Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Dr Watson. However i do enjoy playing with them for a while !! :)
Sherlock Holmes slumped against a tree catching his breath and waited. He looked at his surroundings. It was a heavily forested woodland, the sound of a stream trickling nearby, the afternoon sun was slowly sinking, it's fingers still wrapped lovingly around the many oak trees now silhouetted against the early evening dusk. Holmes closed his eyes and his mind flashed back to events that had taken place at 221B Baker Street, only two days ago.
Holmes had been sitting by the winter coal fire, which blocked out the cold damp windy day that engulfed London and was waiting for his Boswell to return home. He had been worried about he good doctor, and had seen how Watson had been overworking himself once more, looking tired and ill as he struggled to cope with a particularly bad outbreak of influenza that had struck particularly hard this winter. Sighing he picked up the anonymous letter that had been revived earlier that day. It simply read "Stop investigating the Brixton Murder or face the consequences". Holmes had no doubt that the murder of Brixton had just been the tip of the iceberg, there was something far more complicated going on and he had been determined to find out what, despite the threat now received. His suspicions had only increased further on a visit to Scotland Yard and meeting Inspector Lestrade who discussed further details of the case and the background to the Brixton family. A large quantity of cocaine had been found, far more than for personal use. Holmes got up from his chair and started pacing. This was all wrong, something was not right, he could not lay his finger on it yet, but knew something was amiss. He picked up a match and cigarette and tried to light it but the match failed to strike and Holmes angrily tossed it into the burning fire. Holmes was worried, not just about this case but about Watson, it was getting dark and he was late.
There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson came in with a telegram in her hand which she handed to Holmes. Hurriedly Holmes ripped open the telegram and read the contents. He let out am anguished cry as he let the telegram fall from his fingers to the carpet as he held onto the mantelpiece as his legs threatened to give way. They had captured Watson. And they were going to kill him.
Holmes opened his eyes once more and forced them to adjust to the encroaching darkness. He had not slept or eaten since that telegram slipped from his fingers. Holmes had traced Watson's last known movements and followed the evidence and the subsequent trail that had led him to this dense woodland. Holmes moved forward and found the clearing he had been looking for. In the middle was a small wooded cabin. He saw a room lit. Watson was in there thought Holmes as he moved forward. He would show no mercy to anyone who had harmed his dear friend and associate. Holmes reached inside his coat and his hands clasped on familiar cold metal. Watson's old service revolver.
Wasting no further time, Holmes ran forward towards the cabin and kicked the front door open. The occupants were startled and before they had a chance to react, Holmes overpowered them and two burly men, roughly shaven and shabbily dressed were lying unconscious on the floor. Holmes spared no thought for them as he moved from the front room and into the bedroom. What he saw made his blood turn as cold as ice and then his hot temper began to take over as he took in the full scene before him. Someone was torturing his Boswell. A man was leaning over a huddled form, viciously yanking him up, the chains rattling as he did so. He thrust a needle into the victim's neck and discharged the contents, laughing as he threw him back hard against the wall like a broken rag doll. His laughter soon turned to fear as he heard a blood curling animalistic cry of rage from behind him and barely had time to turn before he felt himself being hurled aside and slammed into a beside table and chair, breaking upon impact. Holmes lunged forward for the man once more and hit him again and again until his nose cracked and he himself was thrown down like a rag doll onto the cold floor. Holmes secured Watson's' torturer and hurriedly rushed towards the crumpled form of Watson.
Gently, Holmes turned Watson over and took in a deep intake of breath when he saw the sight before him. Watson was shivering badly, his shirt missing, needle marks were evident all over his arm. Watson was moaning at the sudden movement, pain etched on his face. He tried to call out to Watson, giving him comfort, but to very little effect, Watson was too drugged and in too much pain to barely register. Holmes carefully probed Watson's torso and felt at least one broken rib. Holmes frowned at the chains holding his Watson securely. He took out a small bundle from his inside pocket of his coat and unrolled the bundle to reveal a set of tools. Holmes picked one and began to work on the locks of Watson's manacles. It did not take him long to free Watson and as he released the manacles from Watson's wrists, he caught his friend as his dead weight slumped forward into his. Only Holmes knew this was as much an embrace of his affection and concern for Watson as it was about supporting his falling friend. To his surprise as he held Watson in his arms, hazel eyes greeted him, dull as they were in his drugged state. Watson struggled to talk, coughing badly as he did so and violent spasms of pain racked his body.
"It's alright Watson, I am here now, try not to talk, I'll get you out of here …" said Holmes gently as he rocked his Boswell tightly cradled in his arms.
Watson held onto Holmes and smiled weakly, and barely able to speak, whispered softly
"Holmes…knew you would come…" His response was cut short as a spasm of white hot pain lanced his body once more and Watson succumbed to the temporary release of unconsciousness as his body shut down.
Holmes placed a soothing hand on his friend's head. It was hot and beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He had to get Watson home, safe and away from this dreadful place. He wrapped Watson in blankets and lifted him up as he stood up, and carried him out of the cabin and back from where he had come, to a waiting horse and cart. He carefully lifted Watson's still form onto it and got on the drivers seat himself, not once letting go of Watson. He took up the reigns and the horse stirred into action, and Holmes headed toward the railway station.
On reaching the station Holmes pulled up the horse and the cart came to a halt. Watson was slumped heavily against the detective, his body twitching and tremors wracking his body despite the blankets wrapped tightly round him. A firm but gentle hand laid on Watson's shoulder and soft words spoken which had the effect of calming the badly hurt doctor. Holmes jumped down from the diver's seat and carefully lifted Watson back into his arms ands he made his way to the station platform, gently placing him on a seat in the waiting room. He then diverted his attention to the Station Master instructing him to inform the local police of the villains now secured in the log cabin and then wired Inspector Lestrade informing him of developments. Business taken care of he sat down next to Watson, placing his arm around him in support. He knew of the hard journey that faced both of them. A grim line of determination etched across his hawk like features. He reached inside his coat pocket and felt the familiar material of his velvet box. He was all too aware of the pain its contents contained. As Holmes carried Watson onto the train back to London, once thought held him firm. I may choose to take the seven percent solution, but I will not see my Boswell permanently held hostage by the pull of the velvet box. I swear to you Watson, I will help you through this my dear friend.
OOOH! What will happen now? Poor Holmes to have to face Watson under threat of being addicted to the same drug as he is. Hope you enjoyed it. More comming soon !! :)