Save The Last Dance
It is the last day of my holiday and my plot bunnies have finally stirred into action! I hope there is something for everyone with this story and that you enjoy it!
Title: Save The Last Dance
Author: WirralBagpuss
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG (violence)
Warning: Violence, Watson whumpage and lots of fluff!
Word Count: 3432
Summary: Dr Watson is handed an urgent message from Holmes who is in trouble, can Watson solve the message and save the day?
Save The Last Dance
When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that”
- William Shakespeare
Part One: The Dance Begins
Dr John Watson rubbed his eyes wearily and looked at the paperwork in front of him. It had been a long day in surgery and had taken its toll on his weakened constitution. It had only been a week or so since his recovery from influenza, and although he had taken pains to hide it from a very concerned and eagle eyed detective, his cough was still bothering him. Probably mild bronchitis thought Watson as he tiredly began to put on his coat. Watson’s deliberations were interrupted by a maid who knocked on the door and let herself in. He inwardly sighed. All he wanted to do was go back to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson’s delicious cooking.
“Yes Ivy what is it?” asked Watson in a slightly irritated voice.
“Dr Watson sir, this message just arrived addressed to you” advised the maid who looked down at the floor meekly.
Watson examined the scrap of paper that was on the small silver tray held by Ivy. His eyes widened in alarm as he not only recognised the code the note was conveyed in but also by the dried blood encrusting the edge of the paper.
“Ivy, who was the deliverer of this?” asked Watson hurriedly, his voice quivering with worry. Did the messenger have a card?
“No Sir, I don’t exactly know who the person was, he had not card...”
Watson angrily cut Ivy off with a sharp retort.
“Ivy, I have told you not once but time and time again, when you receive a message you ask for the person’s name and card!”
Ivy, began to get flustered and replied back in a shaky voice
“But Doctor it was just a ragged child, he was filthy!”
Watson fell back into his chair, dismissing Ivy who left hurriedly from his surgery. He knew who the ragged child was. One of Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars.
And that meant Holmes was in trouble. He glanced down at the note again, his hands shaking. He recognised the familiar shapes. Dancing Men. The dancing men were drawn jaggedly with a pencil. Watson did not need to be a famous detective to know that Holmes was hurt but also fearful of his scribbling being intercepted by person or persons unknown. He knew Holmes needed him. But where was he? He needed to decode the familiar dancing men. The answer to that would be found in Baker Street. Watson hurriedly left his surgery and pocketed the message tightly in his inner coat pocket. The answer to this puzzle would be found there. And the key to Holmes’s very life thought Watson grimly. As Watson walked down the cobbled London street and disappeared into the gas light foggy evening, little did he know how dangerous the night would become.
Part Two: Desperate Dance
Mrs Hudson was applying to the finishing touches to a home-made pie with a flourish when she was startled by the bang of the front door and rapid footsteps up the seventeen steps that led to the shared lounge upstairs. She looked at the pie with a sigh. It would not be served hot tonight to her two tenants. It had been good venison too that she bought, knowing how both Holmes and Watson both enjoyed it. Her mind made up, she took off her apron and tentatively went upstairs and gently knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a second knock, more firmer this time, Mrs Hudson opened the door to find Dr Watson with his head in his hands sobbing, a piece of chalk lay next to him and a book lay opened.
“Dr Watson, what is the matter? Asked a very concerned Landlady
Watson looked up to see a pair of worried eyes fixed upon him. He gave a less than convincing smile of acknowledgement and composed himself.
“Mrs Hudson, forgive me, I am sorry. I will not be having dinner tonight. I need to decrypt this message. Holmes is in trouble and needs me. I have to. His life is dependent on it...it is my duty”. Replied Watson who could not keep his voice from shaking.
Mrs Hudson felt the colour drain from her face. Her tenants were the worse tenants in London but despite that she regarded them as the sons she never did see grow up, she could not bear to face two more. She walked over to where Watson was sitting and placed her hand on his shoulder.
Oh Doctor, what are we going to do? Thought Mrs Hudson worriedly. She picked up the book Watson had been studying and smiled. It was Holmes’s pocket book and in it were the Dancing Men he had shown her when Watson had been called away on a case.
