Sherlock Holmes fic: The Sorry Creatures
Clearly my trouble getting fic finished has to do with most of my fics being long and plotty, because this is the second short fic I've finished in a week. Or maybe SH dystopia just speaks to me.
Title: The Sorry Creatures
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: R for prison fic set in a dystopian AU... yeah. Not nice.
Thanks to: therru and nam_jai for the beta, and tatyan85 for information about Victorian prisons - which I probably messed up anyway. All potential errors are mine, not hers!
Series/sequel: Companion piece to Men's Wretchedness.
Summary: With Blackwood in charge, how long can Watson stay alive?
John Watson could have died in very many ways.
As a mere babe, of croup; coughing himself to death in the cradle. At the age of ten by falling off the roof. Being more grievously wounded in Afghanistan. From infection and enteric fever, after the battle. Back in England, from ill health aggravated by malnutrition and poverty, having spent his money on rooms he could not afford and gambles he could not win. Shot, stabbed, beaten to death, or poisoned by blowdarts, on any of the many cases he'd had with Sherlock Holmes. Blown to pieces one night in Nine Elms.
He could have died in the sewers under Parliament, fighting Blackwood's henchmen though the stitches had not yet mended, but he survived all of them, even the giant. Survived to see nine-tenths of Parliament dead, and to be arrested on orders from Lord Coward for burglary and attempted murder and any number of trumped-up charges that his lordship delivered with a gleeful face.
Few things on that day made Watson happy, but the pleasure of wiping out that smirk with a good sock in the nose remained with him for weeks.
***
He could have been sentenced to death by a hung jury, after the impassioned speech by the prosecutor on what a vile monster he was. Throughout the trial, he had been convinced that this would happen, and his only lament was not being able to tell Holmes goodbye. Mary had been allowed to come, once, and he had held her hand as he told her to return to her parents and mourn him as one already dead.
“There's no reason to put yourself in harm's way by appearing too fond of me,” he said.
“I am fond of you, you idiot,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you. I'll always love you.”
“And I love you,” he said. “I couldn't bear having you destroyed with everything else. For my sake, leave. If anyone asks, tell them you were besotted with me but that I shattered your illusions.”
“I won't!”
He was crying almost as hard as she was. “I need you to have a good life. Please, can't you do that for me?”
“Can anyone, now?” she asked bitterly.
In the end, she aquiesced, to his profound relief. Blackwood might disbelieve her change of heart, but he probably wouldn't press the issue.
It was not until right before the sentence was passed, when a juror met Watson's gaze for the first time since the trial had begun, that he started wondering if there was some chance of survival. Even so, his mind reeled when the sentence came and he was taken away for lifelong imprisonment. It might just be Blackwood's way of hedging his bets. Watson would never learn for certain.
***
He could have succumbed to pneumonia, on the cold winter nights when his cell was freezing cold and his body shaking with fever and pain. Someone threw him an extra blanket, but he was far too sick to know the identity of his saviour. Even then, he had friends among the police, though they were not foolish enough to acknowledge that friendship out loud.
When the illness finally passed, his limbs were so stiff that every movement was like a knife in his old wounds, but he knew that inaction would only worsen the ailments, and so he forced himself to move, a little bit at a time, grinding his teeth against the pain.
***
He could have been beaten to death, the first day he was let out of his isolation to the other prisoners. At a first glance, he could see two men he had personally helped convict, and knowing what to look for, he found at least two more. He tensed up, ready to fight and much regretting the loss of his swordstick and revolver. When none of them seemed to recognise him in turn, he allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. The growth of his beard and the thinner features after his illness, to him only superficial changes, were clearly enough to prevent identification.
Keeping as low a profile as he could, he moved among the others, trying to collect data. He might not have Holmes's talents, but since understanding the dynamics of the place could mean the difference between life and death, he tried his very best. The leader seemed to be a tall, grizzled man called Baker; he spoke very little, but whenever trouble arose glances went to him almost imperceptibly. There were thugs and victims and loners, and some prisoners that the others gave a wide berth like you would a snarling dog. At one point Watson caught a glimpse of a knife. The prison reminded him of nothing so much as a foul-smelling, hellish, and lethal version of school.
