The Simplest Explanation
Title: The Simplest Explanation (1/1)
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG
Setting: 2009 movieverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 1693
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not easily intimidated, but there are some things that matter more than others.
A/N: Written for a prompt by ingridmatthews on our little fic meme at worththewounds, asking for a scenario in which Watson is held at knifepoint and Holmes reacts.
It happens so quickly that, even in retrospect, he cannot imagine what else they could have done.
There were other options, undoubtedly - a feint to the left instead of the right, a quick glance backward before turning away - but none that would have been clear at the time, and much as he hates to admit it, he cannot predict the outcome of every encounter with the degree of certainty that he would prefer.
The unavoidable truth that mistakes happen, regardless of skill or preparation or near superhuman intelligence, is a constant reality in his line of work. Fatigue weakens eyesight and coordination, slight miscalculations accumulate to take their toll, and occasionally - very occasionally, his mind is quick to point out - an entire sequence of carefully coordinated events ends unexpectedly in disaster.
Too many variables, he thinks; a fleeting, disconnected moment of clarity in the sudden stillness as the dust settles around them. The plan itself had been perfectly sound - was nearly always sound, whatever Watson might say to the contrary - but there was simply no way to account for everything that might go wrong. Time and location, weapons at hand, number of adversaries; all easily predicted and accounted for with a bit of patience and foresight. The rest, however, was beyond anyone’s control.
And so it goes today.
The case itself is nothing unusual, the mystery no great mystery at all - a string of petty thefts marked by just enough ingenuity to stymie the Yard and pique Holmes’ interest on a day when there isn’t much else worth doing. Their ambush - well-planned and perfectly executed, not that it matters - becomes a chase through the east side, ending rather abruptly behind a warehouse on the riverfront when their quarry tires of running and turns to fight instead.
All well and good, until the hulking brute gets in a lucky blow against his ribs and things begin to unravel. Nothing serious; enough to knock the breath from his lungs for a second or two, but it’s distraction enough to make a difference and sometimes, that’s all it takes.
He goes down hard and Watson turns to look - of course he does, with Holmes gasping and groaning like it’s worse than it is, and a bit too slow to get up - with the inevitable result that he fails to see the next punch coming until it connects squarely with his jaw. He reels backward, off-balance, as Holmes scrabbles in the dirt for his revolver with the unshakeable certainty that what had been a simple round of fisticuffs is about to become something worse.
He’s right, of course - he nearly always is, though at times like this it gives him no pleasure.
No sooner has he levered himself upright, still bent half-double to catch his breath, than he finds himself too late. Watson is wide-eyed and silent - unnaturally so, given the situation - and it takes only a moment more for the deadly flash of silver at his throat to fully register.
He freezes.
The man at Watson’s back, who looks entirely too keen to graduate from theft to murder if given half a chance, is quick to press his advantage. He stares - blade biting just a bit deeper as Watson twists in his grip - and Holmes stares back, cool and dispassionate as ever.
Damn it all to hell, he thinks, oddly detached. Of all the things that were not supposed to happen, this is the most unthinkable of all.
“Drop the gun.”
Holmes judges the space between them, fancies he can see precisely how long it would take for the bullet to lodge itself in the thug’s left shoulder. No more than an instant; a matter of milliseconds at most, but it’s too long - too long, because the tightening of his hand will betray his intentions and the knife is there, suspended in time like a breath before the plunge, no more than a hairsbreadth away from the only thing that matters.
“Drop it,” the man snarls again, nudging Watson’s chin upward for emphasis, and he does.
Think, hisses the part of his mind that takes over when his reflexes fail and the cascade of sensory information becomes too much, but he finds that he cannot. There are things that he should do - calculate the ratio of the man’s body mass to Watson’s, determine the angle of best attack for a strike to the upturned elbow - but the voice in his head dies away, lost behind the sudden roaring in his ears, and he can only stare in paralyzed silence at the beads of perspiration gathering along Watson’s hairline.
Watson.
