The Vengeful Jewel
Tuesday, January 19, 1891
10:52 a.m.
"Why did you wait so long to intervene?"
The question came out fast and hard; dissuading any attempt of escape through comical distraction.
Watson's laugh caught in his throat as he felt the full force of Holmes' questioning gaze strike him; piercing him to the very core and searching through his soul to find the answer.
Watson's eyes involuntarily flickered to Holmes' throat where the obvious signs of Jones' brutality shone clear as the colors blue and black. Watson could clearly see the points where Jones' fingers had pressed into the soft flesh of the neck. The sight made his stomach lurch and his heart hammer in his chest.
He looked back up to meet the steady gaze of his friend and found that he was somewhat at a loss for words. His reason had seemed so precise and absolute at the beginning of the fight, but that reason faltered now. It seemed so superfluous now that Watson wasn't ready to explain said reason aloud. But he thought back on the events of the case and then made the connection to his own life and philosophy and suddenly the words didn't taste so foul.
"You kissed Mrs. Jones," Watson finally said flatly.
"But she was the one to kiss me," Holmes countered in defense.
Watson shook his head. "That's not the point."
"Then what is?" Holmes asked, his voice darkening with annoyance and incomprehension.
"You kissed back."
Holmes blanched and the scowl lifted from his features to be replaced with shock.
"You kissed a married woman," Watson continued before Holmes could rebuttal. "That man had every right to be furious and I believe that his reaction – though slightly unorthodox – was understandable."
Holmes stared at him with a mixture of hurt at being betrayed by his own friend and shocked by the reason for such a betrayal.
"I know that if you were to ever kiss Mary –"
Holmes made a snorting, disbelieving, and rather disrespectful sound.
"If you were to ever kissed Mary, I would most likely react in the same way," Watson finished forcefully. "Men tend to act protective when their wives are involved. Mr. Jones was merely trying to establish him dominance and thus, gain back the love and admiration of his wife which had dwindled to exceeding low standards."
Holmes considered Watson's words silently. "I suppose I can understand Old Boy. But you've seem to have forgotten the fact that you and that woman are not yet mar –" and then realization struck him as his eyes flashed up to glare at Watson.
"By low standards, I can only assume you mean me," Holmes growled.
Watson laughed and soon Holmes was unable to contain his scowl. The detective smiled in defeat and leaned back more comfortably in his chair.
"So what now?" Watson asked after a while, still sitting before Holmes on the floor like a child waiting for another story to be told. "It's practically afternoon."
"This is my usual routine for the afternoon," Holmes said carelessly, lighting his pipe. "Any ideas, Doctor?"
"Well, I suppose we can start by getting you in a clean shirt," Watson offered as he rose to his feet stiffly.
"The old one will do," Holmes said nonchalantly.
Watson sighed but didn't feel like arguing that Holmes did need to change into a clean shirt periodically. Instead, he bent down to retrieve the shirt that he had removed from Holmes to inspect his body. His fingers closed around the soft fabric and he started to rise.
He managed to straighten before the shirt slipped out from his fingers. Watson frowned at his hands and Holmes' sharp eye was quick to notice the distinct shaking of the hands.
"My dear Watson!" he exclaimed in horror. "All this time you have been treating me when you too need to be treated."
"I'm fine Holmes," Watson protested as he bent over to try again to pick up the shirt. His fingers suddenly felt stiff and heavy as they clumsily picked at the shirt without being able to actually grasp it.
Holmes was already up and out of his chair.
"You can't even pick up a shirt," Holmes declared. "You are in as much pain as I."
"It's nothing," Watson insisted but Holmes was already guiding him into the armchair. Watson sat without further protest and the relief of the action caused an involuntary sigh of relief to escape his lips.
"You see?" Holmes demanded. "You are hurt. And I know precisely why. Because Jones hit you so hard."
A memory seemed to come back to Holmes as he stiffened and suddenly he was peering closely at the wound over Watson's brow.
"At least the bleeding's stopped," he whispered with a sigh. He withdrew and took Watson's place before the armchair where the tired doctor sat.
"Now let's see your arms. I'm sure they are as colored as I am," Holmes urged.
Before Watson could protest or deny, Holmes was already undoing the buttons of Watson's suit. Deciding that it would be easier just to go along with Holmes, Watson allowed the detective to remove the heavy jacket.
"Is this a new suit?" Holmes asked suddenly. "I haven't seen it before."
"A gift from Mary," Watson explained, glancing at the tan tweed suit with affection.
"It's nice."
"No. You can't steal it."
"My good man, I never steal. I prefer the verb 'borrow.'"
"The connotation doesn't change the fact that I'm not going to let you wear the suit."
Holmes frowned and Watson couldn't help but chuckle at the detective's disheartened expression. Regretfully, Holmes placed the suit aside and then removed Watson's undershirt.
As he pulled the cloth away to fully expose Watson's bare torso, his eyes widened in appalled horror.
Watson's arms rested on the arms of the chair and he could clearly see the bruises and swelling that marred the muscular limbs. The ugly black, blue and purple of damaged skin glared back at him. The color was darkest in the middle of asymmetrical splotches that spotted Watson's arms. From these spots, the color leaked out over the skin, creeping up around the elbow and wrists. Only the part of the arm – from the elbow down – was damaged for that was the only part of the arm that Watson was able to defend himself with against the onslaught of Jones' punches.
But Watson cared little from his own well-being. His eyes moved away from his arms to the bare torso of his friend. Holmes was colored in the same way only his bruises covered his entire body while Watson was restricted to just his arms. Holmes was, by far, the worse for wear but the detective was looking at Watson as if the doctor had been the one to fall down a flight of stairs and take the beating Jones retaliated with.
"I'm fine, dear fellow," Watson insisted. "This is nothing compared to the extent of your injuries."
"But yours were never meant to happen," Holmes said solemnly. "It was my fight and you shouldn't have been involved."
Watson smiled at the rare show of affection Holmes offered him. "My dear Holmes," he said sympathetically, "If I had not been involved, you could have very well died."
Holmes met Watson's gaze.
"I'm glad I was able to help you, old friend," Watson said.
Holmes swallowed in discomfort and fidgeted where he stood.
"So, what's the cure," he muttered.
"Rest and a lot of ice," Watson answered as cheerfully as possible so as to calm Holmes.
Holmes' eyes flickered from Watson's damaged arms and back to the comforting gaze of his friend. They wavered with helplessness and he appeared to try and say something.
"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" a voice called as footsteps marched up the stairs.
Holmes and Watson had just enough time to turn and look at the door as Mrs. Hudson entered with a flourish and a wide grin.
"I'm back from the –" Her sentence died in her throat as she took in the scene of the two shirtless men before her: one sitting in the chair and the other hovering over him. Shocking still was the colorful bruises that decorated both men.
She sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of burnt carpet. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the chemical stain that had burned a hole through the carpet – her carpet. Slowly, her eyes traveled over the room, taking the sight of broken glass, collapsed piles of paper and the overall sight of an unkempt room even more disheveled.
Her mouth fell open and the color drained from her face.
Watson pinched the bridge of his nose with his shaking fingers and sank lower into the chair.
"Ah, Nanny. Perfect timing," Holmes enthused; oblivious to the situation, "we are in need of a lot of ice."
_._._._._._
Only one chapter left to go. See ya then and thanks for all your wonderful reviews.
Hobey-Ho!