Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.
On with the show...
Holmes could only stay where he was, frozen in place by the betrayal.
Snapping back to reality, Sherlock Holmes was up and running to the fallen constable before his brain had time to process what he was doing. Upon reaching him, he grabbed Clarky by the lapels and roughly sat him up.
"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he hissed, shaking him as he did so. Clarky's head lolled on his shoulders and he blinked hard before focusing on Holmes. A look of confusion crossed his face as the blood continued to trickle downwards.
"'s fine. We're safe." he mumbled.
Holmes' anger began to bubble, "You and I may be safe, but don't think for one second that John Watson will walk away from this unscathed. You've just signed his death sentence, you coward!"
Clarky frowned, "No," he muttered, "'s alright... plan will work." He continued to blink away the dizziness that had appeared from the hard blows.
"We will not be al– wait, what plan?" Holmes asked, puzzled.
"The plan... with the ring." was the answer.
"...Clarky," Holmes said sternly, all suspicions of the constable being a traitor disappearing in an instant, "what's going on? What's Watson going to do?"
"'s fine, sir." Clarky repeated, his eyes beginning to slide shut in an attempt to block out the pain from the pounding in his head.
"No, answer my question, Constable!" Clarky ignored him and suddenly fell limp in his arms. Holmes swore and gently lifted him, moving him over to the shadows where no one could see them. He lowered the small figure to the ground and quickly checked his pulse. It was still fairly regular, but if he stayed much longer concussion would set in and the constable would find himself in a coma. Perhaps shaking him wasn't the best method I could have used, Holmes thought to himself. Before he could do anything else though, two loud shots resounded around the warehouse. Face paling and cursing even louder, Holmes left Clarky and once again entered the maze.
Left, right, left again, Holmes tried to find the source of the gunshots as he continued deeper and deeper into the warehouse. Soon he began to hear voices, and knew he was getting close. There were two he didn't recognise, and, slowing his pace, Holmes began to creep towards them, cautious not to make any sounds.
"Just calm down, Max!" one of them said. He had a very strong Cockney accent, and Holmes would guess he was somewhere in his thirties.
"He bloody shot me!" another voice sounded. This one was a lot closer to Holmes as he crouched behind a container, planning his next move. He couldn't help but smirk as the whiney voice squealed with pain. "Right in the foot, Jack!"
"Will you shut it? You ain't gonna die, so get a grip!"
"What if me foot needs amputatin'?"
"Well, that's what yer get for tryin' to shoot his brains out! The boss said don't kill 'em until they give us the ring, so why'd you aim for the 'ead!"
"It don't matter, I missed!"
"Yeah, 'cause 'e moved out the way. If 'e hadn't, you'd be six feet under before you know it."
"Boss wouldn't kill me," Max said quietly, "'e needs us."
Jack scoffed, "We're disposable, mate. He isn't. Yet. We need 'im to give us that ring is."
"But what if 'e don't?"
"I am still here, you know." Watson's voice rang over their argument, and Holmes could tell he was the farthest away.
Both men became silent, as if they had only just noticed his presence.
"Then we'll make 'im." Jack answered in a low voice.
Holmes heard Watson scoff, "I'd like to see you try."
There was a scuffle as two sets of feet (well, one set of feet and a hop from Max) moved away from where Holmes was and towards Watson. He risked a glance round and turned to see a tall, blond-haired man, the same man that attacked Clarky and was presumably Jack, along with a shorter, black-haired man who was hopping awkwardly. Watson was sat against a container, nursing a bloody nose. He didn't seem scared, more concerned about the blood on his face. He glanced up with a disinterested look as the two men approached.
"Give it to us" Max asked in his high voice.
"Give you what?" Watson asked innocently.
"The ring." Jack interrupted.
Watson sighed heavily, "Don't suppose either of you have a tissue, do you?"
Max growled and swung at Watson, hitting him hard round the face. Watson fell sideways, coughing blood as he slowly propped himself back to a sitting position. "A simple 'no' would have been enough." he muttered.
Jack ignored him, "Give it to me. Please." he said sarcastically.
Watson seemed to consider his answer. "And if I do?"
Max answered him, "We'll let you and yer mates walk out of 'ere. We'll simply let you alone and withdraw all our men in this building. The boss needn't know you got out alive."
Watson smiled at him, "I'd like to believe you, but unfortunately you have a tell," he said, "you blinked a lot more than usual just now, and you did it earlier when you said Silverstone wouldn't kill you."
"I weren't lying – I 'ave 'ayfever!" Max said quickly.
Watson scoffed again and rolled his eyes, "We're in the middle of London, genius."
