Title: Not in This Life - Part Three
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV
Rating: Teen
Genre: Angst/Drama
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.
0o0o
Frozen is how I felt at that tremulous moment when I saw my friend again after what I'd believed was his death. It seemed like an eternity had passed to my grief-clouded mind and yet, all was suddenly exactly as it was, with myself beside him in danger and intrigue, at his side until the bitter end.
Paralyzed, I stood rooted in the doorway, watching as he rose slowly from the shack's lone chair, a ragged blanket wrapped around a body that was so thin, I fancied I could see the bones of his shoulders raised sharply beneath the cloth of his shirt.
"Won't you come in?" he said. His voice, usually so confident and strident was unnaturally weak. Immediately I knew there was something wrong.
I slipped inside as he lit more candles, illuminating his sparse and uncomfortable abode. I watched as he lowered himself back in his seat with a pained expression. I found myself at a loss as what to do; part of me wanted to rush and embrace him, part of me wanted to berate and strike at the man who'd caused me such grief and yet another part ...
Another part just wanted to look at him. Listen to him breathe. Immerse myself in his miraculous presence and want for nothing more.
What followed were long moments of silence as perhaps befitted us, men who'd so often been at a loss of what to say when it came to matters of the heart. He stared at the dusty floor, abashed and, I fancy, ashamed, although with him it was impossible to tell.
I stared at Holmes, wondering if I were dreaming and deciding I wasn't, reached out to touch his arm. It was frightfully warm beneath the cotton of his shirt. I edged closer, pressing my palm to his forehead, wincing at the unnatural heat I felt there. "You're feverish," I said, immediately regretting the decision to leave my medical supplies at home.
He looked up at me, a wry grin curling his thin, parched lips. "My steadfast Watson. When will you ever have a care for yourself?"
"You should have told me you were ill, I would have prepared better," I retorted. How quickly we slipped back into our old roles, as if nothing more than a few hours had passed since the last time we'd spoken. "Where is your water? Your fire? I see a fireplace there, why is it unlit? It's damp and chill in here."
"I'm trying to avoid the attention a working chimney would attract. This home is supposedly abandoned. All except the locals know that as fact and they regard me as merely a squatter. One who cannot afford fuel."
"My god, Holmes. How can you live like this?" My throat tightened as I thought about just how low my dearest friend had been brought.
"I have not been living, my friend. Merely surviving." He turned his face away from me. "As I deserve. I can't say I'm surprised by your arrival Watson, although once I'd sent the letter to you in a fit of emotional upheaval, I'd dared to dream you'd have chosen the wiser course and left me to my fate. Did you at least sell the violin?"
"Absolutely not. We have no need for money. I've brought along the entire reserves of Mary's estate. It will be more than enough to deliver us back to England where I dare say you'll be glad to have the Stradivarius held within your grasp once more."
He shut his eyes closed tightly, as if in pain. "I cannot return to England. As for you bringing your poor wife's mortal possessions here for such a fruitless purpose ..."
"She would have given it to me for your retrieval without hesitation. She would have told me to sell the house if I must."
His hand trembled as he covered his eyes with it. "Watson ..."
"She would have," I insisted, feeling at an utter loss. "How did you expect me to react to that letter? Did you honestly think I'd sell your priceless instrument, the one that brought me so many hours of joy and frustration? Did you think I could traipse off to France without a care, knowing that you were among the living yet so far out of my reach? Did you honestly believe that I'd abandon you to such an unhappy fate?"
His voice was thick with agony. "You should have. And you're right. I was a fool to have sent that missive."
"It would have been worse for me if you hadn't. Worse for you too. Now, no more arguing. We need to get out of this wretched place and closer to a more civilized area."
It was terrible to see the look of absolute defeat that shaded his features at my words. For the first time in our association, I felt helpless and frightened. The brilliant spark that had always so animated Holmes was gone, replaced by an uncertainty that was utterly foreign to my experience of him. "To try to do so would mean death, for both of us I fear. Moran's agents ..."
"To hell with them!" I exploded. "Where are they? What can they do? I have my revolver and my aim, surely we are even in that regard."
His head hung down."My dear Watson, they have weapons that far outstrip that. Silent air-guns, able to shatter rock at a hundred yards. As for their aim, they are snipers of the utmost skill and patience. I've seen them holding sentry in the worst weather for hours, waiting for a chance to catch a clear shot of me. All too often I wonder why I simply don't give it to them and then ..."
"And then you come to your senses," I interjected. Reigning in my temper, I knelt at his feet and took his thin, all-too-white hands in mine. "You are ill and exhausted, Holmes. If you'll allow me to take some of this burden and assist you while you recover, you'll see things as not so bleak. Surely you have it in you for one more escape, if only to a neighboring town. I can help you, if you allow me to."
His hollow eyes stared at me. "I have not dared to hope for so long."
Gently, I patted his hand and rose to my feet. "Don't despair. We aren't beaten yet. I dare say that together, we will make a formidable opponent to Moran and his hounds. Are they in the area now?"
"I don't believe so, but as you see, this place isn't very welcoming to anyone."
"No matter," I said, rubbing my hands together, trying to ward off the chill. "I can still forage, at least for firewood. No arguments, Holmes. We need a fire and something for you to eat. Then we'll try to use our wits for an escape."