“Doctor, I believe we can solve your message together, Mr Holmes showed me this book and he taught me what some of these stood for!” cried Mrs Hudson triumphantly.
Watson turned to face her incredulously. For the first time since this crisis began, he smiled and let out a cry of joy and hugged the best landlady in London.
It took almost two hours for the note to be decoded with a lot of setbacks along the way and moments of angry frustration. But it was done. The message was surprisingly simple
Watson. Rotherhithe Docks, building number 122. Poison
“What does it mean Doctor?” asked Mrs Hudson worriedly.
“Trouble” replied Watson grimly.
He got up from the dining table both he and Mrs Hudson had been working on and went to his bureau. Opening the drawer he brought out his Webley Boxer 577, a recent birthday gift from Holmes, and loaded it. He turned to Mrs Hudson.
“Get a message to Inspector Lestrade. Tell him I am going for Holmes and that he needs to dispatch his men there with immediate effect”.
Mrs Hudson shook her head in the affirmative and followed Watson down stairs and to the front door. She laid a firm hand on his arm
“Bring him home Doctor, and be careful”
Watson turned and out into Baker Street hailing a hansom cab. The clatter of horse’s hooves heralded its arrival. The cabbie turned to Watson and asked for the destination.
“Rotherhithe” he ordered as he entered the hansom cab and closed the carriage door.
The hansom cab set off and melted into the London traffic. Watson readied himself for the coming storm. Hang on Holmes. I know you are hurt and in pain but I am coming for you.
Part Three: A Broken Dancing Man
His captor taunted him. He drew his face close to his prisoner who was in chains whose arms dangled above him as he hung suspended in the cold air. The prisoner wearily opened his eyes and stared at the cold menacing ones that were like daggers stabbing at him, full of malevolence.
“Not so clever now are you? Did you think that your attempts at escape would go unnoticed? Do not take me for a fool! I will not be tricked by you again. You will regret that charade you laid on in your lounge. This time you WILL die and I will take pleasure in seeing you wreathe in pain till your last breath!” whispered his captor into the prisoner’s ear.
A heavily built blackguard approached and delivered a punishing blow to the stomach followed by another. The prisoner coughed, unable to protect himself from the heavy blows. A cruel, almost maniacal laugh followed and he felt a sharp prick as a needle rammed home into his tired arm.
“Time for your medication Mr Holmes, you will shortly feel it burn in your veins. The pain will be unbearable” gloated his tormentor triumphantly.
Holmes croaked a defiant retort
“You will never beat me Smith. Even if you succeed in killing me, there will be others who will never give up in ensuring you swing for your crimes…” Holmes retort was cut off by a fist which smashed into his face.
“Ahh yes, your ever so loyal friends. Tell me, how is Dr Watson these days? And what of that landlady of yours?” Smith said menacingly.
Holmes cried out in horror at what Culverton Smith was insinuating. Despite the pain he was increasingly feeling as the injected poison began to bite, he croaked out a desperate plea
“SMITH! Leave them alone. You have what you want. Let them be” Holmes bit back a cry of pain as he desperately pleaded for the lives of those closest to him.
Smith signalled to the blackguard to release Holmes from his chains, and moments later Holmes landed heavily on the stone cold floor causing him to cry out. He curled up on himself as the pain in his torso intensified.
Without warning a gun fired and a cry followed. The sound of the gun reverberated around the warehouse. Both Smith and Holmes looked up trying to locate the source of the gun being fired.
A figure appeared from behind the sacks of grain stacked up against a wall nearby.
“Step back and put your hands in the air, or so help me I will shoot you!” came a familiar voice.
Watson! My staunch biographer, soldier and friend, you cracked the code! Holmes managed to smile with pride at Watson before another wave of pain hit him again.
Holmes heard Watson say something else but his hearing was becoming increasingly muffled, he heard another shot fired and opened his eyes painfully only to see his Boswell fall. A crimson patch spread across his chest.
“WATSON NO!” cried Holmes raggedly as watched Watson crumple to the floor, frustrated with the fact that he was helpless to do anything at all. Watson, don’t die, thought Holmes, before hearing what he thought were more gunshots and a whistle blearing in the distance before he succumbed to the increasing pain and lost consciousness.
