Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.
I'm afraid the next chapter will be the last of this story. I know I said in the beginning that this fanfic was going to be longer than ACM, but I had a much bigger, and frankly a more confusing, plot planned then.
Also, heard on the grapevine that the 3rd Sherlock Holmes movie will involve Jack the Ripper! Only a rumour, though I have to confess I squealed when I read it :)
Silverstone paled considerably at the sound of a gun being cocked behind him.
"This is what we're going to do." John Watson growled from behind the lord. "You and I are going to head downstairs, where Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard is waiting, and he will take you and your friends to the Tower of London. How they decide to punish you, I don't know. You'll have to wait and see. Now move."
Silverstone gulped and nodded quickly. Watson moved his revolver down and prodded him in the back. The man flinched and headed towards the door. Watson cast one last look back at Holmes, silently asking if the detective was alright. Holmes nodded once and Watson continued down.
Ten minutes later the doctor returned, supporting a half-conscious Clarky. Without saying anything, Watson led the constable over to a blanket that had been thrown hap-hazardly on the floor, and gently sat him down. He quickly left the room, presumably to get medical supplies from the bathroom, and Holmes glanced at Clarky. The small figure looked the worse for wear, the blood on his face having dried, though the gashes were still open. Bruises were forming along his cheekbones, and his lip had split. Still, he looked up at Holmes and managed a wavering smile. Holmes smiled back warmly (probably the first time he had done that to the constable) and turned to face the door as Watson returned with a washbowl, stitches and bandages.
The doctor headed to Clarky and promptly began dressing his wounds. Soon, the deep wounds were stitched, and the others cleaned. Watson then helped Clarky to lie back and told him to get some rest. The constable willingly complied.
Next, Watson turned to Holmes. "Can you stand?" he asked softly.
"Not well." he answered with a grim smile.
Watson nodded, as if expecting this answer, and, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling Holmes' arm around his shoulders, gently guided Holmes to one of the other blankets strewn on the floor.
"Lie down." Watson commanded as he retrieved the washbowl, stitches and bandages. He removed the bloodied and ripped cloth and started to clean the wound, ensuring infection could not occur.
"Where's Silverstone?" Holmes asked, one arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to calm his headache.
"I wasn't lying when I said Lestrade was outside waiting for us."
"How did he know where we were?"
"He told me Mycroft had sent him."
Holmes made a humph noise before talking. "I should think so. This was his fault, after all."
"I doubt your brother deliberately sent us into danger. Hold still, Holmes." he said as the detective flinched from the cold steel of the needle.
"Did Lestrade get the ring?" Holmes asked quietly.
"I would imagine so. I certainly didn't take it. What?" he looked up quickly as Holmes emitted a sigh, thinking he had gone too deep with the stitches.
"It's nothing. No doubt Lestrade will hand over the ring to Mycroft once he's finished with it, and I'd have much preferred it if the British Government did not get their hands on it."
"Why?"
"Watson, you know full well that my line of work requires secrecy, and the scandal that will result from this whole affair will not bode well for my reputation. I'm sure that even as we speak, my brother is hounding up his troops and will be preparing to raid the illusive vault." Holmes let out another heavy sigh.
"You have no idea how egotistical you are." Watson said, chuckling as he applied the clean bandages. "But I suppose you're right. A scandal would certainly not help our business. It's certainly a good job that Mycroft doesn't know where the vault is, then, isn't it?."
Holmes raised his head sharply. "What are you talking about?"
After ensuring the bandages were secure, Watson sat back on his haunches and delved into his left pocket. A second later he pulled out a small, red velvet box and gave it to Holmes. When the detective opened the box, he was somewhat surprised to see a ruby engagement ring. He looked across at Watson, who was smiling smugly. "So what did Silverstone have?" he asked incredulously.
"A fake. I swapped the rings, though it was Clarky's idea. He gave the fake to me."
It was as if the fog had lifted over Holmes' eyes. "That was the plan he was muttering about, then. But," Holmes lowered his voice so he wouldn't wake the constable, "Where did Clarky get an engagement ring?" Watson shrugged.
"T'was my wife's." a quiet voice sounded from across the room. Holmes turned his head and Watson swivelled to see Clarky still lying wrapped in his blanket, staring at the ceiling. "I told her our situation, and she was more than willing to help."
"Where did you get the idea from?"
"Not sure. I guess I was thinking of a way to somehow destroy the message on the ring, and swapping it with another seemed the simplest choice."
Neither Holmes nor Watson could think of anything to say. Even if they wanted to, Clarky had already bid them goodnight and turned his back.
"Do you think it will still be safe to stay here?" Watson asked Holmes quietly.
