FIC: Danger
Sherlock Holmes fic based on a kinkmeme prompt again.
It got a little out of hand. XD;
Title: Danger
Author: canarypaper
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13 for blood
Word Count: 2,210
Spoilers: The movie and the canon story The Final Problem.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes/Warnings: Post!Movie. This is based of the kinkmeme prompt: Watson tackles Holmes to the ground during a gun fight. Holmes... comes to the inevitable conclusion that his Watson has taken a bullet for him. An angry Holmes gently rolls his friend aside and perfectly aims and dispatches every opposing shooter in the room. It got a little out of hand and turned into something plotty which... may or may not be a good thing. XD Also, this contains a complete bastardization of a scene from The Final Problem. :D ENJOY!
Danger
by canarypaper
"'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked."
- Sherlock Holmes, "The Final Problem"
In his hand, a revolver. A Webley model. The cylinder contains six rounds. More ammunition in left coat pocket.
The location is a library. Dark, silent. Towering bookshelves may serve as cover in case of firefight.
He estimates a total of ten underlings will be waiting inside the library, as lookouts.
Highly improbable that there will be anymore. No one knows that he has infiltrated this close, intimate circle that orbits around the Professor. No one.
He will be completely and totally unexpected.
He will finally rid the world of this nefarious criminal mastermind.
It will take approximately thirty minutes to reach the library by foot. At that point it will be fifteen minutes past midnight. He will work his way into the library, taking approximately ten minutes to do so. He will encounter little resistance from the outside guards, who he knows for a fact tend to drink heavily. The interior look-outs will prove more difficult. They are hand-picked by the Professor himself.
The Professor, who will be meeting with his High Table in the secret room beneath the library. Hidden from the rest of the world.
Not for long.
His mind begins to race. Thirty-two steps on the staircase which descends into the hidden room. Approximately twenty steps into the room where the Professor sits, unaware. Five seconds for him to draw his Webley model revolver which contains six rounds, tens seconds to slam the door to the room open and then-
A knock at the door.
-the Professor will stand, shocked, will reach for his own weapon-
The door opens. "Holmes?"
-they fire at the same time-
"Holmes!"
-inevitably, the bullet will lodge itself somewhere in his torso -
"Holmes." A whisper. Two hands grip his shoulders.
He blinks. The room swirls back into his consciousness. The dim light of the lamp, the faint scent of gunpowder. Papers litter the floor he stands on, illegible scrawl and scribbles.
Watson standing before him.
"Watson," Holmes whispers. He smiles, softly, genuinely. "My dear Watson..."
The frown on Watson's face falters, momentarily, and he lets go of Holmes' shoulders. He crosses his arms. "Were you planning on doing this alone?"
So that's why he's here. "I have no idea what you're talking about-"
"Don't lie to me, Holmes!" Watson almost shouts. He is livid. His jaw is set, his eyes are burning fiercely. "You've been locked up in here for days. Mrs. Hudson knew something was happening, it didn't take me long to piece together your recent ramblings about this Professor and reaping the fruits of you labor."
Holmes turns away. "I will not be extending an invitation."
"Well, it's lucky that I've never needed one then, isn't it?"
"Watson, I will not hear of it!" He grabs his threadbare coat off the back of the settee. "This is my case, and mine alone. I will not endanger your life-"
"Since when has that ever stopped you?"
"This case is different. This man will stop at nothing to see me dead. It may be my only chance to stop him-"
"I have stood with you through the most dangerous cases! With Blackwood, with-"
"-his control reaches all throughout the criminal underground, and to lose him now would prove disastrous-"
"Didn't you always say it made a great difference, having someone with you on whom you could throughly-"
"-something could go wrong, I could lose months of careful planning, I cannot let that-"
"- do you plan on killing yourself in the process? Is that why you don't want me along, you stupid, vain, selfish-"
Holmes spins around and grabs Watson by the lapel of his coat. "I cannot put the only person in this world that I care for in such great danger!"
Silence.
Holmes stares straight into Watson's eyes. He can see all of the anger, all of the sadness, everything that has built between them over the years. Through rages, through marriage, through melancholy and worse...
