Hello! Happy New Year, fanfictioners!!!
So, 2010 is finally here and to celebrate it I... went to see Sherlock Holmes with my Swedish friend. :) Loved the film, but felt that the explosion scene was a bit of a let down - Watson would have been WAY more cut up than just that stuff on his neck! Well, anyway, I would have preferred him to be. And plus, I couldn't stand Mary! Why would Watson marry someone who just sits back and watches whilst he saves the day with Holmes? No, I would have liked him to end up with someone much more interesting. Whether that happens in this story or not... well, doubtful. But I can assure you, Mary is out! So, giving Sam, Cas and Dean a rest from my usual limpy, angsty, panicky Supernatural fanfictions, I've decided to do a VERY alternate ending. This probably won't fit in that well in the film, and its probably going to have been done already although I've scanned the ones up to check if anyone's gone the same way, and its just a little bit insane. But aren't we all? ;)
WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.
ALSO: the bit which I do which is in the film may not be exact. As much as I would love it, I don't have a perfect memory. :)
With the smell of the uncomfortable, slightly itchy glue of his fake beard hanging around him, the hard, plastic-like feel of his hastily dyed hair and the hard, fast thumping of his panicking heart, it was a wonder Holmes had managed to slip inconspicuously into the hospital and past the people within at all. For the first time in his life he felt not the calm, almost relaxing thrill of an easy disguise but a thundering fear, and one which had already drowned out his detective instinct to get as far away as possible and had driven him to the hospital. The officer had told him that Watson was alive, and that should have been more than enough. And yet still, Holmes found himself staring down at his compainon's bloodied, bruised shoulders when he should have been burying himself in the depths of London and turning his mind to the case at hand.
Just to make sure, he had told himself. Watson would do the same for me.
Of course not. Watson would never be so ridiculously paranoid. Watson would accept the facts and move on. But still...
Just to be sure.
He leant closer, narrowing his eyes at the angry-looking red wounds that trailed across the pale skin of the shoulders and right side of the back. Some were still weeping blood, glistening in the soft light of the room. But they were clean, and though they looked painful they would not be permanent. For the first time since coming to in that dark cobble-stoned alleyway, Holmes felt a sickening rush of relief.
"Making a fuss over nothing, Watson," he complained softly. "Its simply attention seeking. Just because you're leaving, it doesn't mean..."
His voice trailed off. That's right, Watson was leaving. He'd tried time and again to get used to the fact, but he just... couldn't. His coldly calculating mind just couldn't accept it. He reached out, pushing the thoughts forcefully from his mind, and squeezed Watson's arm briefly. An effort to destroy any hard feelings between them towards the future and just offer up that brotherly friendship he needed so badly.
"Goodbye, Watson," he said.
Sharp, quick footsteps from the corridor beyond caught at his ears and he let go quickly, bending nearer and adjusting his glasses. He knew that walk all too well. Sure enough within a few moments the door open and Mary appeared. She stopped, blinking in surprise at the sight of someone else in the room, and then moved forwards.
"Doctor?" Her voice was wary, questioning.
Holmes collected himself quickly, rolled the accent out over his lips. "The surgeon will be here soon," he said, leaning heavily on a German accent as he turned on his heel and strode past her, clipboard held to his chest. He felt her eyes on the back of his neck, and then heard the beat of her footsteps begin again as she moved after him.
"Wait. Please, wait."
Holmes ignored her, quickening his pace. No, no, no. He shouldn't have come. Idiot, getting so wrapped up in his feelings. Watson was fine, just as the officer had told him-
Mary's voice rang out, turning heads. Holmes stopped quickly. Number one rule of disguising oneself - never draw attention. She reached him and he waited, his shoulders tensed, ready to make a break for it if she decided to turn him in. But she didn't. She simply stopped behind him and stood silently, as if trying to think of something to say. Eventually she murmured, "Solve this case," before whirling around and heading back to Watson's room.
Holmes resisted the urge to look back at her, instead striding straight for the stairs before anyone looked too closely. He frowned slightly as he did so, turning her words over in his mind. Strange thing to say to someone. She must mean, 'solve this case without Watson'. Or, 'solve this case before Watson is hurt again'. Idiotic woman, he thought irritably. What does Watson see in her? Expected better from him...
And, complaints rambling through his mind, he slipped out of the hospital and into the street, pulling off his disguise within a few short steps as he went.
From the corner, Mary watched as Holmes ducked into the stair well and dissappeared before turning and making her way slowly back down the corridor. The nurses glanced up at her, offering comforting smiles, and she smiled back as much as she could. Her eyes caught sight of a telephone against the wall at the far end of the other corridor, and felt a sudden flash of hope. Surely it would be better to call straightaway. She moved to the phone and reached for it. She turned the dail and listened to it ring, chewing on her lip. She was about to give in and hang up when suddenly they answered, the voice low and gruff.
"He said not to call this number unless there was an emergency."
"There is an emergency," Mary replied, feeling a small stab of annoyance. They weren't the ones who had to hang around a hospital for hours waking for some local hero to regain consciousness. They weren't the ones who had to pretend and smile and... she shook herself. "It is," she repeated. "He survived."
"Yes. And Holmes was just here visiting him. I thought he would... well, he didn't say anything and hasn't tried to move him."
"So he's left now?"
She smiled. So now there was interest, was there? "Yes," she said. "We're on the fourth floor. Will Dredger come?"
There was a smile in the man's voice as he replied. "I don't think he would pass up this opportunity."
