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“Mr. Holmes!”
Nothing. Everywhere he looked, he found nothing. No clues. No wreckage, and worst of all, no Watson.
Drowned. Dead. Gone.
No. Not without proof. He refused to believe Watson gone without a body, and a long branch let him search the bottom without jumping into the stagnant water at every shadow.
“Mr. Holmes!”
What about that tree? Watson could have floated on a piece of wreckage until those low branches halted his travel.
Not unless he was awake to grab them, logic chimed, considering the branches ended well above the water. If Watson could reach those, then he could walk out.
What about—
“Mr. Holmes!” Small hands grabbed his arm and pulled. A glance found Doris trying to lead him away.
She did not look injured, however, nor did she move with the urgency that suggested another child was injured. He returned to prodding the canal bottom.
“What is it, Doris?”
“Found…spelunking…wreckage…floating…” The words drifted in one ear and out the other. Drowning victims do not float, and only Watson mattered.
“Mr. Holmes!”
Frustration filled the word as she tugged on his arm again, then another pair of hands stole his branch. He barely had a moment to frown at them before Clint’s hard shove pushed him a single step down the tow path.
“Thanks, Clint.” Doris grabbed his hand to keep him moving. “We already found him, Mr. Holmes. He’s at our spelunking spot.”
Found? But—
“Hurry, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, Doctor Thompson’ll take ‘im to hospital. You know he’d hate that.”
Hospital. Yes. Watson would hate that. Hated hospitals, for all that he spent so much time working in them. Watson made the worst patient.
But if Watson was—if Watson had drowned, why would another doctor take him to hospital?
“There they are. Come on, Mr. Holmes. Move.”
And why had they run for another doctor at all?
Unless—
“Doctor, you need to wake up.”
He rounded the final bend to find Watson on the tow path. Thompson Junior and two Irregulars knelt beside him, while the younger children huddled together about ten feet away. George looked up at their footsteps, then waved Holmes closer.
“We found him floating on a piece of the hull,” Doris supplied, still pulling his hand though his feet refused to move. “Ran partway to Baker Street before I decided you would have started searching by then, so I followed the canal upstream.” She tugged his hand again. “Why are you just standing there? He’s more likely to wake up with you beside him!”
Because his feet refused to move. Watson lay on his back, horribly, terrifyingly still, and pale, and lifeless, and Holmes’ feet refused to move. He had no idea how long he had been searching the canal bottom, but expecting to find his friend too late helped not at all upon actually finding him. Watson had been in the canal boat when it exploded. Watson could not swim, and he had been injured before the explosion. Watson had drowned because those imbeciles had decided to kidnap him.
No. Because Holmes had sent him to that pub alone. Watson had drowned because of Holmes, and only a stubborn refusal to accept the obvious without proof had kept him searching that canal. While he would not have wanted the Irregulars to find him, their presence did not change the result.
Moving closer would just confirm what he already knew.
“Mr. Holmes!”
Clint’s gesture silenced Doris even as he stared at Holmes. Seconds studied Holmes’ face and glanced up the canal, then sympathy appeared.
“I wondered what the branch was for,” he murmured. “He’s alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“What?” Doris looked between Holmes and where Watson still lay, though Holmes only tangentially noticed her surprise.
“He’s alive,” Clint repeated. Slow footsteps almost cautiously moved to Holmes’ side, then gently pushed him forward. “He’s still breathing, Mr. Holmes. Whatever happened to that canal boat, he didn’t drown. He’s alive, and he’s injured. He needs help.”
Help. Watson…needed help. Alive. He…was alive.
Injured. The word finally penetrated Holmes’ mind, and he found himself beside his friend without fully deciding to move. Thompson Junior barely glanced up from his exam.
“Many cuts,” he noted, mercifully ignoring Holmes’ shaking hands, “particularly on his back. Bruises and blunt trauma consistent with a fist fight. He lost a bit of blood. Did I hear them mention a canal boat?”
Holmes nodded. “It—exploded,” he managed. Words flowed easier as soon as he saw Watson’s chest rise. Two fingers gripped his wrist. “Watson was kidnapped, then the canal boat they used as transport exploded in the basin. Is he—”
“He’ll be fine,” Thompson replied, as if Holmes’ question had not cut itself in half. “I can find no sign of a head injury, which means he lost consciousness from pain and perhaps blood loss. You’ll need to watch for infection—we both know how filthy the canal water gets—and the bandages will need changing in a few hours. I suppose you want to take him home?”
“Baker Street,” Holmes nodded, his eyes never leaving Watson’s breathing. Alive. “Get us a cab?”
“Already did, sir.” Jimmy stepped away from the littles still watching from one side. “He’s waiting at the street.”
“Thank you—” Thompson glanced at Holmes.
“Jimmy,” Holmes filled in the obvious question. “I imagine Mrs. Hudson might have something for you, if you stop by tomorrow.” Well done.
Jimmy’s smile understood both the promise and the praise, but Holmes and Thompson needed several minutes to pick Watson up without touching an injury. The cabbie hurried to help the moment they cleared the alley, and Watson soon lay on the floor of the growler. Several well wishes followed them toward the flat, but Holmes’ attention remained on his friend. Had he—
“Watson?”
No reaction. Watson remained still. Limp, but his breathing had changed. The next hard bounce produced a flinch, then a deeper breath.
“Watson, we are in a cab. Try not to move.”
A sudden sigh tried to spark concern. Tension drained from Watson’s shoulders, and his breathing hitched, then evened out just before his eyes opened. A strange relief flickered into view, followed by the ghost of a smile. Watson tried to squeeze his hand, then his eyes closed once more.
Holmes merely kept his fingers on the pulse point. He would have to find the root of that unexpected relief later, but for now, waking at all proved Watson’s injuries rather minor. He would heal.
Watson still lived, and he would heal.
Nothing else mattered.