"My dear Holmes," Watson says, voice breaking. He lowers his head and purses his lips.
I am defeated, Holmes thinks.
He lets go of the coat and moves a hand to the juncture of Watson's neck and shoulder. He rests his it there, awkwardly, looking anywhere but Watson's face.
They breathe for a few moments. It is quiet, then. An intimate sharing of space.
"I should send you home to your wife," Holmes says quietly, trying to bring levity back to the room.
Watson chuckles and moves a hand over his face, tiredly. "She would be disappointed if I came back without a new tale of adventure." He catches Holmes' eyes. "She would wonder why I left you to face it alone."
Holmes closes his eyes. Tries to stay composed, stoic.
"Your danger is my danger, Holmes," Watson whispers. "It always has been."
At that, Holmes smiles. "Cut out the poetry, Watson." He looks back at his companion. "Come on, we have work to do."
The plan is a complete and total failure.
Moriarty was never here to begin with. It must have been a set-up.
They are huddled behind a gigantic bookshelf, bullets piercing through the books themselves and raining pieces of pages down like confetti.
"This went well, I think," Watson says, leaning around the corner of the shelf and shooting one of the Professor's underlings square in the chest.
"Thank you for that gross exaggeration of the facts, Doctor," Holmes says reloading his revolver. "How many are left?"
"By my count, probably six." A shot. "Make that five!"
Holmes chuckles. "You always were a good shot."
"Flatterer."
Holmes looks around. Tries to find some means of escape. If only there were something... something that could take all of them out at once... something tall...
Oh, of course. How could he have been so stupid?
Grinning, he stands up, estimating the weight and height of the bookshelf they are hiding behind. "Watson? Would you mind helping me with something?"
Watson looks up at him, watching as he braces himself against the shelf. "What are you-? Oh. Ah ha, very clever."
He stands, moving to the opposite end of the shelf, bracing his arms against it like Holmes has done.
"On the count of three."
Watson nods.
"THREE!"
The two of them give an almighty shove. The shelf teeters on the edge for a moment before finally crashing down. Several shouts emanate from the other side of the shelf, but are cut short as it slams against another bookcase. And another. And another.
It goes on like this for several moments. Holmes always did like a good game of dominoes.
Silence falls in the library. Dust settles.
"Well," Holmes says, smirking. "They all looked like they needed some good, heavy reading material."
"I'm not going to justify that statement with a response," Watson says, dryly.
At the far end of the room, he sees several figures stirring.
"Come, Watson, I believe it is time for us to make an exit."
They run toward the large double doors at the front of the library, making sure to step on every groaning henchman they come across.
A bullet whizzes past Holmes' ear as they reach the door. He spins around and fires at one of the figures staggering towards them. "Did the books teach you nothing?" he shouts.
Chuckling,Watson throws open the doors. He makes a sudden, involuntary noise of surprise.
"Watson-?" he begins, slowly turning around.
"Holmes!"
There are several loud gunshots which echo through the air. Holmes feels deafened, confused.
He is falling backward, slamming against the cold marble floor.
At first, he thinks he's been shot. Then, he recognizes Watson's warm, familiar weight over him. He chuckles. "Thank you, old chap, but we really should get back to fighting-"
He pauses. Watson does not move.
He hears footsteps moving towards them.
The scent of something strong and metallic fills his nostrils, his hands are covered with it.
"No," he whispers.
Pushing Watson's weight to the side while sitting up (and God, he's bleeding, bleeding so badly, shot in at least two different places), he sees what Watson must have seen.
On the other side of the door are two men, armed with pistols.
Time stops. Holmes closes his eyes.
This mustn't register on an emotional level, he thinks to himself.
Except it already has.
He thinks it through quickly, recklessly. He has nothing to lose.
He begins.
Raising his revolver, he delivers two precise shots into the foreheads of the two men in the threshold.
One of the three men behind him rushes toward him, and Holmes knocks his pistol across his jaw, dislocating it, then punches him in the temple.
He shoots twice more, hitting the remaining two men in the head.