Part Four: The Dance Of The Warrior
Watson tapped the roof of the cab indicating he wanted the cabbie to pull up, which it did. Watson climbed out of the cab and turned up his coat collar as the cold air chilled his bones.
“Guv, you sure you want to stop ‘ere. It is right rough round these parts. I would not allow my ‘arvey to wonder down here. Cutthroats and pickpockets aplenty here Guv...” warned the kindly cabbie.
Watson smiled grimly, acknowledged the warning and paid his fare. As the hansom cab turned and disappeared down the dock lane, Watson brought out his Webley, a 577 Boxer and pulled back the trigger and entered the warehouse Holmes had indicated he was being held. The foul smell of rotting crates nearby almost made Watson choke, and Watson grimaced as he saw a few rats scurry past his feet. He had seen many things and evil with Holmes but the one thing he could not stand were rats. He had sworn to Holmes he would never publish details of the case involving the Giant Rat of Sumatra. Not only was the world not prepared, but he certainly was not yet ready to overcome his fear of rats!
Watson moved forwards into the darkness, he heard the blows being delivered before he saw a sight that would forever haunt him in his dreams. Holmes was hanging from the ceiling, he looked terrible, and his cries of pain as the blows were delivered caused Watson to look away in disgust momentarily. He turned again and saw a figure move in and administer a needle into Holmes’s arm. Watson felt rage rise up in him. Holmes! Oh dear God. How dare that monster harm him. I will stand for it no more! Watson angrily thought as he got up from behind the sacks of grain and instinctively moved towards his badly hurt friend. He raised his Webley and fired a warning shot into the distance starling both Holmes and Smith. He shouted out a warning, not really caring what it was. He had to get to Holmes. As he moved forwards he did not hear the blackguard come out of the shadows, he turned to face the barrel of a gun and in the next instance he heard a gunshot and searing pain burn into his shoulder. Watson let out a cry and fell to the floor clutching his shoulder as the blood seeped through his fingers. The bullet had hit the bone and torn into the muscle. It was near where a Jezhil bullet had hit him so long ago. Watson bit back the pain and shakily put his free hand out for his revolver, only to meet with the boot of the blackguard who had shot him and Watson cried out in pain as the boot came crashing down on his hand. His cries were muffled by the sound of whistles.
“Lestrade! Thank heavens!” gasped Watson as the pressure from his hand lifted
The blackguard forgot his quarry and surged forward in the direction of Inspector Lestrade, firing his gun indiscriminately. A hail of bullets replied in response and the blackguard let out a cry and fell forwards dead before he hit the floor. Smith saw that the game was up and turned to run from the scene. Watson got up from where he had fallen only moments ago and unsteadily, almost drunkenly, and took aim at the fleeing Smith. He fired. Smith fell clutching his leg and cried out in a savage fury of frustration. He would not be going anywhere further tonight. Watson had deposited the bullet into Smith’s kneecap. It was enough to incapacitate Smith and he would be unable to walk or run any further.
Watson ignored Smith’s pleas for the pain to stop and staggered over to the still form of Holmes and collapsed next to him. He placed his fingers on Holmes’s neck and released the breath he had been holding. Holmes was alive. He picked up the discarded syringe and bottle, and examined it. The smell told him everything he needed to know. Snake venom. Holmes moaned and called out for his Boswell. Watson placed a reassuring hand on his head and held Holmes close to him.
“Shhh it’s alright old fellow, I am here. You can fight this. I will not let you go!” reassured Watson to his wounded friend.
Holmes fought the darkness that engulfed him and reached for Watson’s voice and clung on to it, a life raft in this sea of pain. He opened his eyes and met the concerned gaze of hazel ones that were dimmed with pain.
“Watson! You are hurt…” cried Holmes before he was overcome with coughing and spasms of pain that radiated through his body.
Watson held onto Holmes tightly, fighting off his own exhaustion. He never would understand that great mind of Holmes. As Lestrade approached with his men taking Smith into custody, he knew that whilst one battle was over, another was just beginning. Watson let his weary head sink onto Holmes’s shoulder as the pain of his own injury began to take its toll. He felt himself slipping away. Oh God, please let this not be the last dance. Help him please Watson silently prayed before he too slipped into the darkness that once more overtook them both.