Jack cut Max off before the small man could retort. "Listen," he said, "hows about you give us the ring, an' we won't kill yer other friends."
"How could you kill them? You have no idea where–" Watson stopped mid-sentence when he locked eyes with Holmes. Realising what he'd done, the doctor hastily turned back to the two men, but Jack had already turned around after following Watson's gaze and set his sights on the detective. Seeing no way out of it, Holmes stood and boldly walked out from behind the container.
Jack turned back to the Watson, whilst Max pointed a revolver at Holmes. "I'll give you one more chance Doctor, before Max 'ere shoots Mr. Holmes where he stands."
Holmes had his hands out in a placating gesture, but he still shook his head firmly at Watson. "Don't do it." he said.
Watson watched him solemnly for a while, before gradually looking at Jack. A small yet sad smile broke across his features. "How could I refuse a friend?" he asked.
Max didn't wait for orders. He focused his aim and abruptly pulled the trigger. At the same time, Watson shouted, "Move!" and Holmes dived out of the way. However, a sudden searing pain like a white-hot needle in his left calf told him the bullet had found a mark. He couldn't help but let out a cry as he crashed to the floor, the leg colliding with the cold concrete, and he noticed Watson visibly pale when crimson blood began to stain his trouser leg.
"Take that as a warning." Jack said, "Do you really want us to ask you again?"
Watson was still frozen, watching as the stain spread along his friend's leg, but he soon snapped back to reality. "You idiot." He muttered under his breath, but Holmes wasn't sure he was talking to him or just to himself.
Glaring at their two attackers, Watson fished in his pocket until he pulled out a blue velvet box. He slowly stood up and walked over to stand in front of Holmes, thrusting the box into Jack's hand as he did so. Content, the tall man put the ring in his jacket pocket and motioned to Max before walking off. The smaller man seemed to hesitate, eyeing up the figure of Holmes on the floor and the fire-arms in his own hand. Before he could do anything else, the cold butt of a revolver was pressed against the side of his head.
"I suggest you keep walking. Or hopping, in your case. Unless you want to make it crawling." Watson growled menacingly. Max swallowed and nodded, before scurrying as quickly as he could with one foot towards his companion. As soon as they were gone, Watson dropped to Holmes' side.
"Holmes," he said as he ripped open the detective's trouser leg, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have been so stupid." He tore off a long strip of his shirt and hastily wrapped it around Holmes' calf.
"Stop 'pologisin'," Holmes said, "Why'd you give 'im the ring? I thought the whole point of this was that we wouldn' give the ring back."
Watson began to speak, but stopped when id SilverstoneHolmes cried out as the doctor pulled the bandage tight. His breathing became irregular as he tried to fight off the agonising currents that were spiralling up and down his muscles like electricity, and he tried to focus on Watson as a distraction.
Watson apologised again. "It's for the best, old boy, trust me."
"I do." Holmes rasped, scrunching his eyes up in pain. "With my life."
Watson smiled as he continued to tie the make-shift bandage. "The one time I don't bring my bandages." he muttered, somewhat sardonically.
"'s alright, jus' a scratch."
Watson chuckled at this comment, "You've jinxed it now, Holmes." he scolded.
"Meh." Holmes answered, eyes still closed. "I haven't the time for sorcery and witchcraft. It drains me."
Watson chuckled again. "You say that as if you've already practised it."
Holmes half shrugged. "I saw it as a possible career path when I was younger."
"And what a marvellous magician you would've made." Watson answered. "We need to get you upstairs somehow. There are some bandages up in the office."
Holmes hummed in response. "You'll need to bandage Clarky, too."
"What?" Watson asked sharply, "What happened to him?"
"Got knocked out by that big guy. Jack, I think his name was."
"Hmm. A delightful fellow, if ever I saw one. Has more manners than you, that's for sure. He even said please to me."
"Kiss-ass." Holmes muttered.
Watson ignored him. "Come on, we need to get you up."
Holmes raised himself to a sitting position with Watson holding him upright. Slipping an arm round the detective's waist, and grabbing Holmes' arm, Watson gently hoisted them both up.
Slowly, they made their way through the maze, ears strained for any noises or sounds that could alert them to an attacker. Soon enough, they had made it to the staircase, though Holmes saw it as Mount Everest. Watson noticed Holmes pale at the climb before them, and before the detective could say anything, he had lifted Holmes over one shoulder. Holmes let out an exclamation of shock as Watson began – somewhat wobbly – to climb the stairs and reach the landing. Holmes could feel Watson limping ever so slightly, no doubt from the cold weather and from the weight of a consulting detective on his ex-dislocated shoulder. Soon, Holmes was deposited in a chair, and he immediately scowled at Watson.