They both drop to the ground at the same time.
He breathes.
"Watson," he gasps.
He dashes back to the doctor who is lying prone on the stone floor. He slides on the expanding pool of blood surrounding him, falling to his knees.
Holmes leans over him, presses his hands to the two gaping wounds in his torso.
"You're a terrible mess," Holmes says, trying to sound like he's teasing, but comes out as more of a sob.
Watson's eyes wander for a moment, unfocused, before finding Holmes' own. He grins, teeth bloody. "You're one to talk, you great, bloody slob."
Holmes laughs, a little desperately. "I need to find you a doctor."
"I am a doctor," Watson replies, a little indignantly. He frowns and gives a small, gurgling cough. Blood begins to ooze from his mouth.
"Watson," Holmes says. He doesn't know what to do. He can't just leave him here, leave him to bleed to death on the cold floor like some nameless criminal. He can't solve this. He can't-
There are images of he and Watson sharing that brandy in the parlor. Of Watson hanging his hat on the coatrack. Of Watson falling asleep on the velvet chair. Watson writing at his desk, talking to a patient, laughing at a terrible joke-
Lying in a casket.
He thinks of Mary. Suddenly knows that her pain would be his own.
This is his own fault. He knew Watson would follow him. Would die for him. Knew he had to distance himself-
"Please," he whispers, face contorting with grief and tears, something that hasn't happened since he was very young. He presses his forehead to Watson's, gripping his face in his hands. "I can't solve this..."
Somewhere, off in the distance, he can hear the sound of horse's hooves. Hopefully, Lestrade and Scotland Yard. The gunshots were loud enough.
"Holmes," Watson whispers bringing a hand to the man's face.
"I swear I'll read whatever godawful tripe you wish to impose upon me, I'll even have tea with you and Mary, I'll wear a nice jacket, for God's sake, but please, Watson, just please..." His voice is cracking, trembling.
Watson laughs softly before his body seizes, wracked with tremors of pain. He coughs up more blood.
When the tremor passes, Watson, in a moment of lucidity, looks into Holmes' eyes.
"Oh hell," he whispers. "I've always wanted to do this," he says, before pressing his blood soaked lips to Holmes' own.
Holmes drifts to consciousness slowly. The sun is pouring in from the window where he forgot to draw the curtains the previous night. He is lying on the rug of his room, several empty bottles of something incredibly intoxicating surrounding him.
He groans, sitting up, presses a hand against his forehead.
For a moment, he has forgotten everything. Then, in a burst of blood and terrible choking noises, he remembers everything.
Watson kissing him, Lestrade and Scotland Yard driving up almost too late, Watson in the hospital, Mary at his side valiantly suppressing tears, days of uncertainty, wondering, waiting.
There was so much blood. So much red blood on those pristine bandages. Watson's blood.
Finally, he remembers the words "He'll survive," spoken frankly by a doctor.
And then Holmes got drunk.
Suddenly everything makes a lot more sense.
Except for the fact that there is a strange man sitting in one of the velvet chairs across the room.
Of course.
He is not ordinary looking, nor is he completely remarkable. He has a young face marred with wrinkles and eyes with dark circles beneath them. He has broad shoulders and a strong posture. In his lap, he holds a clean, fashionable top hat. There are chalk marks on his lapel.
Holmes recognizes him instantly.
"You must drop it, Mr. Holmes," Professor Moriarty says. "You really must, you know."
Holmes grins. He stands up, a little shakily, before wrapping his dressing gown closer to his body.
He knows what he has to do. Knows the only thing that can be done. "Your danger is my danger," Watson had told him.
He shuffles across the room, picking up a cup of old tea along the way, taking a gulp.
In order to protect Watson, who will follow him to the edges of the earth and back again, Sherlock Holmes will have to die. In order to eliminate Watson's danger, Holmes must eliminate his own.
It is the only way.
But not today. Not now. Later, when the time is right. When he has a plan.
He stops walking, standing right in front of the Professor. He stares levelly into Moriarty's eyes.
"Go to hell."