"I don't see why not. There's no one else – as far as I know – baying for our blood. We're perfectly safe."
Watson nodded. "Even so, we'll move in the morning. You need to rest you're leg, though. Sleep. Now."
Holmes smiled. "You always have a way with words, Watson. So charming." he said, before a blanket hit him in square in the face. "You also have good aim, which I had forgotten about." Holmes muttered, eliciting a tired chuckle from across the room as the doctor moved the temporary medical supplies to the corner.
"Are you planning on treating your arm any time soon?" Holmes asked from beneath the blanket, remembering the gash the bullet had left. He noticed Watson hesitate, bent over the washbowl, and he rolled his eyes.
"Do I have to play doctor as well?" the detective asked sarcastically. Watson glowered at him.
"I'll do it later." he huffed.
"Why not do it now?" Holmes chided.
Watson stood fully upright and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because I am sore all over, I have a pounding headache, and I am exhausted. I will do it when I am more focused." he continued to tidy, before scooping up his blanket and sitting beneath the window.
"If you're so tired, why are you planning on keeping vigil?" Holmes asked critically.
"Because someone's got to do it," came the short answer, "and you two need rest."
Holmes was about to reply that he was perfectly capable of keeping watch, but Watson cut him off.
"Your body needs to repair itself, Holmes, whether you like it or not. If you really insist, I will wake you in a few hours. Maybe." he added quietly, so that the detective could not hear.
Huffing, Holmes rolled on his side and closed his eyes, knowing an argument was futile when it concerned his health. He was feeling a little strained, to be fair, and his leg was throbbing constantly. Maybe a bit of sleep wouldn't be too bad.
His last thought was whether Watson was staying awake for another reason, before his mind shut down and he descended into blissfulness.
When Mycroft Holmes plodded up the stairs of the ghastly warehouse in search of his brother and the doctor four hours later (the paperwork had been unending), he had to admit he was a little surprised to see the former fast asleep, blanket held tightly in an attempt to ward of the cold. He was not at all surprised, though, to see the good doctor slouched against the wall, blanket half-covering him, moments from falling asleep. Indeed, for the past hour his eyelids had continued to droop, but every time he would shake them off, blinking furiously and glancing around the room at the two sleeping figures.
Mycroft walked slowly over to John Watson, careful not to surprise him in his semi-conscious state. A small pang of sympathy broke through his hardened shell, but he quickly cast his emotions aside, his critical eyes observing everything of the exhausted form. The dark circles under his eyes suggesting multiple sleepless nights, the blood seeping through his left sleeve showing no concern towards himself when others were in need of help, the cuts and scrapes decorating his face and arms revealing the fight he had put up against his assailants. When he moved his gaze over to his sleeping brother, he noticed the stitched head wound, cleaned cuts and clean bandages. The same went for the constable: wounds thoroughly cleaned and treated, all pain gone from his features. Doctor Watson had certainly done a good job fixing his friends, though the same couldn't be said for himself. Having foreseen this and walking briskly back towards the door, Mycroft motioned downstairs to someone before heading back over to Watson. Placing a hand gently on the doctor's shoulder, Mycroft quietly called his name. At the touch, Watson instantly jerked awake and instinctively grabbed Mycroft's arm in a vice-like grasp. Mycroft waited patiently – unaffected by the death grip on his arm – for Watson to come back to reality. Soon enough, the green eyes focused on Mycroft's ice-grey ones and Watson abruptly let go after recognising him, mumbling an apology whilst trying to stifle a yawn. Almost instantaneously, Watson's gaze slid over to Holmes, checking to see if his friend was in trouble. After giving himself and his surroundings the all-clear, he looked back at Mycroft expectantly.
Mycroft smiled, "It's alright, doctor. I'm merely here to tell you to sit still."
Watson frowned, "Why?" he muttered. At that moment, the door opened and a small man hastily walked in. He was dressed rather formally for a midnight visit, and he held his nose in the air, as if everyone else (besides Mycroft, of course) was beneath him. Mycroft turned and summoned him over, before facing Watson again.
"This is Dr. Knight." he explained, "He's here to tend to your wounds."
Watson sat upright, the frown deepening. "I'm perfectly–"
"And yet the blood on your sleeve suggests otherwise." Mycroft interrupted. "Just let the doctor do his job."
"No, Mycroft, I said I'm fine. Thank you, but I don't need any of your doctors to help me."
Dr. Knight gave him a condescending look, "Sir, I would highly recommend you let me treat you. You are obviously delirious from the blood loss, and you need my assistance immediately. I am merely trying to help, for your own sake." he stated in a monotonous tone.