The dawn sunshine broke through the veil of night and covered Holmes and Watson gently in a warm blanket. He had heard the heartfelt prayers of Watson and He would do everything in his power to save Holmes from Smith’s evil venom. He would ensure that the Dance would go on.
Part Five: The Eternal Dance
Watson fought back the fog that clouded his mind. He felt the cool reassuring touch of clean sheets and a soft pillow. He sighed contently until a torrent of memories came flooding into his mind. Holmes! He needed help. Watson eyes widened in panic and instinctively made to move to get out of bed. A sharp pain and strong hands holding him back down prevented any such move impossible. A calming but familiar voice soothed his troubled thoughts.
“Watson, please don’t try to overdo things. Mrs Hudson has made some more venison pie; it would disappoint her if you slept through lunchtime!”
Watson could not believe what he was hearing. Holmes was alive, and in good humour too!
“Holmes! You are alive!” cried Watson joyfully and reached for Holmes’s arm to reassure himself that it was indeed so.
“Really Watson you excel in your powers of deduction today! I really must congratulate you!” replied Holmes mischievously
His answer came in the form of a flying pillow that successfully reached its target.
“Watson I never will get your limits, for a sick man you are surprisingly strong and resourceful!” exclaimed Holmes in mock horror
Both Holmes and Watson erupted into laughter. The door to Watson’s bedroom opened and Mrs Hudson appeared with a large tray and on it was a venison pie.
“Well really! Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, if you insist on such childish behaviour I will refuse you this pie!” declared Mrs Hudson as voiced her disapproval setting down the lunch tray.
Holmes got up but not without some difficulty as his injuries caused him some pain. Watson noted this with concern. But before he could ask of Holmes what happened, he watched as Holmes go over to Mrs Hudson and place her hand in his and kisses it in a gentlemanly manner. Mrs Hudson smiled and gently closed the door behind her. As she walked back down the stairs, she could not but help think that occasionally they could be the very best tenants in London. She was glad her boys were safely home.
The venison pie eaten and saw both men relaxed enjoying a glass of red wine each and enjoying the comfort of being in safe surroundings, lost in private thoughts. It was Watson who broke the amiable silence.
“Holmes, how did you survive? There was enough snake venom in you to kill an elephant, never mind a human being!” broached Watson.
Holmes looked at Watson and considered the question carefully. How indeed? He thought.
“You saved me Watson. When you were in the hospital with me you were delirious, thanks to that nasty gunshot wound which I thought had killed you. You kept shouting instructions about snake venoms. I was placed next to you and heard everything you said, most of the time. The doctors realised that Watson was right and proceeded to treat me for it. I recovered swiftly and insisted on bringing you home to Baker Street. As to Smith, he faces the hangman’s noose. He will not escape justice again” replied Holmes softly.
Watson listened. He knew Holmes was holding back. One does not recover from being poisoned with snake venom so quickly. His clinical mind knew that Holmes must have suffered terrible pain and hallucinations on the road to recovery. Nor could Watson ever erase the terrible scenes he had witnessed in the warehouse. They were both hurt and needed time to recover.
“Thank God Holmes that I did. I don’t think I could bear to lose you again” said Watson solemnly.
He suddenly felt exhausted and closed his eyes in silent prayer Thank you God for bringing us home.
Holmes gently removed the wine glass from his exhausted Boswell’s hand. And gently placed the coverlet over him. He sat back and smiled. All would be well. He picked up a book from Watson’s bedside table. One of Watson’s florid yellowback romantic novels thought Holmes affectionately, and opened the place where the bookmark was. His eyes moistened when he read the following passage
"When true friends meet in adverse hour;
'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower.
A watery way an instant seen,
The darkly closing clouds between."
- Sir Walter Scott
Scott was right. Watson had pulled us both through this adverse hour. Ever the staunch soldier and the greatest and kindest man I have ever known. Holmes let this thought comfort him as he too slipped into the arms of Morpheus.
As the two men slept a soft breeze swept through the room. He had kept His promise. Two Angels of Justice had been saved. Shining beacons in a world full of Evil. One Great Heart and Mind and another whose kindness and caring could light up the darkest of days. Their souls would be forever remembered dancing eternally in the sands of time.