"There was no need for that." he said gruffly.
"There was every need." Watson answered, "Now stop being so bloody grumpy. I'm afraid you're going to have to stay here, whilst I go and fetch Constable Clarke. Do you think you can mange?"
"'Spose." Holmes muttered.
Watson gave him one last smile before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. As soon as the doctor had gone, Holmes let out a hiss of pain, clutching his leg in an attempt to lessen the agony. If anything, it made it worse, and Holmes had to bite his lip in order to stop himself from crying out. Tenderly, he peeled back the ripped trouser leg and examined the blood-stained 'bandage'. The bullet had gone straight through him, and blood was freely pouring from the wound. And it hurt like hell.
"Son of a gun." Holmes hissed as he prodded the wound, eliciting a flare of pain as a result.
He was interrupted in his cursing by the sound of the door creaking open. Glancing up, Holmes was about to give Watson an earful of how much his damned leg hurt, but his words back-tracked when he saw the tall figure of Charles Edward Silverstone before him.
"You know," said Silverstone as he extracted the blue box from his pocket and began lightly throwing it up and down. He took a few steps forward and looked at the slumped form of Holmes, victory gleaming in his eyes, "I honestly didn't think you were all going to give up so easily. I'll admit that I was beginning to get desperate. And you know what they say, desperate times call for desperate–"
"Don't finish that sentence. It really doesn't work for you." Holmes said in a bored tone.
Silverstone seemed slightly shocked at the interruption, but soon regained his composure. "No matter," he replied, "I have what I need, and before you know it I will be your emperor. People will bow down to me and–"
"What I don't understand," Holmes interrupted again, rolling his eyes at the silver-haired man in front of him, "is how Patrick Collins came to be in possession of it."
Silverstone now looked thoroughly disgruntled at having been broken off a second time. He looked Holmes in the eyes and smiled softly. "Well," said he, "seeing as you and your little friends won't be leaving this warehouse alive I don't see why I can't indulge you. I'll tell you how that boy came into possession of it." He paused for effect. Holmes raised his eyebrows. Silverstone continued, now in a slightly annoyed tone. "It was because Mr. Fredericks – you remember him, don't you? Yes, I thought so. Anyway, Mr. Fredericks decided to go out one night and get very intoxicated. One of my close friends who happened to be there told me that he was talking to this Collins boy and waving the ring around for all to see. He then gave the ring to the boy and told him that "the ring holds many secrets and mustn't be misused". Not very helpful, I know. At that point two of my men entered the bar, unaware that the ring was no longer in Fredericks' possession, and took him away before he could drink anymore."
Holmes couldn't help but grin at the man, "You lost your precious ring in a pub? Not very good protection, for something so valuable, is it?"
Silverstone's face turned sour, "Yes, well, I agree it wasn't my best moment, but that doesn't matter anymore. I have it now, and there's nothing you can do that can stop me." He continued to bounce it up and down, but something deep down in Holmes was nagging at him, something about the appearance of the box. Casting it aside, he quickly caught the lord's attention as said person was about to turn and leave.
"You can't honestly think you're going to get away with this, do you?" Holmes asked, the incredulousness in his voice completely honest. Silverstone turned back to face him. "You've just admitted everything to me. I hardly think you'll be able to just waltz out of here."
"And what makes you think I can't? My word will always be better than yours. Even if you try to take me down yourself, you only have one bullet left in that gun, so even if you do shoot me – not to mention the fact that you might not kill me with it – I still have a fully-loaded revolver to use against you." He pulled out his weapon as he spoke and held aloft, pointing it at Holmes' chest. "So again, what makes you think I won't get away with this?"
"I have two arguments that I'm sure will change your mind." Holmes said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth
Silverstone raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Enlighten me."
"Number one, my brother Mycroft knows we're here. As I'm sure you're aware, Mycroft holds considerable power over the British Government, so were you to shoot us down, I'm sure you'd be feeling his full wrath. You would not be alive for very long."
Silverstone scoffed, "That's hardly going to persuade me, Holmes and you know it. I also have friends in high places, and I'm sure I can outnumber your brother. Neither you or the pathetic minorities your brother has under control in the Government can stop me now. So humour me, what's your second point?"
Holmes smile broadened, "My final point, and the most convincing argument I can make," the detective said, "is the revolver that Watson is currently pointing at your head."
Silverstone paled considerably at the sound of a gun being cocked behind him.
TBC
A/N: So there you are, my lovelies. Updates are becoming pretty regular, and the next chapter will be up soon. Please review, you know how much I love to read them and they always make my day :)