Compared to Sherlock Holmes, my ideas are not great. This is most likely caused by the fact that the idea I spouted off, he has dismissed days ago. Although, I do tend to have moments at times that I surpass even the genius companion I have acquired.
This is not one of those times.
I stopped abruptly in the dim alleyway, huffing for the breath that wouldn't come and gasping at my searing leg in agony. I wasn't sure if it was the kick to the exact spot of the old wound or the longer than usual run, but my war torn leg was protesting like the French Revolution.
I saw Holmes sprinting at a speed I did not know he was capable of toward the man we were giving chase to. He had not even noticed that I had fallen behind in such blinding pain, although if he had realized it I am pretty sure that I would have only received a worried look from my detective before he bolted toward the criminal. Not that I minded. I always caught up eventually.
Gripping my walking stick, I leant on it for a moment more before I heard a gunshot in the distance.
Leg be damned, I broke into a full run in the direction of my detective with adrenaline pumping though my veins. Multiple gunshots were firing at a rapid pace, throwing me into a greater hysteria as I sprinted like the devil himself was on my heels. Sweat beaded up on my forehead now, slowly dripping down the sides of my face as I heard the yelp of my dear Sherlock Holmes accompanied with another gunshot.
Fear was fueling my limbs now, the pain of my leg forgotten.
I followed the smell of the gun powder now, for it was far easier than to follow the thousands of echoes that were rebounding across the city. I ran for longer than I ever knew I could until I reached an old, crumbling building with only a few walls and a staircase leading to the upper levels. I thundered up the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time and froze at the sight that befell me.
A room with only the outer walls intact and half of the floor missing, empty was the room if not for my Holmes and the criminal we had been chasing holding my companion at gunpoint to the head. They were so close that I could see Holmes' eye twitch at the close contact.
"Ah, hello Watson." The detective greeted me with a casual countenance, attempting not to reveal what his trembling figure did. I knew that for one of those few times that I had known him, Holmes was terrified. He continued with a false cheery disposition, "I will be over there in a minute, once this gentleman has gotten this gun out of my face."
And this is where I should have just let Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant one, do his work. Although, as much as I hated to admit it, I was thinking like him now. I observed. I saw the damaged floor with giant holes that led to the first floor that inhabited a pile of hay, and I spotted every inch of the room in hopes for a way to free Holmes and not get shot. And then, an idea sprung to my prefrontal lobe of my brain and before I could process it or filter it, it just came out spontaneously.
I placed a carefully made mask upon my face on contemplation as I said, "I don't know, Holmes." I had to hold back the smirk as I shot back, "It's not in your face, it's in his hand."
I saw Holmes close his eyes momentarily, and shake his head slightly. He let out a small, but nonetheless panicked, grin as he never turned his head away from the revolver between his eyes.
"Well, then he should get what is in his hand out of my face."
And with that, the thoroughly confused criminal took his finger away from the trigger to gesture at me with his firing hand. However, I never saw what the crook was going to gesture because as soon as that finger came off of the trigger, I had ran with all of my might and barreled into Holmes.
Sending us straight to the first floor through a rather large hole.
I closed my eyes as I wrapped my arms around my detective and turned him away from any gunshot, shielding him with my body to make sure we hit out destination with him in one piece. I heard his surprised yell as we tumbled through the air, clinging to me as if I was the last thing he would ever see again.
Air rushed past my ears as we fell but I could hear over the wind, loud rapid fire gunshots-
The sudden feeling of the coarse hay was secondary to the pain that erupted in my shoulder blade. Sucking in a gasping breath, I felt the all too familiar burn of a bullet lodged in flesh.
Shot yet again. I choked down a groan that mirrored the burning agony in my upper back; I exchanged it for a pained wince as I loosened my death grip on the shorter man in my arms. Holmes was wriggling out from under me, unknowing of the blood flowing from my shoulder blade that was surely dying the hay we were laying on a gory red.
I closed my eyes as I sat up, keeping my breathing under control as I ripped off the bottom of my shirt to staunch the bleeding with some pressure.
But then, I suddenly felt light headed, like I was floating… Floating ever so slowly into the clouds…Why was it so cold?….…Floating up, up, up and away….How long will I float here?...Clouds are so puffy…..
My eyes slammed open with a gasp of breath I didn't know I had been holding. And my back seared with a pain so great that it blurred my vision. The only this I could see was Holmes, more scared and worried than I had ever seen him before. I tried to smile at him, but it ended up more as a grimace as the bullet wound throbbed in sync with my leg.
I felt him applying more pressure to my pulsating injury and rubbing therapeutic circles on my old war wound. I didn't realize until later that I never told him that it was acting up. He just knew.
"I-i-it will be fine Watson," he attempted to reassure me as more blood tried to push past his pressure bandage; "the Yard will be here soon. And then you will be h-h-healed up and go back to being the m-m-mother hen again."
That hand that circled my old war leg was shaking now, trembling so badly that I grabbed the callused flesh with my hand that was opposite of my injury. Now weakly gripping his hand I looked into his panicked gray eyes and returned his reassurance with a sincere smile. "Everything will be all right, Holmes."
That's when I blacked out.
The next thing I remembered was beautiful music that enveloped my ears. It was the distinct melody of one of the songs that Holmes played for me when I was angry at him, the apology songs. But it sounded different… darker... It took me a moment to comprehend that the violinist was playing it slower than usual and in minor keys. It sounded miserable and beautiful all at the same time.
I cracked my eyes open, knowing exactly who was playing that old violin. It was the same person who woke him up at three in the morning and it was the same detective that stole his clothes day in and day out in their 'barter system'.
And as I expected, a shadowy eyed Sherlock Holmes stared back at me with unfiltered joy in his eyes.
"Watson!" He grinned as I was greeted with a gentle hug that didn't bother my shoulder blade. "Welcome back, my dear Watson." I smiled back, ignoring the pain that dully throbbed in my back. Whatever morphine I had been given was wearing off.
Holmes' eyes glittered happily as he continued, "And Watson," his grin grew as he spoke, "we had chased the criminal long enough to bring him to the old building right next to the Scotland Yard. He was caught soon after we landed and Lestrade recognized him as Croger B. Hunginger by the pattern of warts on his face-"
I silenced him with a wave of my hand and smirked.
"Are they extensive?"
I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any characters or settings affiliated with him.
So what did you think? My first story in this fandom... Please tell me your thoughts!