Title: Save The Last Dance
Author: WirralBagpuss
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG (violence)
Warning: Violence, Watson whumpage and lots of fluff!
Word Count: 3432
Summary: Dr Watson is handed an urgent message from Holmes who is in trouble, can Watson solve the message and save the day?
Save The Last Dance
When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that”
- William Shakespeare
Part One: The Dance Begins
Dr John Watson rubbed his eyes wearily and looked at the paperwork in front of him. It had been a long day in surgery and had taken its toll on his weakened constitution. It had only been a week or so since his recovery from influenza, and although he had taken pains to hide it from a very concerned and eagle eyed detective, his cough was still bothering him. Probably mild bronchitis thought Watson as he tiredly began to put on his coat. Watson’s deliberations were interrupted by a maid who knocked on the door and let herself in. He inwardly sighed. All he wanted to do was go back to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson’s delicious cooking.
“Yes Ivy what is it?” asked Watson in a slightly irritated voice.
“Dr Watson sir, this message just arrived addressed to you” advised the maid who looked down at the floor meekly.
Watson examined the scrap of paper that was on the small silver tray held by Ivy. His eyes widened in alarm as he not only recognised the code the note was conveyed in but also by the dried blood encrusting the edge of the paper.
“Ivy, who was the deliverer of this?” asked Watson hurriedly, his voice quivering with worry. Did the messenger have a card?
“No Sir, I don’t exactly know who the person was, he had not card...”
Watson angrily cut Ivy off with a sharp retort.
“Ivy, I have told you not once but time and time again, when you receive a message you ask for the person’s name and card!”
Ivy, began to get flustered and replied back in a shaky voice
“But Doctor it was just a ragged child, he was filthy!”
Watson fell back into his chair, dismissing Ivy who left hurriedly from his surgery. He knew who the ragged child was. One of Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars.
And that meant Holmes was in trouble. He glanced down at the note again, his hands shaking. He recognised the familiar shapes. Dancing Men. The dancing men were drawn jaggedly with a pencil. Watson did not need to be a famous detective to know that Holmes was hurt but also fearful of his scribbling being intercepted by person or persons unknown. He knew Holmes needed him. But where was he? He needed to decode the familiar dancing men. The answer to that would be found in Baker Street. Watson hurriedly left his surgery and pocketed the message tightly in his inner coat pocket. The answer to this puzzle would be found there. And the key to Holmes’s very life thought Watson grimly. As Watson walked down the cobbled London street and disappeared into the gas light foggy evening, little did he know how dangerous the night would become.
Part Two: Desperate Dance
Mrs Hudson was applying to the finishing touches to a home-made pie with a flourish when she was startled by the bang of the front door and rapid footsteps up the seventeen steps that led to the shared lounge upstairs. She looked at the pie with a sigh. It would not be served hot tonight to her two tenants. It had been good venison too that she bought, knowing how both Holmes and Watson both enjoyed it. Her mind made up, she took off her apron and tentatively went upstairs and gently knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a second knock, more firmer this time, Mrs Hudson opened the door to find Dr Watson with his head in his hands sobbing, a piece of chalk lay next to him and a book lay opened.
“Dr Watson, what is the matter? Asked a very concerned Landlady
Watson looked up to see a pair of worried eyes fixed upon him. He gave a less than convincing smile of acknowledgement and composed himself.
“Mrs Hudson, forgive me, I am sorry. I will not be having dinner tonight. I need to decrypt this message. Holmes is in trouble and needs me. I have to. His life is dependent on it...it is my duty”. Replied Watson who could not keep his voice from shaking.
Mrs Hudson felt the colour drain from her face. Her tenants were the worse tenants in London but despite that she regarded them as the sons she never did see grow up, she could not bear to face two more. She walked over to where Watson was sitting and placed her hand on his shoulder.
Oh Doctor, what are we going to do? Thought Mrs Hudson worriedly. She picked up the book Watson had been studying and smiled. It was Holmes’s pocket book and in it were the Dancing Men he had shown her when Watson had been called away on a case.
“Doctor, I believe we can solve your message together, Mr Holmes showed me this book and he taught me what some of these stood for!” cried Mrs Hudson triumphantly.
