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It is an ignorant, foolish mistake that leads me here.
The crime itself is boring. It is the most garish and violent method of regaining power — a cold-blooded murder for instance, a room of upturned furniture and a knife with fingerprints wedged into the ribs of a corpse is not interesting to my mind after all, but let me not claim it isn’t effective.
I have underestimated.
I have done what the police do; I have upturned my nose and believed the criminal is not intelligent enough, have taken a careless step into territory I should not have with little sense.
My punishment is suffocation. I lie, gasping choked breaths through my teeth, blinking back spots that prance around my vision like fireflies in a silent, shadowed forest. I cannot see — the world around me is dark, the few streams of light that manage to complete the journey illuminating my crudely bent fingers and the beads of scarlet that cascade from them.
I am beginning to think like Watson. I detest my inability to tear myself away from the pain in my side, the arms that wrap around and constrict my chest until it screams in the quiet. I detest it, because it reminds me of Watson, and in consequence reminds me that I am alone.
Watson is not here. I open my mouth only to let slip a sob, one that ends in a staggering cough that pushes back into the rocks bearing down upon me. A jagged edge, like the knife I claim is boring and unimaginative, buries deep into my skin, its weight pinning me to the stone beneath as if skewering an animal above the fire. My head pounds. I cannot cease; my throat scrapes with each cough, forcing pinpricks of tears to my eyes, their warmth fighting to compensate for the chill of the night descending upon me. I cannot see the night, of course. I cannot lift my head.
I am trapped. I cannot move my legs. They are aching an abhorrent thing, my ankle fighting to be heard above the nothingness that consumes them, yelling curses at me. I shut my eyes and plead for mercy.
I abhor being confined.
Finally, I manage to trap the coughs back into my chest, keeping them locked between my ribs as my body is amongst the rubble. I am not alone in this regard, at least.
I try to move, of course — a snared fox will continue to writhe even if it drives the barbs deeper. Waves of white agony splinter throughout my being, until I can feel them drive into my skull. My arms now ache, pinned like a knife to a wall.
The pressure lurches. I lift myself, if only barely, bringing a sliver of circulation back before falling down again, bearing the boulder until it digs into the divots in my spine. I grit my teeth around a cry.
I place my head on the stones, try to ignore the sticky, coppery wetness that soaks my hair in response, and instead try to think.
Think, think, think.
The explosives struck before I could process them. I had mistepped, carefully led by the wretched man until he was far away and I was standing in the battlefield. My reflexes had proven me well. On instinct, I had managed to protect my neck and seek refuge by a few feet, before the supports fell and I was crushed within the wreckage.
My ears are ringing. I ignore the nervous jitter that strikes my breath at what that could mean (a ruptured eardrum, a loss of hearing, fine-tuned senses disrupted) and focus on the hope that it was loud enough to alert. Loud enough to draw Watson’s attention.
Watson. I open my mouth to call his name, but dust invades as if it were a chloroform rag and reduces my cries to coughing. It wracks my frame. My chest erupts in agony. I scowl at nothing in particular. Myself, most likely.
Foolish , foolish error.
I do not know how long I lie. The pressure increases like sand dripping through an hourglass, counting down until something. What something? Aid, I hope, but silence encases me. I am trapped in a chamber, and my body feels restless despite its increasing numbness. I want to shake the feeling away as if it were a mouse scampering around my ankles.
I hope for a mouse. A sign that I am not alone, and that there is a way in, and therefore a way out. I almost laugh at the thought — what use would that be to me?
Maybe it's like one of those novels Watson reads on occasion. Some touch of the supernatural, enough to bear interest but never fully explored. Perhaps I can shrink down and seep through the cracks in the rubble, towards the light, weaving out like a snake. Like thread wound between stitches. My chest is crushed, and I wonder if I can further compress the splintered thing enough to fit through.
Ah. Coherent, intelligent thought is an ever undervalued thing.