It seemed that he was too tired to argue with me, which upset me more than I could express. "Be careful," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.
It was with great trepidation but a much greater amount of determination that I headed out to the small wooded area behind the village to gather some dry wood for burning. I was fortunate in find a tree felled by drought, giving me branches that were easy to break off and light to carry.
Once or twice, I thought I heard noises - the rustle of branches, a quick clamber over rocks - but I chalked that up to the small animals that often inhabited areas like this. I felt in my heart that it was more paranoia than true danger that was plaguing Holmes - who in their right mind would stalk a place like this where the hardship for the hunter would be as great as the prey's?
I gathered what wood I could and carried it back to the shack. It was a matter of minutes before I had a fire burning in the grate, bringing both warmth and light to the room. I gently forced Holmes to rest before it, seeing for the first time how truly haggard he was. There was still a sandwich left in my pack, which I compelled him to eat, alongside the last sips of tea from my canteen, which I'd refilled in one of the stations during my trip.
He seemed a little brighter after he finished. "I suppose you can't be convinced to leave."
"Of course I can," I replied easily. "But not without you."
"Then I must make do with your company, as undeserved as it is." Holmes tugged the blanket from his shoulders. Sweat dotted his brow, telling me the fever had broken for the time being but how long that would last was anyone's guess. "Exodus from here will not be simple. I'm afraid we'll have to be literally a pair of thieves in the night and steal our transportation. Purchasing it will be too much trouble."
"I'll leave compensation for them in its stead, more than enough to purchase twice over whatever we take," I said.
"Good enough. God knows whatever horseflesh can be found here is nearly on its last legs anyway. One of them at the Kershel's place looks as though he's been put aside for the slaughterhouse, so perhaps it will be a kindness to have him get us closer to Prague and then set him loose."
"Do you know this Kershel?" I asked.
"He's the closest they have to a governor here," he replied dryly. "A corrupt, wealthy through ill-gains, cruel governor."
I laughed humorlessly. "Then I shall quiet my conscience with that thought when we abscond his cart."
"Worry not. It certainly didn't belong to him to begin with," Holmes replied. With some digging, he produced two cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "My last pair. Perhaps you and I can share a final smoke before heading unto the breach?"
"We'll buy more when we're safe away" I corrected, taking the cigarette from his hand and noticing the fine tremors that were still running through his fingers.
Holmes didn't reply.
Finding my matches, I held out a light for both of us and together we waited for nightfall, silent and lost in our own thoughts.
0o0o
I had assumed that stealing the cart and horse would be an easy task, but I'd underestimated the difficulties in breaching Kershal's 'estate' and the protection he'd employ.
Alsatian guard dogs, a good half dozen of them, circled his property. Snarling and snapping at our scent and I despaired at getting past them until Holmes pulled a tiny whistle from his pocket and blew on it. It produced no sound, but immediately the dogs quieted and surrounded him obediently, obviously trained to obey its high-pitched tone.
"Very useful little object," he whispered. "Saved me more than once in multiple countries."
I didn't bothered complimenting him. Instead I focused on harnessing the old nag to one of the small carts, one that was just big enough for myself and Holmes to travel in. It was so tiny I'd have to tie my bag to one of the handles, but as far as I was concerned it was as good as the Queen's crystal chariot.
I was just done with the bridle when Holmes grabbed my arm frantically, pulling me down into the mud of the yard. "There!" he hissed. "See? They have found me, damn them. Watson, I will rise and give them a target and you must run. Leave me here ..."
"Hush!" I ordered him, squinting through the darkness and seeing a single lamp light waver in the distance. It was so far away, it seemed impossible for anyone to ascertain what it meant let alone that it was dangerous, but Holmes was insistent.
"It is them! Watson, you must get out of here. For God's sake ..."
"Nonsense, Holmes. Even if it's them there's no way they could hit us from that far. It's impossible."
Of course, it was at that precise moment that a boulder next to us exploded into a rain of tiny pebbles. So horrifying it was, a silent sudden attack from such a distance, I found myself dumb with shock.
Not Holmes. He pushed me down into the dirt, his already-weak body taking the brunt of the shrapnel. "Too late," he whispered. "My poor friend, why did you come? Why did I let you?"
There was something about his voice, so devoid of hope, that spurred me to rise up and find my battle legs. My revolver was already loaded and without hesitation, I rose up and took aim, firing six bullets at the specter who haunted us so.
I heard a cry in the distance that was drowned out by the renewed barking of the dogs. With superhuman effort, I pulled Holmes into the cart and whipped the already frightened horse into a run. We took off just as the village came to life, men running from their houses, rifles in hand.
There were shots that followed us then, but we were far enough away for it not to matter, at least to those ordinary bullets.
As for our 'friend' in the distance, God knows if I'd struck him or not, but it didn't matter. We were well on our way into the darkness and even as Holmes slumped against me, I felt elated at our escape. I pulled him closer with one arm as we rattled down the dirt roads, and it was then I felt the warm wetness of blood running down his back.
With a curse, I drove the horse onward, an unbelievers' prayer on my lips.
0o0o
to be continued ...
Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews. I enjoy reading them so much. They really inspire me to keep going.
to be continued ...