Watson turned to face her incredulously. For the first time since this crisis began, he smiled and let out a cry of joy and hugged the best landlady in London.
It took almost two hours for the note to be decoded with a lot of setbacks along the way and moments of angry frustration. But it was done. The message was surprisingly simple
Watson. Rotherhithe Docks, building number 122. Poison
“What does it mean Doctor?” asked Mrs Hudson worriedly.
“Trouble” replied Watson grimly.
He got up from the dining table both he and Mrs Hudson had been working on and went to his bureau. Opening the drawer he brought out his Webley Boxer 577, a recent birthday gift from Holmes, and loaded it. He turned to Mrs Hudson.
“Get a message to Inspector Lestrade. Tell him I am going for Holmes and that he needs to dispatch his men there with immediate effect”.
Mrs Hudson shook her head in the affirmative and followed Watson down stairs and to the front door. She laid a firm hand on his arm
“Bring him home Doctor, and be careful”
Watson turned and out into Baker Street hailing a hansom cab. The clatter of horse’s hooves heralded its arrival. The cabbie turned to Watson and asked for the destination.
“Rotherhithe” he ordered as he entered the hansom cab and closed the carriage door.
The hansom cab set off and melted into the London traffic. Watson readied himself for the coming storm. Hang on Holmes. I know you are hurt and in pain but I am coming for you.
Part Three: A Broken Dancing Man
His captor taunted him. He drew his face close to his prisoner who was in chains whose arms dangled above him as he hung suspended in the cold air. The prisoner wearily opened his eyes and stared at the cold menacing ones that were like daggers stabbing at him, full of malevolence.
“Not so clever now are you? Did you think that your attempts at escape would go unnoticed? Do not take me for a fool! I will not be tricked by you again. You will regret that charade you laid on in your lounge. This time you WILL die and I will take pleasure in seeing you wreathe in pain till your last breath!” whispered his captor into the prisoner’s ear.
A heavily built blackguard approached and delivered a punishing blow to the stomach followed by another. The prisoner coughed, unable to protect himself from the heavy blows. A cruel, almost maniacal laugh followed and he felt a sharp prick as a needle rammed home into his tired arm.
“Time for your medication Mr Holmes, you will shortly feel it burn in your veins. The pain will be unbearable” gloated his tormentor triumphantly.
Holmes croaked a defiant retort
“You will never beat me Smith. Even if you succeed in killing me, there will be others who will never give up in ensuring you swing for your crimes…” Holmes retort was cut off by a fist which smashed into his face.
“Ahh yes, your ever so loyal friends. Tell me, how is Dr Watson these days? And what of that landlady of yours?” Smith said menacingly.
Holmes cried out in horror at what Culverton Smith was insinuating. Despite the pain he was increasingly feeling as the injected poison began to bite, he croaked out a desperate plea
“SMITH! Leave them alone. You have what you want. Let them be” Holmes bit back a cry of pain as he desperately pleaded for the lives of those closest to him.
Smith signalled to the blackguard to release Holmes from his chains, and moments later Holmes landed heavily on the stone cold floor causing him to cry out. He curled up on himself as the pain in his torso intensified.
Without warning a gun fired and a cry followed. The sound of the gun reverberated around the warehouse. Both Smith and Holmes looked up trying to locate the source of the gun being fired.
A figure appeared from behind the sacks of grain stacked up against a wall nearby.
“Step back and put your hands in the air, or so help me I will shoot you!” came a familiar voice.
Watson! My staunch biographer, soldier and friend, you cracked the code! Holmes managed to smile with pride at Watson before another wave of pain hit him again.
Holmes heard Watson say something else but his hearing was becoming increasingly muffled, he heard another shot fired and opened his eyes painfully only to see his Boswell fall. A crimson patch spread across his chest.
“WATSON NO!” cried Holmes raggedly as watched Watson crumple to the floor, frustrated with the fact that he was helpless to do anything at all. Watson, don’t die, thought Holmes, before hearing what he thought were more gunshots and a whistle blearing in the distance before he succumbed to the increasing pain and lost consciousness.