His luck could not last forever, of course. As a new prisoner, he was subject to interest, and after half an hour or so, his path was blocked.
“'Ere,” the man said. “Don't I know you?”
“I shouldn't think so,” he replied, and could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out. For all that his face had changed, his voice had not, and the man's expression shifted.
“I do know you!”
Watson took a few steps backwards, eyes darting around for a weapon, but of course there was nothing, short of the treadmill on the other side of the yard. Even if he made it there in time, breaking it up would only mean that the guards would kill him instead. He'd have to make do with his bare hands. Figuring it was best to have the element of surprise on his side, he struck the first blow, followed by the second.
Under normal circumstances, he would have had the man unconscious in no time, but he was weakened enough that it was rather an even fight. His fighting style was clearly more recognisable than his appearance, because the man gave a furious roar: “You're that doctor! Get him lads, he's with Sherlock Holmes!”
“Are you daft?” cried one of the others. “That's not Sherlock Holmes! Don't look anything like him!”
“Not him, the other one! The assistant... bloke!”
At that, more men joined the fight, though Watson could not see their faces well enough to tell if they were people he had helped imprison or those just spoiling for a fight in general. Blood streamed from his forehead into his eye, and it was getting increasingly hard to see. There was no longer any way he could win; he was fairly certain his hand was broken, and the most ferocious of the men kept kicking at his back. So far, his spine was still intact, but it was only a matter of time.
Then the weight eased and a short, stocky man stood before him, shaking one brawler in each hand as if they were nothing more than kittens.
“Doctor?” he asked, eyes glaring under the long hair.
Watson was at least three inches taller, and yet he got the distinct feeling of being in the presence of a large, looming animal. He was certain that he had never seen this man before in his life, and yet it was with utter caution that he wiped the blood out of his face and replied, “Yes?”
Satisfied with the reply, the new man tossed the brawlers aside and started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a large, septic boil at the shoulder joint. Watson grimaced, and instinctively said, “That ought to be lanced.”
“Right.”
There was no mistaking the word for anything but a command. “You want me to...” Most of the people in the prison yard were now watching the two of them in curious silence. Watson stepped closer, feeling rather like Androcles with his lion. Tentatively, he reached out to touch the edges of the boil. Yes, this he could do, even left-handed, and he should be able to avoid any major damage to muscles or arteries.
“I need something sharp,” he said. “I know one of you has a knife, that would do nicely. I don't suppose anyone has alcohol?” What he really needed was carbolic acid, but there was no point in asking for that.
Nobody moved until the Lion looked around with a murderous glare. After that, there was a lot of shifting and shuffling as the crowd slowly nudged them into a corner where no wardens would see, and presented Watson with a pocket knife and a small flask.
Under the watchful eyes of men who would as soon see him dead, Watson lanced and drained the boil, which proved a messy business, particularly since the conditions were anything but ideal. The Lion remained still and patient during the treatment, and if he glowered a bit, it was hardly to be wondered at.
Watson finished his work and gave the Lion some instructions on how to keep the wound clean, which were almost guaranteed to fail in this environment. At least the blasted snow that still fell during the nights might be used in place of clean water.
While he had been working, Watson had paid little mind to anyone else, but now he raised his eyes and looked out at the crowd. There was still murder in the eyes of certain of them, but others showed a touch of guarded interest.
“Do you do teeth?” one man asked.
Doing dentistry from inside a prison seemed like a nightmare, but he replied, “Certainly.”
With that, the mood shifted, and the crowd relaxed. Whatever else he may be, he was of use to them, and they were not spoilt with useful things.
“What?” one of the old enemies protested. “Are you just... Baker! He's practically a copper!”
Baker shrugged. “He does teeth.”
