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“I need nothing more from you, Johnny boy. You already told me everything.”
“Behind!”
Another crack lit fire across my back and splattered more blood on the walls. I failed to stifle a grunt, and the whip cracked again.
Explosions. Cries of pain. Gunfire. Murray slammed into me from the side, barely avoiding a thrown Kyber.
“What? Don’t remember? You spent hours last night answering my every question. I’m just waiting for the right moment to leave a gift for your precious detective.”
“Wait for the middle of the battle,” the voice suggested from the other side of thick fabric. Despite the foreign dialect and low tones, I easily understood every word, “then attack from behind. He’ll never expect you. Too naïve.”
Pain lanced yet again, but I knew better than to respond—or to believe him about anything other than his plans to kill me. Between the stifling heat in the warehouse and the pain of my injuries, I had spent this morning and most of yesterday more in the past than the present. I might have told him troop movements before the Battle of Charasiab and what had happened to the spy in our midst, but I had not betrayed my friend. Locking my jaw smothered my reflexive cry when he snapped that whip once more.
“Move!”
The order sounded from my left, and I turned a dive into a roll that ended behind the nearest cover. The spray of bullets patterned the dirt, but my blade took care of the Ghazi that tried to use the barrage as cover. I lunged to my feet but ran parallel to the front lines. Any casualties at the battle’s front were already gone. My only chance to be useful lay in treating the fallen at the rear.
The crack of a whip. Another stripe of pain.
“Behind!”
That warning came from my right. I spun to block a thrust from the faceless Ghazi behind me. Another enemy soldier grabbed my arms, but headbutting the first attacker sent his Kyber into the sand. So I was the spies’ target.
That felt more like a fist. Burning in my side warned of a cracked rib.
No matter. My jump braced against the enemy trying to hold me still to kick the other in the chest, then twisting mid air knocked my captor off balance. They landed on the ground in a heap and stopped breathing a moment later. I wiped the blood off my stolen Kyber to survey my surroundings. Did anyone else try to ambush the opponent’s doctor?
“You might as well give up, Johnny boy. Your precious detective will never find you, much less want you back after everything you’ve given me.”
No. For the moment. I continuously scanned my surroundings as I sought my next patient.
Sharp steel sliced my back and side. Boredom had finally removed the simple leather tip.
There! An explosion rattled the battlefield far enough from the melee to let me help, and time blurred as I hurried from one patient to the next. Fields and sandy pits bled together as much as the nameless battles, blurring into a series of images that felt real even as part of my mind acknowledged days and months between them. Flashes of pain and threats and Hindi further distorted the line between past and present.
Did I fight in Afghanistan? Or did I endure torture in the bowels of London?
“Watson!”
I could not be sure. Not when Ghazis and London gang members alternated attacking me. I knew only that refusing to fight would end in my death. A firm kick sent a shrouded enemy into the sand. Headbutting the face in front of me created a fountain of blood. Something prevented me from using my stolen blade, but even metal cuffs gave slightly, when pulled hard enough. Hard tugs fought to bend metal just enough to put my feet flat on the floor, but another blade flashed before I could succeed. My revolver eliminated that threat.
“Watson, stop fighting me!”
No. Overlapping battlefields peeled away to reveal an open warehouse, but anchoring my thoughts in one location’s reality did nothing for the blackguard towering over me. I fought harder. His interest in the last days’ torture would only last so long. If I could break these cuffs—
“Watson!”
Fingers shoved themselves between my wrists and the metal confining me, then one foot pinned my feet to put a familiar face in front of mine. Directly in front of mine.
“Watson, look at me.”
No. He needed to get away. He ducked my attempt to headbutt him, and the motion pushed him just enough away to reveal the rest of the deserted warehouse as my right hand finally broke free.
“Stand down, soldier!”
Though a familiar officer’s order prevented me from aiming for the nose that kept shoving itself into my field of view. I froze, arm still cocked as footsteps approached.
“You are safe, soldier. You’ve been found. All hostiles have been eliminated. Stand down.”
I made no reply, hesitant to believe a voice I could not see—familiar or not. When long seconds passed without another attack, however, I slowly lowered my arm. Loud footsteps stopped several feet away as quiet words broke the heavy silence once more. “Step back, Mr. Holmes.”
Fingers slowly untangled themselves from my binds to let the towering presence retreat several feet. Only then did I note the short man in a London police uniform. Where—
London warehouse. Right. I was in London, not Afghanistan. Had been ambushed in London, not Afghanistan, for all that the man had used guerilla warfare tactics.
“…Irregulars saw him attack but lost you between the trains…”
The crumbled body to my left would not have enjoyed the consequences of such tactics, but a glance suggested him dead for at least an hour. He probably had no chance to learn the lesson before its results took his life.
“…lived in London for nearly twenty years…”
He had attacked alone, however, which neatly solved the problem of trials and prison time. I finally scanned my surroundings. Had he taken me to a headquarters?
Only if the Yard used this warehouse. Uniformed officers moved this way and that, staying well away from me though they evidently noted various things around the warehouse. Nobody else here posed a threat.
“…I nearly had to tie Doris to the settee to keep her from leading every Irregular over fifteen in joining the raid…”
Which let me focus on the two people closest to me. That short policeman stood some ten feet away, but a tall, lean man knelt just out of reach.
“…Can you see me yet, Watson? I cannot treat your injuries if you do not let me near you.”
Holmes knelt just out of reach, with Lestrade standing just behind him. Relief mixed with Holmes’ continued worry when I finally nodded at him. My words would not return for a few more minutes, but eye contact let predictable movements carefully free my hands, then my feet. Pain lanced from neck to heel as I moved for the first time in over a day.
“What did he do to you?”
And probably started my injuries bleeding yet again. When my first deep breath sparked another shot of blinding pain, I let burning muscles and broken skin relax into Holmes’ support. I could not walk, anyway. Better to avoid some of the pain.
“Watson!”
Though I had not intended to sleep with the same breath. I would apologize for the scare later.