Part Four: The Dance Of The Warrior
Watson tapped the roof of the cab indicating he wanted the cabbie to pull up, which it did. Watson climbed out of the cab and turned up his coat collar as the cold air chilled his bones.
“Guv, you sure you want to stop ‘ere. It is right rough round these parts. I would not allow my ‘arvey to wonder down here. Cutthroats and pickpockets aplenty here Guv...” warned the kindly cabbie.
Watson smiled grimly, acknowledged the warning and paid his fare. As the hansom cab turned and disappeared down the dock lane, Watson brought out his Webley, a 577 Boxer and pulled back the trigger and entered the warehouse Holmes had indicated he was being held. The foul smell of rotting crates nearby almost made Watson choke, and Watson grimaced as he saw a few rats scurry past his feet. He had seen many things and evil with Holmes but the one thing he could not stand were rats. He had sworn to Holmes he would never publish details of the case involving the Giant Rat of Sumatra. Not only was the world not prepared, but he certainly was not yet ready to overcome his fear of rats!
Watson moved forwards into the darkness, he heard the blows being delivered before he saw a sight that would forever haunt him in his dreams. Holmes was hanging from the ceiling, he looked terrible, and his cries of pain as the blows were delivered caused Watson to look away in disgust momentarily. He turned again and saw a figure move in and administer a needle into Holmes’s arm. Watson felt rage rise up in him. Holmes! Oh dear God. How dare that monster harm him. I will stand for it no more! Watson angrily thought as he got up from behind the sacks of grain and instinctively moved towards his badly hurt friend. He raised his Webley and fired a warning shot into the distance starling both Holmes and Smith. He shouted out a warning, not really caring what it was. He had to get to Holmes. As he moved forwards he did not hear the blackguard come out of the shadows, he turned to face the barrel of a gun and in the next instance he heard a gunshot and searing pain burn into his shoulder. Watson let out a cry and fell to the floor clutching his shoulder as the blood seeped through his fingers. The bullet had hit the bone and torn into the muscle. It was near where a Jezhil bullet had hit him so long ago. Watson bit back the pain and shakily put his free hand out for his revolver, only to meet with the boot of the blackguard who had shot him and Watson cried out in pain as the boot came crashing down on his hand. His cries were muffled by the sound of whistles.
“Lestrade! Thank heavens!” gasped Watson as the pressure from his hand lifted
The blackguard forgot his quarry and surged forward in the direction of Inspector Lestrade, firing his gun indiscriminately. A hail of bullets replied in response and the blackguard let out a cry and fell forwards dead before he hit the floor. Smith saw that the game was up and turned to run from the scene. Watson got up from where he had fallen only moments ago and unsteadily, almost drunkenly, and took aim at the fleeing Smith. He fired. Smith fell clutching his leg and cried out in a savage fury of frustration. He would not be going anywhere further tonight. Watson had deposited the bullet into Smith’s kneecap. It was enough to incapacitate Smith and he would be unable to walk or run any further.
Watson ignored Smith’s pleas for the pain to stop and staggered over to the still form of Holmes and collapsed next to him. He placed his fingers on Holmes’s neck and released the breath he had been holding. Holmes was alive. He picked up the discarded syringe and bottle, and examined it. The smell told him everything he needed to know. Snake venom. Holmes moaned and called out for his Boswell. Watson placed a reassuring hand on his head and held Holmes close to him.
“Shhh it’s alright old fellow, I am here. You can fight this. I will not let you go!” reassured Watson to his wounded friend.
Holmes fought the darkness that engulfed him and reached for Watson’s voice and clung on to it, a life raft in this sea of pain. He opened his eyes and met the concerned gaze of hazel ones that were dimmed with pain.
“Watson! You are hurt…” cried Holmes before he was overcome with coughing and spasms of pain that radiated through his body.
Watson held onto Holmes tightly, fighting off his own exhaustion. He never would understand that great mind of Holmes. As Lestrade approached with his men taking Smith into custody, he knew that whilst one battle was over, another was just beginning. Watson let his weary head sink onto Holmes’s shoulder as the pain of his own injury began to take its toll. He felt himself slipping away. Oh God, please let this not be the last dance. Help him please Watson silently prayed before he too slipped into the darkness that once more overtook them both.