With that, he leaves the room. The good Professor can let himself out.
It got a little out of hand. XD;
Title: Danger
Author: canarypaper
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13 for blood
Word Count: 2,210
Spoilers: The movie and the canon story The Final Problem.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes/Warnings: Post!Movie. This is based of the kinkmeme prompt: Watson tackles Holmes to the ground during a gun fight. Holmes... comes to the inevitable conclusion that his Watson has taken a bullet for him. An angry Holmes gently rolls his friend aside and perfectly aims and dispatches every opposing shooter in the room. It got a little out of hand and turned into something plotty which... may or may not be a good thing. XD Also, this contains a complete bastardization of a scene from The Final Problem. :D ENJOY!
Danger
by canarypaper
"'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked."
- Sherlock Holmes, "The Final Problem"
In his hand, a revolver. A Webley model. The cylinder contains six rounds. More ammunition in left coat pocket.
The location is a library. Dark, silent. Towering bookshelves may serve as cover in case of firefight.
He estimates a total of ten underlings will be waiting inside the library, as lookouts.
Highly improbable that there will be anymore. No one knows that he has infiltrated this close, intimate circle that orbits around the Professor. No one.
He will be completely and totally unexpected.
He will finally rid the world of this nefarious criminal mastermind.
It will take approximately thirty minutes to reach the library by foot. At that point it will be fifteen minutes past midnight. He will work his way into the library, taking approximately ten minutes to do so. He will encounter little resistance from the outside guards, who he knows for a fact tend to drink heavily. The interior look-outs will prove more difficult. They are hand-picked by the Professor himself.
The Professor, who will be meeting with his High Table in the secret room beneath the library. Hidden from the rest of the world.
Not for long.
His mind begins to race. Thirty-two steps on the staircase which descends into the hidden room. Approximately twenty steps into the room where the Professor sits, unaware. Five seconds for him to draw his Webley model revolver which contains six rounds, tens seconds to slam the door to the room open and then-
A knock at the door.
-the Professor will stand, shocked, will reach for his own weapon-
The door opens. "Holmes?"
-they fire at the same time-
"Holmes!"
-inevitably, the bullet will lodge itself somewhere in his torso -
"Holmes." A whisper. Two hands grip his shoulders.
He blinks. The room swirls back into his consciousness. The dim light of the lamp, the faint scent of gunpowder. Papers litter the floor he stands on, illegible scrawl and scribbles.
Watson standing before him.
"Watson," Holmes whispers. He smiles, softly, genuinely. "My dear Watson..."
The frown on Watson's face falters, momentarily, and he lets go of Holmes' shoulders. He crosses his arms. "Were you planning on doing this alone?"
So that's why he's here. "I have no idea what you're talking about-"
"Don't lie to me, Holmes!" Watson almost shouts. He is livid. His jaw is set, his eyes are burning fiercely. "You've been locked up in here for days. Mrs. Hudson knew something was happening, it didn't take me long to piece together your recent ramblings about this Professor and reaping the fruits of you labor."
Holmes turns away. "I will not be extending an invitation."
"Well, it's lucky that I've never needed one then, isn't it?"
"Watson, I will not hear of it!" He grabs his threadbare coat off the back of the settee. "This is my case, and mine alone. I will not endanger your life-"
"Since when has that ever stopped you?"
"This case is different. This man will stop at nothing to see me dead. It may be my only chance to stop him-"
"I have stood with you through the most dangerous cases! With Blackwood, with-"
"-his control reaches all throughout the criminal underground, and to lose him now would prove disastrous-"
"Didn't you always say it made a great difference, having someone with you on whom you could throughly-"
"-something could go wrong, I could lose months of careful planning, I cannot let that-"
"- do you plan on killing yourself in the process? Is that why you don't want me along, you stupid, vain, selfish-"
Holmes spins around and grabs Watson by the lapel of his coat. "I cannot put the only person in this world that I care for in such great danger!"
Silence.
Holmes stares straight into Watson's eyes. He can see all of the anger, all of the sadness, everything that has built between them over the years. Through rages, through marriage, through melancholy and worse...
