Title: Hearts
Author: Pompey
Universe: ACD
Rating: PG
Warnings: my strange facts are mostly anachronistic to Victorian times. Also some medical icky.
Word count: 617
Summary: Just a good, ol' fashioned bedside vigil after some good, ol' fashioned whumpage.
Prompt: July 19 - Use a strange fact in your work today.
A squid may have three hearts, but I have two. One is lying on the bed before me, having been broken and bled. The other is in my chest and it feels like it is breaking and bleeding.
I keep my hand over Watson's, trying to send some of my own warmth into it, hoping I will feel even the slightest twitch beneath my fingers. I am not succeeding in either endeavor.
I try to distract myself from what is in front of me with random thoughts plucked from the ether. A single ant can easily lift 10 times its own body weight. Octopuses can become senile and develop dementia as they age. The oldest tree in the world is approximately 4855 years old. The human body contains anywhere from nine to twelve pints of blood, by volume.
Watson has left nearly half of his blood volume in that thrice-damned abattoir of a room.
It was clever of Danvers to set up his horrific torture chamber next door to an actual slaughterhouse. Who would hear human cries of pain over the bleats of the animals, or notice human blood mixed into the rest of the gore, or care about a few extra flies? I very nearly did not and the what-ifs sicken me.
I tighten my hand over Watson's unresponsive one and try not to think about the incredible amount of red that painted the floor. Instead I focus on Watson's face, nearly as white as the linen sheet he rests upon. His eyelashes and eyebrows make for stark contrast. I try to make him open eyes through the sheer force of my will.
I fail.
I curl my fingers slightly to rest on his pulse point. His heart is still weakly racing, trying desperately to circulate what is left of his blood. His breath is also too fast, too shallow. With the heavy blankets over him to keep in the remnants of body heat, I cannot see his chest rise or fall and must rely on my ears to catch the faint sounds of breathing.
I want Danvers to suffer for this, a hundred times over what he has made Watson suffer. It is cliché to say that hanging is too good for him, but it is. Even if the rope were too short and he didn't have a sufficient fall to break his neck and must then strangle to death. Too quick, too easy. Impalement, perhaps. They say Vlad Dracul had mastered the art of impaling a man so as to avoid all major organs and blood vessels. The skewered man could live for a full three days all while the weight of his own body pulled him further down the pole.
Watson has been unconscious for nearly a day.
The Brazen Bull might be adequate. Depending on the speed and temperature of the fire around the bronze statue, Danvers might be for a very slow and painful dry-roast of a death. I wouldn't even need any special tubes to convert his screams into a melodic, bovine lowing. The sounds of his agony would be pleasing enough.
Watson would be displeased if he knew how I was entertaining myself. It is only for his sake I feel any guilt, and then it is only guilt that I do not feel guilty over my murderous thoughts. He is and has always been the better half of our partnership.
A starfish cut in half will regenerate into two new creatures. Not so with humans. If Watson dies, if my hearts are bifurcated, I will not survive it.
I squeeze Watson's hand gently one more time. At long last, there is a brief, tiny stirring beneath my fingers.