Watson raised his eyebrows, "Oh are you? Well, doctor, even in my delirious state I can't help but notice your voice getting louder, and I would highly recommend you leave before you wake my other patients up." he snapped.
In all fairness, Mycroft did not know this Dr. Knight perhaps as much as he should have done before thrusting him upon Watson. Suddenly noticing his brother stir out of the corner of his eye, he silently prayed Knight would relent, for his sake.
"Doctor Watson," Knight said in a timid voice, "you are clearly exhausted, and maybe once I have treated your arm, I can administer a small sedative to help you sleep. You are suffering from night terrors from your experiences in India, are you not?"
Watson's head snapped up. "Who told you that?" Immediately, he faced Mycroft. The elder Holmes held up a hand before he could speak. "He did not get your file from me." he assured.
"It does not matter how I came upon your files. What matters is your health, and it will continue to deteriorate if you keep neglecting it like this!"
Watson scoffed, "You think I'm doing this deliberately? You think I am forcing myself to stay awake for twenty-four hours in order to prevent myself from waking up a few hours later on purpose? Who do you think you are? And how exactly did you come by my file?"
"Actually," Knight said, with a somewhat arrogant look, "I had a friend from the Government send your file to me once I learned I was to treat you. I like to know my patient before I examine them."
"I am not your patient." Watson spat, "And just exactly how many other confidential patient files have you had your 'friend' give you?"
Knight did not seem to pick up on the emphasis on the word 'confidential'. "I've had it done for many other patients. It certainly contributes to the final diagnosis."
"Mmm." Watson said, all traces of tiredness disappearing from his eyes. Mycroft remained silent, shocked at the confession from this highly respected doctor, as the man who had recommended him had said. "And pray tell, are your patients aware of this?"
Knight seemed to consider his answer, "I don't believe so. Does it really matter?" he asked earnestly.
"Oh, I think it would matter. I think it would matter considerably if those patients knew how you and your friend are handling their private information." a voice from behind Knight said, "And I think the law shares that opinion, don't you agree, constable?"
"Oho yes, they would very much agree." Knight turned to see Sherlock Holmes and Constable Clarke both sat up in their 'beds' and gazing levelly at the doctor.
Knight swallowed, Mycroft sighed, Watson smiled, and both Clarky and Holmes said, "Get out," to the former. Without a word, the small man got up and left.
"Well, Mycroft," Holmes said as he stood up. "I think it's safe to say that didn't quite go as you expected, hmm?"
"For once, dear brother, I am in agreement with you." Mycroft replied as he too stood. "I am also here to tell you, though, that Lord Silverstone is in the Tower of London, his cohorts spending their time waiting for their trial in Scotland Yard's cells, and also that the two of you may safely return home. Constable Clarke, Inspector Lestrade has asked me to inform you that he would like to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning. Other than that, your wife is at home and awaiting your return. Goodnight, gentlemen." And with that, Mycroft Holmes strode out of the door.
Holmes moved over to Watson and offered a hand to help him up. Silently, the three of them left the warehouse and called for two cabs. Clarky took the first one, saying his goodnights as he left, and Holmes and Watson climbed into the second.
The pair sat in companionable silence for most of the journey. Holmes gazed out of the window at the first signs of dawn, whilst Watson fiddled with his nails.
"Holmes, I–"
"Watson, if–"
Both stopped as soon as they heard the other speak, and waited for their friend to continue. After nothing came, the two abruptly burst into laughter.
"Holmes, what were you going to say?" Watson asked after he'd recovered.
"It doesn't matter. You?"
"Likewise."
The pair once again returned to silence, only once being interrupted by Holmes' yawning. Watson looked across at him.
"You look terrible." he offered.
"Thanks. You should see yourself. You look positively ghastly." came the reply.
Watson chuckled. "Lie down, old boy, you need to sleep. God knows when the last time you slept was."
"The same can be said for you, dear Watson." Holmes said, his face becoming serious.
Watson shrugged. "I'll sleep when we get home." he excused. "You need to sleep now though. You're dead on your feet, and I'm sure your leg is causing you some discomfort. Lie down."
Holmes sighed, before giving in and laying sideways, his head resting on Watson's lap. The doctor opened his mouth to object; this wasn't exactly what he'd meant, but decided against it. Let the man sleep, he thought to himself. He absent-mindedly began threading his fingers through Holmes' coarse hair (most probably trying to tease out the knots in his sub-conscious) whilst debating what to do with the small, red velvet box that resided in his pocket. He smiled to himself as he remembered he still had a promise to keep.
A/N: There we go, my lovelies! Please please please review; you all know how much I love them. I know this chapter wasn't too exhilarating, but we are nearing the end, and like I said earlier, the next chapter will be the last :)