I pull myself together, or as much as I am able. I make the mistake of shifting, and pain rebels anew. My vision spots. My head aches.
I hate being confined. There is a desperate sound in the silence, torn between a sob and a moan, and I wince at its wretchedness before realising it was me.
I hoped it was not. Then, I would not be alone. It could have been Franklin, and then I would have the comfort of laughing at his expense and his foolishness — situated beside me in his own trap, two snared foxes, two graves dug alongside each other, two bodies encased in rubble, two fools and one criminal.
I am trespassing, here. Two criminals.
It must have been ten minutes by now, but it feels like an hour, maybe two. I can’t tell. There are many twos.
Good Lord. I am losing my mind already.
There is a sound, a rustle, and I do not know if it's part of the blood streaming through my ears or the unsteady pounding of my heart, like a scampering fox, but I call out weakly in response. I am nauseous, my stomach riles between the confines. I am not sure what I say.
I lay my head down on my battered arm, a distant something screaming that I should not. Sleep is danger , it yells, do not let your head lower, for it may never rise again . It sounds like Watson.
I am reminded again of my solitude. It is not the comfortable privacy that I value. It is stifling confinement, held down by hands against my will. There is contact all over. My skin is gagging in repulsion, my chest aches.
I hate being trapped. I loathe it. I detest it, could pour out every synonym for the feeling and it would still not be enough. My breaths stumble and sway in the air. It is warm, now, but I thank that it is not humid. I do not need my clothes to confine me even more by sticking to my skin.
Oh, Watson will not be pleased. I can picture it now — the frown on his lips, the mustache pulled down by it. His blue eyes creased in a brand of resigned exasperation unique to him, resembling less an sapphire and more the grey blue that anoints the ocean in the morning. I wonder if he is aware of the differing hues of his eyes.
If I were to pick up a pen now, were my fingers not broken and twisted, I would write like him, too. When have I sunken into romanticism? The notion entirely disinterests me; this is not a good sign. I wonder if it is a symptom. Will Watson look for it? Ask me to recite a length of poetry to determine the state of my mind?
If I could speak, I would call out pleadingly to him now.
God, Watson. The pressure is unbearable, and I want peace. Sleep tempts me. My mind tries to latch broken fingers onto it, but I smack it away like a mother with a spoon.
(Mother. She never did approve of confinement, I muse, and instantly detest myself more for it.)
How long have I been here?
There are more sounds to interrupt me. I cannot respond. I barely have room to breathe. The air is stagnant, my chest coiled and pulled taught until it resembles a frayed knot. There is agony, radiating throughout my limbs, and I feel trampled underfoot of a boot. Caught like a bug. There is an irrepressible panic that has situated itself ever since I realised I could not move.
All I have to stay alive are fast, ragged breaths. An occasional whimper breaks the quiet, and as much as I detest it I cannot keep it within my teeth. Oh, I think like a child, how it hurts.
More noise. Pounding. Something shifts.
There are voices, I realise.
I do not register it at first, and then my brain alights into important thoughts again.
Voices. Whether it be four or only one, I am unable to tell.
It does not matter. The world has expanded again, beyond this tortured crevice.
Everything aches. I want to sleep, more than I want to beat in the head of the man who smiled at me before I made my error. I cannot sleep. I turn to myself in the mirror, pointing my bleeding finger, I cannot sleep.
There is light. It is like the creation of the universe, or whatever it is described as. My knowledge of religion is sparse, and I frankly do not bloody care about it now. Rubble is shifted, letting teasing strands in. My left arm, its fingers crooked but not numb, reaches out between the gaps. I do not open my eyes, stinging and dazed as they are. I know my hands are shaking, I feel the tremor race up the nerves and into my head.
I brush cool air. The wisps of promise, a world outside this one I have been snared into. For a few moments, I fumble for nothing, unable to do much more than tremor my fingers amidst fresh air that my lungs burn to reach.
There is pressure.
