The Adventure of the Missing Doctor ch1
Title: The Adventure of the Missing Doctor ch1
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 675
Summary: Watson is kidnapped, and Holmes knows something isn't right.
Warnings: ve~ Watson and torture-ish scene
Watson’s POV:
I was returning to 221 Baker Street after visiting all my patients, most of whom had contracted that winter’s bout of influenza, when I felt a metal bar strike me in the back of my head, then nothing. It was an indeterminate amount of time later that conscious deemed it allowable for me to awaken, hissing against the pain in my head. The room that held me was dark, and chair to which I was tied to was splintering uncomfortably.
“Dr. Watson,” came a deep, amused voice from behind me, “I didn’t mean to hit you quite as hard as I did!” The man stood just out of my line of vision, twirling in his hand what I assumed to be what I was bludgeoned with.
“I see you know who I am,” my voice shook a bit, “I have yet had the pleasure of knowing your’s.”
“You’re quite incorrect, doctor,” he chortled, stepping forward so that I may see and identify him. I recognized him, sure enough. We, Holmes and I, had involved ourselves in a case that took us across the continent, and ensured the safety of many lives. Also the end of a portion. The man that stood in front of me was Peter Jameson, brother to Frank Jameson; a man I had slain.
“Jameson,” sighed I, “It is to be supposed that you want revenge?” Jameson snarled cruelly and advanced upon me.
“You killed my brother, swine!” he yelled, grabbing my stiff collar, “You killed him, and you enjoyed it!”
“Such an accusation,” I muttered to his face as I wondered where I acquired the courage from, “when it is I that abhores death, and he who adored it.” Jameson struck me in a fit of rage, which made my world feel off-kilter and come to the conclusion that the blow that knocked me out bestowed unto me a concussion.
“You will suffer, Doctor,” his appalling breath wafted in my face, which made me hold my breath, “and I’ll mail pieces of your body back to Holmes, so he will suffer. But your death shan’t be quick!”
“You will not succeed,” I was rewarded with another punch to my brow. When my vision cleared this time, Jameson stood in front of me, holding a penknife.
“At least you will cease to live before your famed detective can find you.” with that said, the villain brought the blade to my cheek, pressing gently as to not break the skin, “This shall be fun,” he dragged the edge downward, and let the wound bleed copiously. I braced myself, not allowing for the thought that my friend wouldn’t find me in time, and refused to favor him with a flinch. “You don’t have to act as the tough man, Doc,” he menaced, dragging the edge across my jaw, “I know what a coward you are!”
My eyes closed, knowing I could take my face blank, but my eyes would betray me to the cad. The blade abandoned my face in favor of ghosting down my neck, and clieving my collar. 'Deep breath' I thought, 'and hold'. The blade slid down, cutting deeper. Then, thankfully, I passed out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock:
I was first cognizant of Watson's absence when the good doctor was thirty minutes and twenty-nine seconds delayed in returning to our flat. A small amount of time, some might affirm, but Watson always sent a note to Mrs. Hudson, informing her that, if I was not eating, to postpone dinner until he returned. No such datum had arrived, and Mrs. Hudson had been quite enthused that her duck dinner was turning out quite well, and Watson was just as thrilled that he’d be consuming it when he returned.
It was most unlike him!
“Mrs. Hudson!” I called, “I shall be off to retrieve the doctor from wherever he has hidden himself!” I left off my hat, knowing, in this weather, Watson would be rather upset with me, and set out for his practice, conscious that I felt as if something was overlooked.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 675
Summary: Watson is kidnapped, and Holmes knows something isn't right.
Warnings: ve~ Watson and torture-ish scene
Watson’s POV:
I was returning to 221 Baker Street after visiting all my patients, most of whom had contracted that winter’s bout of influenza, when I felt a metal bar strike me in the back of my head, then nothing. It was an indeterminate amount of time later that conscious deemed it allowable for me to awaken, hissing against the pain in my head. The room that held me was dark, and chair to which I was tied to was splintering uncomfortably.
“Dr. Watson,” came a deep, amused voice from behind me, “I didn’t mean to hit you quite as hard as I did!” The man stood just out of my line of vision, twirling in his hand what I assumed to be what I was bludgeoned with.
“I see you know who I am,” my voice shook a bit, “I have yet had the pleasure of knowing your’s.”
“You’re quite incorrect, doctor,” he chortled, stepping forward so that I may see and identify him. I recognized him, sure enough. We, Holmes and I, had involved ourselves in a case that took us across the continent, and ensured the safety of many lives. Also the end of a portion. The man that stood in front of me was Peter Jameson, brother to Frank Jameson; a man I had slain.
“Jameson,” sighed I, “It is to be supposed that you want revenge?” Jameson snarled cruelly and advanced upon me.
“You killed my brother, swine!” he yelled, grabbing my stiff collar, “You killed him, and you enjoyed it!”
“Such an accusation,” I muttered to his face as I wondered where I acquired the courage from, “when it is I that abhores death, and he who adored it.” Jameson struck me in a fit of rage, which made my world feel off-kilter and come to the conclusion that the blow that knocked me out bestowed unto me a concussion.
“You will suffer, Doctor,” his appalling breath wafted in my face, which made me hold my breath, “and I’ll mail pieces of your body back to Holmes, so he will suffer. But your death shan’t be quick!”
“You will not succeed,” I was rewarded with another punch to my brow. When my vision cleared this time, Jameson stood in front of me, holding a penknife.
“At least you will cease to live before your famed detective can find you.” with that said, the villain brought the blade to my cheek, pressing gently as to not break the skin, “This shall be fun,” he dragged the edge downward, and let the wound bleed copiously. I braced myself, not allowing for the thought that my friend wouldn’t find me in time, and refused to favor him with a flinch. “You don’t have to act as the tough man, Doc,” he menaced, dragging the edge across my jaw, “I know what a coward you are!”
My eyes closed, knowing I could take my face blank, but my eyes would betray me to the cad. The blade abandoned my face in favor of ghosting down my neck, and clieving my collar. 'Deep breath' I thought, 'and hold'. The blade slid down, cutting deeper. Then, thankfully, I passed out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock:
I was first cognizant of Watson's absence when the good doctor was thirty minutes and twenty-nine seconds delayed in returning to our flat. A small amount of time, some might affirm, but Watson always sent a note to Mrs. Hudson, informing her that, if I was not eating, to postpone dinner until he returned. No such datum had arrived, and Mrs. Hudson had been quite enthused that her duck dinner was turning out quite well, and Watson was just as thrilled that he’d be consuming it when he returned.
It was most unlike him!
“Mrs. Hudson!” I called, “I shall be off to retrieve the doctor from wherever he has hidden himself!” I left off my hat, knowing, in this weather, Watson would be rather upset with me, and set out for his practice, conscious that I felt as if something was overlooked.