He fights the urge to close his eyes, take a moment to collect his thoughts because it won’t make any difference. It would be maddening if he allowed himself to feel it - he’s no more than five paces away, close enough to see the single, minute drop of blood welling at the very tip of the blade, but it might as well be half a league. Five paces, and he curses every inch of it because of all the things he’s ever risked in pursuit of a case - his credibility, his reputation, even his own life - this is the only one that isn’t worth the price.
Dear God, he thinks. Five paces.
The silence weighs him down, heavy with tension and useless possibilities, and his focus narrows until there is nothing in the world but a knife blade, pressing hard against the fragile skin just overlying the jugular, and Watson’s eyes on his.
He waits, forces a breath at the edge of the cliff, and says the only thing he can.
“Please.”
Watson’s eyes narrow - just a fraction, but he sees it in the split second before everything happens - and so do those of his captor, because whatever he was expecting from the famous Sherlock Holmes, notoriously quick-witted and dangerously agile at close quarters, it wasn’t this.
There is movement, then; a sudden shifting of weight, a twitch of Watson’s hand against the meaty wrist at his throat, and then everything happens very quickly. Too quickly for words or interventions or even conscious thought, and his eyes fall closed as he sways on his feet, stumbling backward to the sound of a pained grunt and the clang of a metallic object on cobblestone. A heavy thump, as a body crumples to the the ground.
There.
He is prepared for anything, or so he thinks - for a torrent of blood, staining shirt and jacket and Watson’s second best waistcoat beyond any hope of recovery, for eyes staring at nothing and nerveless fingers scrabbling at the paving stones - and he’s certain, certain that the tightness in his chest and the blurring of his vision are nothing but lingering remnants of the chase.
And then, at last, the familiar touch of a hand on his back.
The dizzying rush of relief hits so hard that for the space of a single terrifying moment, he thinks he’s going to be sick. He swallows convulsively - once, twice - closes his eyes and braces a trembling hand against the wall, and it passes.
If only the rest were so easy.
“And what, may I ask,” says Watson, maddeningly calm, “was that?”
He could be referring to any number of things - certainly, there is plenty to question about this most recent reminder of the worst that could happen - but he isn’t, and they both know it too well to pretend otherwise. Sherlock Holmes may make mistakes, may even allow himself to become distracted on occasion, but he does not freeze like a terrified schoolgirl in the face of a threat.
And - more to the point, perhaps - there is nothing in the world he values highly enough to beg for it. Nothing. Or so they both would have claimed.
“A distraction, Watson,” he says dismissively, because it was, regardless of whatever else it might have been. “And a highly effective one at that, as you yourself can attest.”
Watson glances sideways at him, nods the way he always does when he isn’t a bit convinced, and the matter is put to rest; one more thing among many others that they are careful not to speak of.
“All right?” His voice sounds almost normal and he’s pleased, irrationally, at how steady it is.
“Just a scratch,” says Watson, rubbing gingerly at his neck like he’s only just remembered it. “Hardly worth a bit of sticking plaster. And you?”
He shrugs. He’s fine, of course; bruised ribs and waking nightmares notwithstanding. He’s always fine.
And at last, inevitably, it seems they’ve been spotted. Somewhere, a woman is screaming for a constable and the distant shrieking of a police whistle is, quite suddenly, too much to bear.
Watson slips a hand into the crook of his elbow and he allows it to rest there for a moment, reassuringly warm and solid, before turning to walk away. There are things to be done, of course - statements given, their man hauled away - but he suspects that the logistics will sort themselves out without his input, as they so often do.
Watson, for once in his life, seems to agree.
They set off in lockstep, as smooth and effortless as ever, and it ought to be enough. He sneaks a glance at the mark on Watson’s throat, scarcely visible above the starched collar - thank God - and shoves his other hand into the pocket of his trousers for lack of anything else to do. Beside him, Watson grips his arm a little tighter.
“Let it go, Holmes,” he says mildly. “You know as well as I do - it simply couldn’t be helped.”
And he does know - he does, loath as he is to admit it - but what Watson will never understand is that things that simply can’t be helped are worse than all the careless blunders put together. This is the reason for the lingering tightness in his chest, the way his body seeks out Watson’s as if to prove that it still can. It’s the simplest explanation, after all; the shortest distance between two points, and so it must be true.
And in any case, the alternative is far too terrifying to contemplate.