Again unbeta'd, but you have to give me some points for speed.
Lestrade:
Holmes was as a man possessed. To this day I have no idea how the Doctor and I managed to keep up with him. It would be more accurate to say that we kept him in sight, and then only barely. Twice I was sure we had lost him entirely, but then the Doctor picked up the trail again.
We traversed what had to be a full half of Chiswick wharf through back-alley, the sun had set, and Doctor Watson was starting to fall noticeably behind. The stormy weather of the last few days could not be doing any good for his injuries. Finally, just as I spared a glance back and was sure the Doctor would have to stop, Holmes came to an abrupt halt ahead of us. He raised his chin, an odd tilt to his head, looking for all the world like a bloodhound who'd lost the scent. Then he spun on his heel and threw open the door of the nearest decaying building, striding in.
A minute later I caught up, finding him in a dark and musty back hall. The only light came through the gaps from the door at the end, the low steady light of an open lantern. Holmes advanced on the door swiftly, kicking it open without a moment's hesitation. It banged into the opposite wall and the hinges creaked in protest. As if on that signal, everything froze.
Past the amateur's thin frame I could see into the room, which in itself was small and nearly bare, the lantern perched on a far shelf. A table in the center drew the attention immediately with the bound form stretched across it, stripped to the waist and blood pooling down his sides. Hopkins' face was turned toward us, his wide eyes speaking volumes of fear and pleas in defiance to his gag. Looming at his side was a giant of a man in a collarless shirt, a hammer raised in one great hand, the other holding still a nail against the young inspector's back.
Holmes took a step forward. The brute swung his hammer, but Holmes ducked it with impossible ease, stepping in closer and delivering a strike to the man's jaw that sent him reeling. The detective turned, and for the first time since he'd jumped out of the carriage, I saw his face.
He was perfectly livid. He was actually trembling with pure and potent rage. I could not have been more surprised if I had watched a block of ice spontaneously combust. I was vaguely aware of the Doctor slipping past me and going to Hopkins, but Holmes held my rapt attention.
In a flash he had borne the man into the near wall and struck him at least a half-dozen times in the process - I heard at least two cracks and knew one to be from his nose. I could not bring myself to come to his aid, just watched numbly from the doorway as the imperturbable Sherlock Holmes delivered a bare-knuckled beating to make any pugilist proud. I tallied three broken fingers, most of the bones broken in his right foot, a dislocated shoulder, a matched set of black eyes, and a couple more cracked ribs added to his injuries, to say nothing of the bruises and contusions. Holmes fisted one hand in the man's shirt and drew him up once more, and I started from my reverie as I recognized the shape in his other hand.
"Holmes!"
It was Doctor Watson's voice that snapped out at him, halting the swing of the hammer just moments before it smashed the culprit's skull in. Holmes' lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring, eyes still blazing at his dazed prey. The hammer trembled in his grip. He seemed to come to a decision, and readied again for the likely deadly strike, but Watson's voice stymied him a second time.
Twice seemed to do the trick. With a frustrated exhalation, Holmes changed his grip and instead jabbed the head of the hammer into the man's gut. I found him being tossed towards me then, Holmes moving to the table without a word.
I am not entirely proud to say that I was not at all gentle in the process of cuffing the man, but I won't say that I regret it, either. When I heard Hopkins' voice, hoarse and dry, rasp out something unintelligible to my ears, I had no qualms whatsoever about rudely jarring his injured shoulder.
"There was no sign of your friend," Holmes was saying when I rose again, in a soft voice that contrasted sharply with his anger of only moments before. "But I'm sure she's alright. Don't worry."
Hopkins had been freed and was sitting up on the edge of the table, his head bowed and his shoulders set rigidly. Holmes' coat was wrapped around him, but did little to ease his shivering. He didn't wince while the Doctor gently probed his wounds.
"Is he alright?"
At the sound of my voice Hopkins glanced up sharply, straightening even more and trying to look as though he hadn't just been through a nerve-shattering ordeal. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright. "Inspector-" he croaked, then swallowed and made to try again. I cut him off.
"It's alright, lad, don't speak. I'll get the report from you later." There was a moment of uncertainty, and then he nodded and managed a small, grateful smile. "Doctor?"
"The cuts are superficial," Watson informed all three of us. "They'll need antiseptic and stitches but they're not life-threatening."
"Baker Street is closest," Holmes commented, almost idly.
Holmes and the doctor exchanged a look, one of those looks of theirs that somehow bottled a whole conversation into the span of two seconds. The doctor nodded. "Of course."
Hopkins nodded his assent as well.
I was already partway to the door when they turned to me. "Watch him a minute." I gestured at the brute still curled up on the dingy floor. "I'll get you a growler."
I fancied that I heard Holmes kick him just before I stepped onto the street. I found that I didn't particularly mind.
Sherlock Holmes and crew are public domain but do not belong to me.
Now, you didn't really think I'd let that bad man permanently disfigure my favorite Inspector, did you?
This may be the crisis of the story, but do stick around, there's at least three more to go before we're done with this arc.