It is not suffocating, no. There is contact, warm and gentle. It does not impale me — it is firm but not harsh, two calloused hands gingerly pressing my own bloodied one between them as if in prayer. Not in punishment. There is a promise there, something familiar. I latch onto the sensation.
The voice sounds awfully like the one ringing around in the back of my mind. The fingers have calluses, there is a plaster wrapped around near the knuckle of the top ring. A thumb rubs across the battered skin on the back of my hand. I realise their — no, his , I can still deduce that — hands are quivering too.
Oh, Watson.
I am sure it comes out as an unintelligible sob, but my exhaustion overpowers my dignity. I even pray that he hears it. He must, as the hands tighten briefly before retreating. There is more shifting. More light floods in. The snare is loosening.
The pressure comes off at once; my lungs expand, heaving coughs convulsing me at once, rolling onto my side because my arms are too weak to hold me. I am starved for breath. As I recover, the stones and rubble lift. I am still numb, but not confined. Air hits me, cool against my skin. Hands support me, and as I recognise them at once I allow them to hold me; I would not be able to fight if I did not, but there is comfort in that I am willing.
Watson encases me gently, and I lean into him desperately. His pressure lingers as warmth, not pain. I am lifted, until I collapse into his side instead of the stones and my head rests on his shoulder. My broken hand is placed to rest on my stomach, examined.
I strain to hear his words; they sound as if they were underwater.
“...— Oh , Holmes .Thank God . It's alright. If you cannot speak, at least open your eyes,” and amidst the medical firmness is a concern that I can feel deep in my chest, through how his hands flit over my rumpled clothing and cup my cheek to tilt my head.
My eyelids flutter tiredly. I am exhausted, hanging onto consciousness like a stubborn git. The light is blessed but too much, and I wince whilst turning into his shoulder. The light fades from amber to blood red in my eyelids. I feel Watson card my hair back from where it is curling into my eyes.
I chance opening them again. As I do, Watson commands to someone else.
“I need to examine him properly — after lying under for so long, I suspect broken ribs, anything. I have to get him to Baker Street,” he is saying, terse and worried. I want to deny and say that I can breathe somewhat freely, but my tongue is leaden.
“Good God. Are you sure a hospital isn't in order, Doctor?” and I realise belatedly that it is Lestrade providing a barrier between me and the sun. There is also a significant note of concern in the pinch of his eyebrows, blurred as they appear, the tense of his posture, and that somehow surprises me more than anything else. “There's one not far from here, perhaps ten minutes.”
He hesitates and nods before I can intercept. “No, you’re right. Though afterwards I can tend to him myself; there is no use in exhausting him further,” and if I could I would smile. The blessed, good Doctor, for the clatter and unwelcome touch of foreign hands he knows would not aid me. I am content in letting his pressure ground me. “Are there cabs nearby?”
“Yes, yes, not to worry. I can clear a constable cab immediately,” he says distractedly, gaze fixed on me. I am floating in numbness and agony at once. I cannot speak.
Watson shakes me. I cannot hold back a wounded noise of protest; the ruffle tremors me to my core. I curl into him automatically.
“I’m sorry, Holmes, you have to stay awake. Only a little longer, dear fellow,” and I can tell that he means it. “Lestrade—”
“This way, Doctor.”
I muffle a groan into his coat as I am lifted. I loathe to be carried, but am not foolish enough to think I could stand on my own. Every inch of me screams. The pressure has been etched into my skin — my chest and stomach still feel wrung. I am so, so nauseous .
“Stay with me, Holmes. I've got you, just stay with me, dear boy,” Watson murmurs into my ear. I am buried in the crook of his neck — the smell of coffee, ink and cologne overpowers the acidic stench of copper and stone. “Don't fall asleep; you’re most certainly concussed. I can only suspect what else.”
I want to argue, speak. I only press further into him.
“I’m sorry it took us so long. God , I’m sorry. We didn’t know where he went, what he did,” and his voice cracks in regret and sorrow and worry.