The man muttered and walked off, but Watson was not fooled into thinking that was the end of it. His skills had not bought him safety - there was no such thing - but at least they had bought him allies.
***
He could have been raped to death, after turning down the first offer of official protection. It had taken two weeks until the offer came; two weeks of standing his guard as men who wanted to kill him brawled with men who wanted to keep him intact for medical work. Half the time, he didn't even have to involve himself in the fights - but the other half was wearing him out. Every day, he could feel his aches increasing and his resolve faltering. He had defeated death so many times; now he wondered if it had not been a mistake to do so.
Yet when a large, pot-bellied Scotsman demanded his arse in no uncertain terms, the only thing he could think was, The hell if I will! He phrased his refusal rather better out loud, but still that night he found himself held down by two men behind the latrine while the Scotsman prepared to brutalise him with a bottle.
Bad choice of weapon. Very bad - but then, they had not reckoned with him fighting back. They certainly had not reckoned with him to keep fighting back after they had twisted his bad leg until the knee popped. He screamed in pain, but managed to squirm into a position where he could use his other leg to send a heel-kick into the man's groin. A roaring cry was followed by a clatter as the bottle fell to the floor; still unbroken, but that could be fixed.
“I'll kill him!” the Scotsman grunted. “I'll bloody kill him!”
“You can't!” one of the others panted. “Remember what Baker said!”
“I don't care! He's dead! I'll kill him! I'll...”
Watson reached the bottle and slammed it into the floor with all his strength so it shattered. Rolling over on his back, the jagged bottleneck held tight in his hand, he hissed, “Try.”
There were no sane thoughts left in him, only the certainty that whoever first came into range would end up dead. They must have seen that, because the two smaller ones dragged away the Scotsman, leaving Watson lying on the floor.
What had Baker said? To ask, he had to move, an insurmountable task. With gentle force, he pulled the kneecap back in place, the pain making bile rise in his throat. Inch by inch, he dragged himself to the wall and then up to a somewhat standing position.
It took him ten minutes to find someone who cared enough to bring him back inside, and another half hour before Baker deigned to appear.
“You look a sight,” Baker said.
Watson glared up at him. “What did you tell them?”
“Who?”
“Them. They said to remember what Baker said. What did you say?”
“Same I said to everyone. You're no use dead.”
Watson's eyes narrowed. “Did you know this would happen?”
“I told them they were wasting their time,” Baker said with a shrug. “You're too pigheaded. If you weren't so sick and crippled you'd have a harem of your own in here.”
Watson shuddered at the thought of forcing himself upon any man. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it any way you like.”
“You would have let them sodomise me.”
“Last time I looked, you don't do doctor's work with your arse.” With that, Baker grinned and left, and there was nothing Watson could do to stop him.
Some days later, though, Baker showed up in the canteen with a thick crutch that he threw at Watson. “Got this off a short-term prisoner.”
Watson didn't ask what that prisoner was supposed to do without it. He had been given renewed freedom of movement along with a weapon, and you did not look a gift horse in the mouth.
“I don't do doctor's work with my legs, either,” he pointed out, weighing the sturdy thing in his hands, imagining its use in a fight.
“Nah. But if someone gets hurt at the treadmill, it helps if you can get there within the hour.”
Watson nodded, and for the first time, he grinned back. He'd been holding his own unarmed and weakened, but it had felt like a prolonged death. Now, he felt that he could survive.
***
John Watson died on a cold February afternoon.
His death started that morning, when a short-term prisoner told him, “I have a message for you. From Holmes.”
Watson stiffened. “Do you?”
The stranger produced a very small package and surreptitiously slid it into Watson's hand. “He says if you value your freedom, you're to take this.”
“What is it?”
“Don't know." The man's voice, already low, became nearly inaudible. "He said to tell you it's what Lord Blackwood used.”
Watson pulled the man closer. “All right. Talk.”
Having heard the stranger's further instructions, Watson went to speak to his friend the Lion, and later to Baker. Their discussions were heated, but quiet.