"My dear Holmes," Watson says, voice breaking. He lowers his head and purses his lips.
I am defeated, Holmes thinks.
He lets go of the coat and moves a hand to the juncture of Watson's neck and shoulder. He rests his it there, awkwardly, looking anywhere but Watson's face.
They breathe for a few moments. It is quiet, then. An intimate sharing of space.
"I should send you home to your wife," Holmes says quietly, trying to bring levity back to the room.
Watson chuckles and moves a hand over his face, tiredly. "She would be disappointed if I came back without a new tale of adventure." He catches Holmes' eyes. "She would wonder why I left you to face it alone."
Holmes closes his eyes. Tries to stay composed, stoic.
"Your danger is my danger, Holmes," Watson whispers. "It always has been."
At that, Holmes smiles. "Cut out the poetry, Watson." He looks back at his companion. "Come on, we have work to do."
The plan is a complete and total failure.
Moriarty was never here to begin with. It must have been a set-up.
They are huddled behind a gigantic bookshelf, bullets piercing through the books themselves and raining pieces of pages down like confetti.
"This went well, I think," Watson says, leaning around the corner of the shelf and shooting one of the Professor's underlings square in the chest.
"Thank you for that gross exaggeration of the facts, Doctor," Holmes says reloading his revolver. "How many are left?"
"By my count, probably six." A shot. "Make that five!"
Holmes chuckles. "You always were a good shot."
"Flatterer."
Holmes looks around. Tries to find some means of escape. If only there were something... something that could take all of them out at once... something tall...
Oh, of course. How could he have been so stupid?
Grinning, he stands up, estimating the weight and height of the bookshelf they are hiding behind. "Watson? Would you mind helping me with something?"
Watson looks up at him, watching as he braces himself against the shelf. "What are you-? Oh. Ah ha, very clever."
He stands, moving to the opposite end of the shelf, bracing his arms against it like Holmes has done.
"On the count of three."
Watson nods.
"THREE!"
The two of them give an almighty shove. The shelf teeters on the edge for a moment before finally crashing down. Several shouts emanate from the other side of the shelf, but are cut short as it slams against another bookcase. And another. And another.
It goes on like this for several moments. Holmes always did like a good game of dominoes.
Silence falls in the library. Dust settles.
"Well," Holmes says, smirking. "They all looked like they needed some good, heavy reading material."
"I'm not going to justify that statement with a response," Watson says, dryly.
At the far end of the room, he sees several figures stirring.
"Come, Watson, I believe it is time for us to make an exit."
They run toward the large double doors at the front of the library, making sure to step on every groaning henchman they come across.
A bullet whizzes past Holmes' ear as they reach the door. He spins around and fires at one of the figures staggering towards them. "Did the books teach you nothing?" he shouts.
Chuckling,Watson throws open the doors. He makes a sudden, involuntary noise of surprise.
"Watson-?" he begins, slowly turning around.
"Holmes!"
There are several loud gunshots which echo through the air. Holmes feels deafened, confused.
He is falling backward, slamming against the cold marble floor.
At first, he thinks he's been shot. Then, he recognizes Watson's warm, familiar weight over him. He chuckles. "Thank you, old chap, but we really should get back to fighting-"
He pauses. Watson does not move.
He hears footsteps moving towards them.
The scent of something strong and metallic fills his nostrils, his hands are covered with it.
"No," he whispers.
Pushing Watson's weight to the side while sitting up (and God, he's bleeding, bleeding so badly, shot in at least two different places), he sees what Watson must have seen.
On the other side of the door are two men, armed with pistols.
Time stops. Holmes closes his eyes.
This mustn't register on an emotional level, he thinks to himself.
Except it already has.
He thinks it through quickly, recklessly. He has nothing to lose.
He begins.
Raising his revolver, he delivers two precise shots into the foreheads of the two men in the threshold.
One of the three men behind him rushes toward him, and Holmes knocks his pistol across his jaw, dislocating it, then punches him in the temple.
He shoots twice more, hitting the remaining two men in the head.
