why on earth would the Yard care a whit as to our whereabouts? Do you know I'm beginning to have a care over your sanity."

"Holmes, I do not quite know how to broach the subject, but I suppose the most straightforward manner is always best." Somehow, when he settled his hand over mine, I knew to be worried.

"When you broke into that workhouse, I was so uneasy in my mind about the entire situation, I had every intention of shadowing you, whether or not you became vexed with me over it, I did not care overmuch. Be that as it may, in a stroke of perfectly foul luck, Inspector Cartwright approached from across the way -- and if I may say so, that regular lout was a bit eager to slap me in a pair of bracelets, even after recognizing me. Let me tell you; he molested me for information for many minutes, and try as I might to shake him, my efforts were in vain. I never did disclose that you were with me, but unless he is a greater ass than we give him credit for, he must have known you were nearby.

"Anyhow, the discourse between us was growing heated when we heard a crash somewhere behind the workhouse. Cartwright took off down the alley, and I the very way you entered, hoping to cross your path, but … instead I found the cur dragging you off to Heaven knows where, with his revolver pointed at your head."

Taking a deep breath, Watson squeezed my hand tighter, though perhaps more for his benefit than mine.

"Obviously, you had been struck on the head, but what a fine mess was made of you. I was not expecting that, nor to see such blood when you turned towards the sound of my voice. All that was recognizable were your eyes; that is how blood soaked you were.

"This was about when Cartwright and myself exchanged heated words, culminating with him accusing you of murder. Yes, old fellow, I was as flabbergasted as you are now. But there was a corpse; a woman, I believe, so horribly mutilated I am ashamed to admit that even I had to look twice, just to assure myself she was indeed human. How it can be that one man is capable of perpetrating such acts upon another soul is unfathomable to me.

"There seemed to be a blood stained knife on your person, and I am loathe to admit things do seem black against you. So, I am afraid it is wholly out of the question for either of us to go traipsing around London at the present time."

Ah. This was an incommodious set of circumstances. Naturally, it would be a hamper to my investigation, but dropping the thing altogether was indubitably out of the question, for it is not in my nature to allow such a trifling setback disarrange what promised to be an excellent challenge. And there was also the question of this mysterious personage whose figure, voice were beclouded in my mind's eye.

No matter. It would all come in due time, but until it did, I must think of an alternate route to the continuance of this case.

I realized my companion still clasped my hand, causing me to deduce the reason for such irrational displays of sentiment.

"Watson! I've nothing to do with any murders -- say you believe me!"

"Not within the breadth of a single heartbeat have I ever doubted your innocence." Untangling his hand from mine, he turned to me, face drawn with exhaustion. "I think a good rest can only do us both a world of good."

"How can you even consider idling when there -- when we -- I am not -- Oh, heavens! All I am certain of is that too much time has been wasted already. How long have I been slumbering the day away, anyhow?"

"You are perseverating. Not that it could possibly be a symptom of concussion, mind you. Although, to answer your question again," said he as he laid back on the bed with a heavy sigh. "We have been here a full day."

"Do not make yourself overly comfortable there, old boy. I fully intend on making some use of myself, just as soon as I disentangle myself from all the bedclothes you have buried me under."

"Holmes." I very well did not care for the sound of that. His eyes were fixed upon the cracked, peeling ceiling, yet I would swear they somehow bore straight through me. "You are not, I repeat, not moving from this bed if I must bind you to the bleeding bedposts." The latter was spoken through clenched teeth, apparently to accentuate any dramatic effect he may have wished to convey.

My only reason for assenting was, having stoked the good doctor's ire, I must say I found it believable he would do exactly as he'd threatened.

I never do get his limits.

"By the by, I am not who you must believe me to be …"

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

Heavy breathing. Laughter. No air. Why could I not take in a full breath?

" … do not associate me with that blundering amateur!"

"Who are you, then?"