The brawl between Watson and the Lion later that afternoon was even more heated, but certainly not quiet. It was a bloody, raw fight, and to no one's surprise, Watson hobbled out of it battered and bruised.
Not long thereafter, Baker stumbled upon Watson's unresponsive body by a wall. There was no breathing, no pulse, and when the wardens were called, they could do nothing but cover him up and have him sent off to the mortuary.
In a city the size of London, it is not rare for a transport to take longer than expected. Even so, it is worth noticing that this particular carriage stopped briefly at one point during its journey, and that the body delivered to the mortuary had the rough size and shape of John Watson, and would indeed be buried as John Watson, but was not, strictly speaking, John Watson.
Corpses are, after all, very easy to produce.
Title: The Sorry Creatures
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: R for prison fic set in a dystopian AU... yeah. Not nice.
Thanks to: therru and nam_jai for the beta, and tatyan85 for information about Victorian prisons - which I probably messed up anyway. All potential errors are mine, not hers!
Series/sequel: Companion piece to Men's Wretchedness.
Summary: With Blackwood in charge, how long can Watson stay alive?
John Watson could have died in very many ways.
As a mere babe, of croup; coughing himself to death in the cradle. At the age of ten by falling off the roof. Being more grievously wounded in Afghanistan. From infection and enteric fever, after the battle. Back in England, from ill health aggravated by malnutrition and poverty, having spent his money on rooms he could not afford and gambles he could not win. Shot, stabbed, beaten to death, or poisoned by blowdarts, on any of the many cases he'd had with Sherlock Holmes. Blown to pieces one night in Nine Elms.
He could have died in the sewers under Parliament, fighting Blackwood's henchmen though the stitches had not yet mended, but he survived all of them, even the giant. Survived to see nine-tenths of Parliament dead, and to be arrested on orders from Lord Coward for burglary and attempted murder and any number of trumped-up charges that his lordship delivered with a gleeful face.
Few things on that day made Watson happy, but the pleasure of wiping out that smirk with a good sock in the nose remained with him for weeks.
***
He could have been sentenced to death by a hung jury, after the impassioned speech by the prosecutor on what a vile monster he was. Throughout the trial, he had been convinced that this would happen, and his only lament was not being able to tell Holmes goodbye. Mary had been allowed to come, once, and he had held her hand as he told her to return to her parents and mourn him as one already dead.
“There's no reason to put yourself in harm's way by appearing too fond of me,” he said.
“I am fond of you, you idiot,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you. I'll always love you.”
“And I love you,” he said. “I couldn't bear having you destroyed with everything else. For my sake, leave. If anyone asks, tell them you were besotted with me but that I shattered your illusions.”
“I won't!”
He was crying almost as hard as she was. “I need you to have a good life. Please, can't you do that for me?”
“Can anyone, now?” she asked bitterly.
In the end, she aquiesced, to his profound relief. Blackwood might disbelieve her change of heart, but he probably wouldn't press the issue.
It was not until right before the sentence was passed, when a juror met Watson's gaze for the first time since the trial had begun, that he started wondering if there was some chance of survival. Even so, his mind reeled when the sentence came and he was taken away for lifelong imprisonment. It might just be Blackwood's way of hedging his bets. Watson would never learn for certain.
***
He could have succumbed to pneumonia, on the cold winter nights when his cell was freezing cold and his body shaking with fever and pain. Someone threw him an extra blanket, but he was far too sick to know the identity of his saviour. Even then, he had friends among the police, though they were not foolish enough to acknowledge that friendship out loud.
When the illness finally passed, his limbs were so stiff that every movement was like a knife in his old wounds, but he knew that inaction would only worsen the ailments, and so he forced himself to move, a little bit at a time, grinding his teeth against the pain.
