Fic ~ To Chase Another Day
Title ~ To Chase Another Day
Fandom ~ Sherlock Holmes
Pairing ~ Holmes / Watson (implied)
Rating ~ PG
Notes ~ After seeing the movie and rereading some of the original stories, I decided to write a REAL Sherlock Holmes pastiche, nice and long, with an ACD-style mystery and good characters and the usual canon hints of Holmes / Watson. This is not that story. This is just one that was in my head when I woke up this morning. I would say that it’s an amalgamation of the new movie and the old books, if that matters to you, though with spoilers from neither.
To Chase Another Day
In the course of his investigations, it was not uncommon for Sherlock Holmes to find himself racing through the dark alleyways of the less savory parts of London. Tonight, the key piece of evidence to bringing down a smuggling ring was running just ahead of him. This ruffian was the sort Holmes was beginning to believe made up more and more of London’s criminal masses. Not particularly clever, just brutish and greedy. Though the investigatory process had been simple, Holmes still found himself enjoying the chase.
Doctor Watson was somewhere nearby, having taken up his own pursuit after another of these scoundrels had the gall to fire a shot at them before dashing off in a different direction. Sounds of his footsteps and those of his quarry reached Holmes as he ran, echoing through the cavernous alleyways. The good doctor was aware of the danger he thrust himself into, Holmes knew, but still he strained to decipher those sounds, to reassure himself of Watson’s safety.
When the echoing footsteps stopped and were replaced with the distinct sounds of a scuffle, Holmes continued his chase. Watson could handle himself against far more than one attacker. With both his walking stick (and its hidden blade) and his service revolver at the ready, Holmes wagered he could best perhaps three or more.
Then a roar of pain brought Holmes up short. That had been Watson.
With the steps of the man he was chasing growing further and further ahead, Holmes focused his ears in a different direction. Some article made of wood being broken. The sharp clack of Watson’s walking stick against something that then went sliding across the cobblestones…a knife perhaps.
Holmes was listening so intently that the gunfire that came next was shockingly loud, as if he was standing right next to it. First one shot, then two answering.
In the preternatural silence that followed, the sounds of running footsteps resumed, but only one set now. It took Holmes mere seconds to recognize that they were not Watson’s.
His chase forgotten, he turned and bolted back the way he had come. Knowing which way Watson had originally run and the time which had passed, plus the direction from which Holmes had heard the shots, it was easy for him to find a shortcut to a neighboring alley. He stopped there in the shadows for a moment to listen once more.
Footsteps moving fast away from him in one direction, and in the other, a harsh, labored breath, and the sounds of someone pulling themselves along the ground at the cost of great pain. The temptation to call out to Watson was strong, but Holmes restrained himself. Suddenly, his heart was thumping harder than it had while he was running. He prided himself on being able to refrain from making suppositions on too little data, but now his mind was running wild.
What would he do? What would he do, by God, if he lost Watson?
Slipping quickly down the alley, Holmes soon found himself at the scene of the fight. They were at the back of some shop, empty crates piled along the walls. Some of these were overturned into the walkway, one splintered as if fallen on by a heavy weight. Moonlight shone off a fresh, clean gouge in the brick wall at about head level, almost certainly caused by a bullet.
There was a sharp, metallic click in the darkness, and Holmes froze.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Despite the words, Watson’s voice reassured Holmes so intensely that he breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was pain there, to be sure, but not the agonies or weakness of a man at death’s door.
“Easy, old boy. It’s Holmes.”
There was a sound of movement, a rustle of cloth, and a match scraped against the bricks. In the tenuous, flaring light, Holmes caught sight of Watson sitting on the ground, shielded by the crates. He was holding his service revolver, which even in the dark had been admirably pointed at Holmes’s head. He squinted for a moment, unsure, and then relaxed back against the wall.
As the match went out, he said, “You and your damnedable disguises, Holmes. Had I not seen you earlier tonight, I would almost not believe it was you.”
“So you’re not going to be shooting me, then?”
“Not at the moment.” Watson’s chuckle still had a tinge of pain, but it did Holmes good to hear it. “I’m afraid I lost my man.”
Holmes maneuvered himself carefully to Watson’s side, hands rifling through the pockets of the too-big peacoat he wore. “Ah, so did I, as it comes to it. Are you hurt?”
Watson huffed a breath of disgust, and it was then that Holmes came up with a stub of candle and a loose match to light it with. In this feeble light, Holmes could detect no injuries or bloodstains, only Watson’s hand clamped tightly to the upper part of his right thigh.
“That piece of filth got in a lucky blow with the handle of his knife. Felt like I’d been shot all over again.”
“But you were not.”
“No. He came at me with the knife after I went down, but I managed to strike it from his hand with my walking stick. That’s when he drew out his gun. He fired a shot at me and missed, and I returned fire. He fired again as he fled, but it came nowhere near me. I’d have gotten up to give chase, but this leg…I can’t get it to move.”
“Well, that is no surprise,” Holmes said, making himself comfortable with his shoulder against Watson’s. The candle he wedged into the slots of a crate beside them. “It is no great loss, I assure you. I will be able to find my man easily enough tomorrow or the next day.”
“Holmes…”
“Yes?”
“You needn’t stay with me. I can manage myself.”
Holmes felt such a great uprising of warmth at Watson’s stubbornness that he could not help but smile. His hands went into his pockets once more and came up with a flask.
“As if I would leave you, my dear Watson. As I said, the chase is over for tonight. I am content. Brandy? I also have some biscuits, here, somewhere. Perhaps some sausages.”
Accepting the flask, Watson smelled it carefully before taking a drink. “Why on earth do you have biscuits and sausages in your coat pockets, man?”
Holmes frowned at the question. “I am in disguise,” he answered. “What sort of dock worker would not carry his supper with him?”
Watson laughed, long and heartily, and Holmes could only watch. When Watson looked back at him, his eyes seemed to be shining, though it may have been the candlelight.
“Sometimes I believe you are mad, Holmes,” Watson said, all traces of pain faded into his affection. “Delightfully mad.”
“I take it, then, that you don’t want a biscuit?”
“No, no, certainly. I’ll spread out my handkerchief, shall I, and we’ll have a proper picnic, sitting in a filthy alley in the middle of the night. I am only embarrassed to say that I have forgotten to bring any cheese.”
“Oh, well, dear doctor, we shall have to make do.”
Watson laughed again, and Holmes leaned against him, smiling. At the moment, he needed nothing more in the world.
The End