The dawn sunshine broke through the veil of night and covered Holmes and Watson gently in a warm blanket. He had heard the heartfelt prayers of Watson and He would do everything in his power to save Holmes from Smith’s evil venom. He would ensure that the Dance would go on.
Part Five: The Eternal Dance
Watson fought back the fog that clouded his mind. He felt the cool reassuring touch of clean sheets and a soft pillow. He sighed contently until a torrent of memories came flooding into his mind. Holmes! He needed help. Watson eyes widened in panic and instinctively made to move to get out of bed. A sharp pain and strong hands holding him back down prevented any such move impossible. A calming but familiar voice soothed his troubled thoughts.
“Watson, please don’t try to overdo things. Mrs Hudson has made some more venison pie; it would disappoint her if you slept through lunchtime!”
Watson could not believe what he was hearing. Holmes was alive, and in good humour too!
“Holmes! You are alive!” cried Watson joyfully and reached for Holmes’s arm to reassure himself that it was indeed so.
“Really Watson you excel in your powers of deduction today! I really must congratulate you!” replied Holmes mischievously
His answer came in the form of a flying pillow that successfully reached its target.
“Watson I never will get your limits, for a sick man you are surprisingly strong and resourceful!” exclaimed Holmes in mock horror
Both Holmes and Watson erupted into laughter. The door to Watson’s bedroom opened and Mrs Hudson appeared with a large tray and on it was a venison pie.
“Well really! Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, if you insist on such childish behaviour I will refuse you this pie!” declared Mrs Hudson as voiced her disapproval setting down the lunch tray.
Holmes got up but not without some difficulty as his injuries caused him some pain. Watson noted this with concern. But before he could ask of Holmes what happened, he watched as Holmes go over to Mrs Hudson and place her hand in his and kisses it in a gentlemanly manner. Mrs Hudson smiled and gently closed the door behind her. As she walked back down the stairs, she could not but help think that occasionally they could be the very best tenants in London. She was glad her boys were safely home.
The venison pie eaten and saw both men relaxed enjoying a glass of red wine each and enjoying the comfort of being in safe surroundings, lost in private thoughts. It was Watson who broke the amiable silence.
“Holmes, how did you survive? There was enough snake venom in you to kill an elephant, never mind a human being!” broached Watson.
Holmes looked at Watson and considered the question carefully. How indeed? He thought.
“You saved me Watson. When you were in the hospital with me you were delirious, thanks to that nasty gunshot wound which I thought had killed you. You kept shouting instructions about snake venoms. I was placed next to you and heard everything you said, most of the time. The doctors realised that Watson was right and proceeded to treat me for it. I recovered swiftly and insisted on bringing you home to Baker Street. As to Smith, he faces the hangman’s noose. He will not escape justice again” replied Holmes softly.
Watson listened. He knew Holmes was holding back. One does not recover from being poisoned with snake venom so quickly. His clinical mind knew that Holmes must have suffered terrible pain and hallucinations on the road to recovery. Nor could Watson ever erase the terrible scenes he had witnessed in the warehouse. They were both hurt and needed time to recover.
“Thank God Holmes that I did. I don’t think I could bear to lose you again” said Watson solemnly.
He suddenly felt exhausted and closed his eyes in silent prayer Thank you God for bringing us home.
Holmes gently removed the wine glass from his exhausted Boswell’s hand. And gently placed the coverlet over him. He sat back and smiled. All would be well. He picked up a book from Watson’s bedside table. One of Watson’s florid yellowback romantic novels thought Holmes affectionately, and opened the place where the bookmark was. His eyes moistened when he read the following passage
"When true friends meet in adverse hour;
'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower.
A watery way an instant seen,
The darkly closing clouds between."
- Sir Walter Scott
Scott was right. Watson had pulled us both through this adverse hour. Ever the staunch soldier and the greatest and kindest man I have ever known. Holmes let this thought comfort him as he too slipped into the arms of Morpheus.
As the two men slept a soft breeze swept through the room. He had kept His promise. Two Angels of Justice had been saved. Shining beacons in a world full of Evil. One Great Heart and Mind and another whose kindness and caring could light up the darkest of days. Their souls would be forever remembered dancing eternally in the sands of time.