***
He could have been beaten to death, the first day he was let out of his isolation to the other prisoners. At a first glance, he could see two men he had personally helped convict, and knowing what to look for, he found at least two more. He tensed up, ready to fight and much regretting the loss of his swordstick and revolver. When none of them seemed to recognise him in turn, he allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. The growth of his beard and the thinner features after his illness, to him only superficial changes, were clearly enough to prevent identification.
Keeping as low a profile as he could, he moved among the others, trying to collect data. He might not have Holmes's talents, but since understanding the dynamics of the place could mean the difference between life and death, he tried his very best. The leader seemed to be a tall, grizzled man called Baker; he spoke very little, but whenever trouble arose glances went to him almost imperceptibly. There were thugs and victims and loners, and some prisoners that the others gave a wide berth like you would a snarling dog. At one point Watson caught a glimpse of a knife. The prison reminded him of nothing so much as a foul-smelling, hellish, and lethal version of school.
His luck could not last forever, of course. As a new prisoner, he was subject to interest, and after half an hour or so, his path was blocked.
“'Ere,” the man said. “Don't I know you?”
“I shouldn't think so,” he replied, and could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out. For all that his face had changed, his voice had not, and the man's expression shifted.
“I do know you!”
Watson took a few steps backwards, eyes darting around for a weapon, but of course there was nothing, short of the treadmill on the other side of the yard. Even if he made it there in time, breaking it up would only mean that the guards would kill him instead. He'd have to make do with his bare hands. Figuring it was best to have the element of surprise on his side, he struck the first blow, followed by the second.
Under normal circumstances, he would have had the man unconscious in no time, but he was weakened enough that it was rather an even fight. His fighting style was clearly more recognisable than his appearance, because the man gave a furious roar: “You're that doctor! Get him lads, he's with Sherlock Holmes!”
“Are you daft?” cried one of the others. “That's not Sherlock Holmes! Don't look anything like him!”
“Not him, the other one! The assistant... bloke!”
At that, more men joined the fight, though Watson could not see their faces well enough to tell if they were people he had helped imprison or those just spoiling for a fight in general. Blood streamed from his forehead into his eye, and it was getting increasingly hard to see. There was no longer any way he could win; he was fairly certain his hand was broken, and the most ferocious of the men kept kicking at his back. So far, his spine was still intact, but it was only a matter of time.
Then the weight eased and a short, stocky man stood before him, shaking one brawler in each hand as if they were nothing more than kittens.
“Doctor?” he asked, eyes glaring under the long hair.
Watson was at least three inches taller, and yet he got the distinct feeling of being in the presence of a large, looming animal. He was certain that he had never seen this man before in his life, and yet it was with utter caution that he wiped the blood out of his face and replied, “Yes?”
Satisfied with the reply, the new man tossed the brawlers aside and started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a large, septic boil at the shoulder joint. Watson grimaced, and instinctively said, “That ought to be lanced.”
“Right.”
There was no mistaking the word for anything but a command. “You want me to...” Most of the people in the prison yard were now watching the two of them in curious silence. Watson stepped closer, feeling rather like Androcles with his lion. Tentatively, he reached out to touch the edges of the boil. Yes, this he could do, even left-handed, and he should be able to avoid any major damage to muscles or arteries.
“I need something sharp,” he said. “I know one of you has a knife, that would do nicely. I don't suppose anyone has alcohol?” What he really needed was carbolic acid, but there was no point in asking for that.
Nobody moved until the Lion looked around with a murderous glare. After that, there was a lot of shifting and shuffling as the crowd slowly nudged them into a corner where no wardens would see, and presented Watson with a pocket knife and a small flask.
Under the watchful eyes of men who would as soon see him dead, Watson lanced and drained the boil, which proved a messy business, particularly since the conditions were anything but ideal. The Lion remained still and patient during the treatment, and if he glowered a bit, it was hardly to be wondered at.
Watson finished his work and gave the Lion some instructions on how to keep the wound clean, which were almost guaranteed to fail in this environment. At least the blasted snow that still fell during the nights might be used in place of clean water.