"I have already told you. Does the estimable Sherlock Holmes not recall this?"

"Have you, really?"

"PLEASE, Holmes, please! Wake up, man!"

"Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sleep well …my regards to your doctor …"

I shot up in the bed, a cry strangled in my throat. There was something more to this, yet another veil shrouding a case that was already murky as the thickest mire.

"Holmes, thank heavens! Your pulse was so weak, I was beginning to wonder if … if that blow to the head was not more serious than I had at first suspected." Watson was standing before me, fully dressed but in a state of dishabille; his grey overcoat practically hanging off one arm, unshaven, sans hat and collar, a most singular occurrence for a man of his military habits.

"Are you able to stand?" Why he bothered to even inquire, I was at a loss, for his hand was behind my sweat soaked back, urging me off the bed and onto my feet. A renewed surge of dizziness overtook me; it was apparent the doctor realized this, and yet he pulled me up despite it, draping my greatcoat over my shoulders and hefting me up over his shoulders in such a fashion that I need not have heard the bitten back moan to understand how this smarted both old wounds and the newly acquired one.

"Watson! Explain."

Ignoring my injunction, he made his way to the back window, swatting aside the heavy celadon drapes and proceeded to open it to the brisk night air. At the selfsame instant, there came an insistent rapping upon the front door, which seemed to have the most peculiar effect upon my companion, in that he proceeded to shove me out the window onto the fire escape quite brusquely.

Apparently, I must have stood on the sill for some moments, and I surmise this because I was greeted with a harsh shove and practically growled at me to move my personage onto said fire escape, albeit, the doctor's words were spoken in more vulgar a manner than I have chosen to recount within these pages.

"Whatever for? One moment you threaten to fasten me to the bed if I dare not rest, now you insist upon shoving me out the window? What's this all about, man?"

Another pounding on the door, yet our visitor failed to identify himself, which was, even to my muddled mind, a strange sort of thing to do to a fellow. This second outburst upon the door sent Watson's nerves all a flutter, inducing him to shove me with even more force so that I was now clutching the sides of the window frame, one foot stationed upon the fire escape , the other perched on the sill.

"WATSON!"

I am of the belief that my admonition was well deserved, yet all it got me for my pains was a hand clasped over my mouth and a wild, startled glare from my companion. "Shhhhh! Have you no sense; they will hear!"

"I am prepared to shout down these walls if you do not enlighten me as to what in blazes is going on here!"

"Fine," he relented, eyes not focusing on me, but darting to and fro. "Though you shall have to accept the abridged version."

"That will do. Proceed."

"Lestrade paid us a visit while you were sleeping. The cab we took last night, it was traced. Scotland Yard located the driver and coerced him into divulging the address he'd taken us to. Not enough time to tell how he intercepted this information -- just know Holmes, that we have a trustworthy friend in the Inspector. But, as I suspect this is Cartwright with a warrant for our arrest as we speak, pray, do commence moving immediately!"

We were winding our way down the spiral fire escape from our top floor flat when a hail of gunfire rang out over our heads. Assuredly, they could hear our feet colliding with the wrought iron steps but so far as neither of us was hit from so close a proximity, I decided they must have as much trouble seeing us in the gloom as we them.

The last step was positioned a great distance from the street below, and as Watson helped me off this, I became aware of a lack of lit streetlights. They all seemed to have been snuffed out in tandem, immensely aiding our successful escape. Perhaps … perhaps friend Lestrade was the best of the professionals.

We were well on our way down the block, leaving in our wake a troubling amount of footprints in the snow lined streets when Watson finally dared speak.

"Where, to now, old fellow?"

My concussion, I maintain, had robbed me of any modicum of common sense which was not knocked out of my skull, for I made my response without so much as turning the thought over in my mind.

"To brother Mycroft."

* One of the good doctor's revolvers, which it may be remembered, I requested he bring along in the case he has so garishly entitled "The Speckled Band."