They both drop to the ground at the same time.
He breathes.
"Watson," he gasps.
He dashes back to the doctor who is lying prone on the stone floor. He slides on the expanding pool of blood surrounding him, falling to his knees.
Holmes leans over him, presses his hands to the two gaping wounds in his torso.
"You're a terrible mess," Holmes says, trying to sound like he's teasing, but comes out as more of a sob.
Watson's eyes wander for a moment, unfocused, before finding Holmes' own. He grins, teeth bloody. "You're one to talk, you great, bloody slob."
Holmes laughs, a little desperately. "I need to find you a doctor."
"I am a doctor," Watson replies, a little indignantly. He frowns and gives a small, gurgling cough. Blood begins to ooze from his mouth.
"Watson," Holmes says. He doesn't know what to do. He can't just leave him here, leave him to bleed to death on the cold floor like some nameless criminal. He can't solve this. He can't-
There are images of he and Watson sharing that brandy in the parlor. Of Watson hanging his hat on the coatrack. Of Watson falling asleep on the velvet chair. Watson writing at his desk, talking to a patient, laughing at a terrible joke-
Lying in a casket.
He thinks of Mary. Suddenly knows that her pain would be his own.
This is his own fault. He knew Watson would follow him. Would die for him. Knew he had to distance himself-
"Please," he whispers, face contorting with grief and tears, something that hasn't happened since he was very young. He presses his forehead to Watson's, gripping his face in his hands. "I can't solve this..."
Somewhere, off in the distance, he can hear the sound of horse's hooves. Hopefully, Lestrade and Scotland Yard. The gunshots were loud enough.
"Holmes," Watson whispers bringing a hand to the man's face.
"I swear I'll read whatever godawful tripe you wish to impose upon me, I'll even have tea with you and Mary, I'll wear a nice jacket, for God's sake, but please, Watson, just please..." His voice is cracking, trembling.
Watson laughs softly before his body seizes, wracked with tremors of pain. He coughs up more blood.
When the tremor passes, Watson, in a moment of lucidity, looks into Holmes' eyes.
"Oh hell," he whispers. "I've always wanted to do this," he says, before pressing his blood soaked lips to Holmes' own.
Holmes drifts to consciousness slowly. The sun is pouring in from the window where he forgot to draw the curtains the previous night. He is lying on the rug of his room, several empty bottles of something incredibly intoxicating surrounding him.
He groans, sitting up, presses a hand against his forehead.
For a moment, he has forgotten everything. Then, in a burst of blood and terrible choking noises, he remembers everything.
Watson kissing him, Lestrade and Scotland Yard driving up almost too late, Watson in the hospital, Mary at his side valiantly suppressing tears, days of uncertainty, wondering, waiting.
There was so much blood. So much red blood on those pristine bandages. Watson's blood.
Finally, he remembers the words "He'll survive," spoken frankly by a doctor.
And then Holmes got drunk.
Suddenly everything makes a lot more sense.
Except for the fact that there is a strange man sitting in one of the velvet chairs across the room.
Of course.
He is not ordinary looking, nor is he completely remarkable. He has a young face marred with wrinkles and eyes with dark circles beneath them. He has broad shoulders and a strong posture. In his lap, he holds a clean, fashionable top hat. There are chalk marks on his lapel.
Holmes recognizes him instantly.
"You must drop it, Mr. Holmes," Professor Moriarty says. "You really must, you know."
Holmes grins. He stands up, a little shakily, before wrapping his dressing gown closer to his body.
He knows what he has to do. Knows the only thing that can be done. "Your danger is my danger," Watson had told him.
He shuffles across the room, picking up a cup of old tea along the way, taking a gulp.
In order to protect Watson, who will follow him to the edges of the earth and back again, Sherlock Holmes will have to die. In order to eliminate Watson's danger, Holmes must eliminate his own.
It is the only way.
But not today. Not now. Later, when the time is right. When he has a plan.
He stops walking, standing right in front of the Professor. He stares levelly into Moriarty's eyes.
"Go to hell."
With that, he leaves the room. The good Professor can let himself out.