A foolish error on my part, not his fault. I shake my head and hope he understands.
Watson’s grip tightens around me, I can feel his cheek press against my hair. He's whispering something, reassurances, pleas.
But he is warm, ever so warm , and sleep coaxes me. I try to protest, I do. The faint sway as he walks swiftly, yet carefully, lulls me further. I cannot differentiate the ache of one limb from another.
I am so, so tired.
Watson jostles me again. His voice is urgent. I catch the traces of panic laced between the vowels. “Holmes. Holmes, look at me.”
I hum. It comes out as more of a whine. My breaths are still uneven and raspy.
“ Holmes?”
For Heaven’s sake, how far away is the cab?
I don’t get to ask — both because my mouth is dry and soundless, and because the throb cascading through my limbs swallows me into the abyss before I get the chance to.
I am warm, but not suffocating.
There is a tightness enveloping my chest, still; that is the first thing I register, followed by the sensation of cotton. It is as if my head is stuffed with wool, occasional pricks of pain dotting it like a pincushion.
An ache persists, but it is muted. There is pressure, but I am breathing steadily, even if it pains me slightly to do so. I am anxious for a brief second (I become sure that I have been crushed again, that I have returned to the crevice) before I realise that the pressure is soft.
Everything is soft, as if I were suspended in molasses.
My brain picks itself up from the floor with shaking limbs. Morphine, most likely.
(At least, I hope it is —- I’ll have a new point of concern if it isn’t.)
Morphine, meaning hospitals. Medicine. The smell of antiseptic announces itself then. Bandages, hence the tightness: I breathe and hear them rustle.
The pillow is gentle on my stinging head, the sheets warm and heavy but not oppressing. I am bundled up to my nose. I crack my eyes open, slowly against the oil lamps. There is a familiar scent — coffee, ink, cologne, and something unwinds in me.
Sure enough, my vision focuses on a man slumped in a chair, pulled up beside me. The snores are his too; they pass his lips softly on each exhale, passing below his mustache. My chest feels lighter at the sight of him. Watson’s jacket is gone, leaving him in just his shirt and waistcoat. His hair is rumpled, swept curls defined by the absence of a comb to pull them back. I get to see them in the morning, when I burst into his room for a case.
There is a different pressure upon my heart now, holding it gently. I feel my lip twitch. His mouth is open, head tilted back — I tend to observe him like this, the sight silly and endearing at once.
Watson must feel my eyes on him (he is ever the light sleeper), for he inhales awake, his head lolling for a moment. A bleary blink, two, and as he rubs his eyes he meets mine on accident.
Instantly, he comes alight. The blue of his eyes loses its dull tiredness and becomes reminiscent of cornflowers, the yellow specks in them highlighted by the lamps. I continue to gaze half-liddedly: I am still so, so tired. The morphine.
He leans forward, hand extending to push down the covers slightly. “Oh, Holmes. You’re awake,” the words rushing out on an exhale.
I fix him with the approximation of a smile — the pressure of his hand on my shoulder calms me at once. I open my mouth to reply, but my throat is too raw.
Watson fetches a glass of water from outside of my view. He has always been observant in this manner, able to read facial expressions and emotion like I can a man’s fingers. I can tell he aims to help me drink it, but in a fit of stubbornness I want to prove that I have not been crushed completely. My right hand extends — he places it in my grasp with hesitation, and I drink with shaking fingers.
The hand moves to my bicep in a silent request to drink slower. I comply reluctantly.
“How long?” I eventually ask, as he takes it away. My words are low and a touch away from slurred. “I presume it's past midnight.”
Watson flashes me a smile, but it isn’t the bright grin I’m accustomed to. “Just about. You passed out on the way to the cab. Even so, the concussion is not that serious, thankfully.”
“Morphine?”
He nods, once. “I suspect it was from pain. You had been…” he pauses for a moment, adjusting the sheets, “...under the rubble for at least ten minutes. Perhaps more. We heard the explosion, but had issues locating it in such a troubled area. We wasted time.”