When Watson opened his eyes, the first thing he was aware of was the sharp, stabbing sting that was throbbing along his shoulders and back, and that it was very dark.
He tried to keep still, aware that if he moved he would aggrivate the pain even more, and let his eyes drift close again as a flow of soggy memories drifted through his bedraggled mind. The flash and roar of the explosions. Waking with a burning pain screaming through his body. Trying to listen to the officer who was crouching over him. Something about Holmes being wanted by the police, something about staying still, something about a hospital. A hospital, he thought, must be where he was now. It would certainly explain why he was clean, dry and lying on his side in a dry, white-sheeted bed. One arm had gone to sleep as it lay trapped beneath him, and it was beginning to drive him mad. Finally he shifted a little, moving the arm out as far as he could. Instantly a sharp jab of pain snarled in on him and he winced, biting back a moan.
Holmes might have been caught too.
He opened his eyes once more, squinting through the half-light. There was a single candle on the other side of the room, burnt low and close to drowning in its own cradle of molten wax. It did little to peirce the heavy blanket of darkness that had set over the rest of the room like a plaster cast, refusing to receede no matter how hard Watson stared into it. He was alone... wasn't he? He had a vauge, dull memory of a familiar rough hand on his arm, a gruff voice muttering quietly.
"...fuss over nothing... leaving... goodbye, Watson..."
He blinked, trying to clear his scrambled thoughts. Yes, Holmes had been here... and that meant that he must have escaped. He remembered once more that firey explosion, remembered screaming with all he had, throwing out a hand as Holmes came to an abrupt halt a few metres away. Well, at least one of them was free. Although why they were even wanted in the first place was far beyond Watson's semi-conscious mind.
The pain wasn't getting any worse, but neither was it going away. Watson closed his eyes once more and tried to return to that blissfully pain-free darkness once more, but for some reason sleep wouldn't come. He shifted uncomfortably in the crisp sheets, his brow creasing in a frown. What? he thought irritably. Why did I have to wake up anyway...? The thought offered two answers. Either the pain had become worse than it previously had been and pulled him out of unconscious, or...
...or something had woken him.
All at once, Watson's nerves were on edge and his eyes were wide open once more. He held his breath, straining his ears for any sound at all. A thousand thoughts rampaged through his mind, racing through the possibilities, of which there were few. Either Holmes had returned - very unlikely - one of the doctors or nurses had felt the need to come and check that he was still breathing - somewhat unlikely considering his not-too-serious condition - or Mary had arrived and was coming to see him - slightly more likely. He remained still, waiting, still not daring to breath. His skin was prickling, his muscles were beginning to tense warily, sending small stabs of pain down his back.
That was all he needed to hear. Without waiting another moment he sat bolt upright, ready to snatch up whatever was closest to use as a weapon or just simply run, but before he could move another inch his back screamed with pain and he froze, panting. He cursed, drew breath to shout for help instead - and a dark, rugged figure leapt out of the darkness towards him. Black-fingernailed hands clamped down over his mouth, muffling his yell. Instinctively he brought his fist upwards, lashing and kicking, but his back was throbbing so badly that black dots were beginning to dance before his eyes. The man - for it was a man, a scrawny, dirt-smeared man grabbing at him - snatched his fist without difficulty and forced it down and behind his back. A second pair of hands closed over his other arm and shoulder, wrenching him to the side and out of the bed. He landed heavily on his knees on the wooden floor, his back and neck on fire, his heart thundering, his blood roaring in his ears. He tried to bite down on the hand which muffled his screams but the man was holding his jaw shut with his other hand, his arm curled around his neck. He tried to kick the other man away but his brain pushed the action through too slowly and the second man easily avoided him and kneeled on the back of his legs, holding him down.
I can't do it...
Panicking, Watson gave one last desperate thrash against his assilants but the first man wrenched his head back mercilessly and tightened his grip, forcing a choked gasp from Watson's crushed throat.
"Quietly," he growled, smirking. "We want to do this nice and subtle, like. So you just keep your mouth shut."
Anger rose up in Watson's chest and he struggled again, his back still burning with fierce pain. A series of heavy, thudding footsteps moved across the room from the door, the floor groaning under the immense weight. Watson felt another pulse of fear as his eyes slid across to fix on the third man, one who he had not yet noticed. The huge, burly giant of a human stopped before him, playing with the thick iron crowbar in his beefy hands, his own face dancing with the satisfaction of one who has won, and knows it.
"Bonjour, Doctor," Dredger said, smiling widely. "Le tempus pour aller."
Time to go, Watson translated rapidly in his head. Fear blinded him once more, and he began to fight as hard as he could. The man holding his legs grunted.
"Hey!" he snarled. "Either you stay still, or we do something about it."
Watson ignored him. And so it was that within three seconds of the words leaving the man's house, Dredger brought the crowbar down on his temple with a sickening crack and Watson was lurched back into the black of unconsciousness.
Sooooo.......... anyone interested? If not, don't bother reviewing and I'll give it up now while I'm ahead. :)
Few more points before I go.
a) The French I translated on a google website, so it might not be right. Apologies for any mistakes.
b) Dredger, for anyone who didn't know, is that French guy Holmes throws the hammer at but it bounces off and has no effect whatsoever. :D
c) Finally, I'll have lots of exames in the next week because I've just started my mocks, so please forgive me if I don't manage to update for a while. I'll do my best.
Thanks for reading! Please review!