There is a disdain there that extends past ‘we’. I note now the exhaustion weighing down his eyes, how his hair is ruffled in a shape mimicking hands passing through. “It was my fault, Watson. I did not see. The foolishness— rigging explosives around a building’s supports is a cheap trick, and I regret that I succumbed to it. Gregson could have predicted it.”
Watson looks at me pointedly, his jaw sets. There is a furrow to his brows. “I would hardly call you a fool, although you really ought not to have gone alone. I can't deny a lapse of judgement there — you could have been killed, Holmes, for goodness’ sakes. Had the pressure been larger, your limbs may not have survived at all.”
I realise I would rather be trapped alone than he forced to suffer with me. I look at him as meaningfully as I can, worn out from that simple exercise. He sighs as if to release his anger, a small exhale that brings sorrow to his quieting voice. “Your left hand is broken, as well as two ribs. Apart from that and a sprained ankle, the rest is heavily bruised and wounded but…not gravely damaged. Bedrest, nothing more. You’re very lucky, Holmes.”
I blink tiredly. His hand has come to envelope my bandaged one, a splint between the fingers, and I gaze at them as I think. “Thank you for finding me.”
“...and thank you for enduring.” There is a smile in his voice that I glance up at. Light is beginning to dance in his eyes again. “You’re a stubborn man, you know that? A constable had apprehended Franklin as I was carrying you into the cab. He started cursing up a storm. I hardly believed it, you opened your eyes enough to smile at him. Of course, you passed out again, God forbid you stay awake—”
“I don’t remember that,” I furrow, but find myself smiling nonetheless, because Watson is. “But I dare say he deserved it; the man had enough explosives to rig a building but couldn’t even do it properly.”
Watson frowns at that. My humour is not appreciated. “He was apprehended, then?”
“Oh, yes.” Disdain lays thick in his voice. I feel similarly. “Caught running away.”
“Good,” I exhale, closing my eyes. I am ever so warm, the pressure of Watson’s hand on mine promising safety if I sleep again, and I intend to. Talking has used the remains of my energy.
Watson sees it, of course he does.
“So rest, dear fellow. You’re safe to do so now,” he murmurs into the quiet. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Watson is not a dishonest man. I let myself slip, but before I do I squeeze his hand once more. The pressure of his fingers responding is the last I feel before the abyss comes back.
I wake to warmth, again, but the discomfort of a hospital is gone at once.
I can tell within a few seconds — the cushions below me dip under my weight, the blankets smell faintly of tobacco and coffee, though the familiarity of them replaces the bitterness of those scents. They are not unpleasant. This time, the aroma of sweetbriar roses joins the alcoholic smell of antiseptic, mellowing it to a faint murmur: Mrs. Hudson has a particular fondness for them.
Outside, horse’s hooves occasionally clutter against the pavement, the quiet rustling of trees. My senses are sharper, now, so naturally the pain is as well. A joy , once my brain registers it.
Every part of me aches and whines. My chest burns when I inhale, too, but more akin to the singe of a candle rather than the rage of a housefire, smoke no longer clogging my lungs like wool. There is someone touching me, I realise, and am about to rally in protest before realising it is Watson’s steady hands.
Comfort settles in the warmth of the blankets, even despite my pains. I know that I will be bedridden — know the compelling arguments I will have to sweeten Watson with to allow movement, for I am forever restless even now — but it does not trouble me at this moment.
My friend is crouching by my side. I can hear his slow, even breaths, the quiet rustle of fabric as he works. There is a faint breeze on my side, the coldness contrary to the cozy embrace enveloping the rest of my body. I feel bandages being carefully knotted, above where the pain is acute and stinging. I watch Watson’s focused brows smooth them out through slitted eyelids.
“What time is it?” I whisper, and Watson fairly jumps, jostling the water basin beside him. It laps gently against the sides but does not spill.
“ Christ. ” There is relief when he turns to me, the hint of an amused smile, before irritation is forced onto his features. “You have already worried me enough, Holmes. I could do without the heart attack.”
I sober slightly. The grin on my lips is gentler. “I apologise, I could not resist.”
He huffs, dusting off his hands before reaching to smooth tousled hair out of my eyes. I close them under the touch. “Around two in the afternoon, I believe. You were discharged from the hospital at four, by my insistence.”
I open an eye at him. “Your insistence?”
“Your recovery would not be aided by complaining,” he says simply, and I fix him with a look. Watson shoots me a smile before turning away, softer now. He nudges the blankets aside a touch further. “I know how much you dislike hospitals,” and he is greatly under-exaggerating — I positively loathe them for a variety of reasons. “For your wounds, there is not much to do aside from wait; a doctor, not myself for they did not allow me, stitched the worst of them. The rest need time, is all.”
I regard him warmly; such consideration comes easily to him, and more than once I have wondered how it does and how I have come to deserve it.
I reach to hold his shoulder, not missing how it slumps slightly at the touch. “I’ll be alright, dear boy,” and before he can comment I ask: “When was the last time you slept?”
“It isn’t important, Holmes.” He sounds distracted.
My voice is muffled by the blankets as I retreat again. “Hypocrisy does not suit you.”
I can sense his glare. I hide a smile. When he continues to work, gingerly replacing my plasters and applying salve, I glance at him again, feeling my brows crease. “Really, Watson: I’ll be alright.”
“I slept in the hospital.”
“ Hardly, I imagine,” and this time he pauses to hold my gaze. His eyes are the same colour as the sky outside, though its sapphire hues are dulled by the clouds that flit across it, reduced to a hue of grey. “You look tired, dear fellow. I remember you sustaining a few hits yourself.”
Watson rubs subconsciously at his jaw, beneath where the side of his nose blooms a purple bruise. A plaster is fastened to span across his cheek. “I still have to rewrap your bandages. Infection could be lethal for you right now, Holmes. I was hoping to disinfect it while you were asleep.”
“And then you will rest, yourself?”
Watson sighs, before nodding. I return the favour by smoothing his hair back myself, styling it into its regular parting with nimble fingers. He huffs a laugh, looking back at me. His eyes are lighter. “I will, provided you continue to be such an advocate for health.”
“Pshaw. Circumstantial, and not my profession.”
He does not reply, but something in his smile softens and sinceres. I brush a speck of dust off his ear that he missed. “I am relieved you’re alright, Holmes. For a moment…Well, I...” He gestures emptily, looking down at the plasters in his lap. His voice has quietened. “I saw nothing but rubble. It was awfully silent.”
My hand has drifted to cup his cheek. Watson leans into the touch, pressing against it. The other lays carefully beside my pillow. His eyes flick to me, before he picks up the bandages anew. They flick again, and he sets them down with something like resignation.
I nod, minutely, and barely have room to blink before my head is in the crook of his neck again, his arms warm around me. I tense before I sigh. I wound my own arm around his waist, feeling him uncoil like a taught spring.
“Next time, I will accompany you,” he emphasises firmly. I am not foolish enough to argue.
I bury my face in his shoulder as reply. There is the scent of lavender on him, too, from the basin lying a few feet away. “You will leave me with no choice?”
“ No .”
I smile into the fabric, closing my eyes. He is holding me securely, a steady pressure around my body, and for once in an embrace I am comfortable. For once, I do not ache to flee — this is safety.
He releases me before my skin has time to prickle in discomfort. Ever observant, my Watson.
Even with the sting of antiseptic, his hands are grounding and warm. I know I will not be compelled to lay here forever, and Watson is aware of this too, I imagine. Though that is a distant problem — I am content for now to lay in an exhausted doze, the effects of morphine still dulling the extent of my pain. And later, he will settle in the chair opposite the setteé and doze too.
That, or Mrs. Hudson will cajole him into it. Whichever comes first.