While he had been working, Watson had paid little mind to anyone else, but now he raised his eyes and looked out at the crowd. There was still murder in the eyes of certain of them, but others showed a touch of guarded interest.
“Do you do teeth?” one man asked.
Doing dentistry from inside a prison seemed like a nightmare, but he replied, “Certainly.”
With that, the mood shifted, and the crowd relaxed. Whatever else he may be, he was of use to them, and they were not spoilt with useful things.
“What?” one of the old enemies protested. “Are you just... Baker! He's practically a copper!”
Baker shrugged. “He does teeth.”
The man muttered and walked off, but Watson was not fooled into thinking that was the end of it. His skills had not bought him safety - there was no such thing - but at least they had bought him allies.
***
He could have been raped to death, after turning down the first offer of official protection. It had taken two weeks until the offer came; two weeks of standing his guard as men who wanted to kill him brawled with men who wanted to keep him intact for medical work. Half the time, he didn't even have to involve himself in the fights - but the other half was wearing him out. Every day, he could feel his aches increasing and his resolve faltering. He had defeated death so many times; now he wondered if it had not been a mistake to do so.
Yet when a large, pot-bellied Scotsman demanded his arse in no uncertain terms, the only thing he could think was, The hell if I will! He phrased his refusal rather better out loud, but still that night he found himself held down by two men behind the latrine while the Scotsman prepared to brutalise him with a bottle.
Bad choice of weapon. Very bad - but then, they had not reckoned with him fighting back. They certainly had not reckoned with him to keep fighting back after they had twisted his bad leg until the knee popped. He screamed in pain, but managed to squirm into a position where he could use his other leg to send a heel-kick into the man's groin. A roaring cry was followed by a clatter as the bottle fell to the floor; still unbroken, but that could be fixed.
“I'll kill him!” the Scotsman grunted. “I'll bloody kill him!”
“You can't!” one of the others panted. “Remember what Baker said!”
“I don't care! He's dead! I'll kill him! I'll...”
Watson reached the bottle and slammed it into the floor with all his strength so it shattered. Rolling over on his back, the jagged bottleneck held tight in his hand, he hissed, “Try.”
There were no sane thoughts left in him, only the certainty that whoever first came into range would end up dead. They must have seen that, because the two smaller ones dragged away the Scotsman, leaving Watson lying on the floor.
What had Baker said? To ask, he had to move, an insurmountable task. With gentle force, he pulled the kneecap back in place, the pain making bile rise in his throat. Inch by inch, he dragged himself to the wall and then up to a somewhat standing position.
It took him ten minutes to find someone who cared enough to bring him back inside, and another half hour before Baker deigned to appear.
“You look a sight,” Baker said.
Watson glared up at him. “What did you tell them?”
“Who?”
“Them. They said to remember what Baker said. What did you say?”
“Same I said to everyone. You're no use dead.”
Watson's eyes narrowed. “Did you know this would happen?”
“I told them they were wasting their time,” Baker said with a shrug. “You're too pigheaded. If you weren't so sick and crippled you'd have a harem of your own in here.”
Watson shuddered at the thought of forcing himself upon any man. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it any way you like.”
“You would have let them sodomise me.”
“Last time I looked, you don't do doctor's work with your arse.” With that, Baker grinned and left, and there was nothing Watson could do to stop him.
Some days later, though, Baker showed up in the canteen with a thick crutch that he threw at Watson. “Got this off a short-term prisoner.”
Watson didn't ask what that prisoner was supposed to do without it. He had been given renewed freedom of movement along with a weapon, and you did not look a gift horse in the mouth.
“I don't do doctor's work with my legs, either,” he pointed out, weighing the sturdy thing in his hands, imagining its use in a fight.
“Nah. But if someone gets hurt at the treadmill, it helps if you can get there within the hour.”
Watson nodded, and for the first time, he grinned back. He'd been holding his own unarmed and weakened, but it had felt like a prolonged death. Now, he felt that he could survive.
***
John Watson died on a cold February afternoon.
His death started that morning, when a short-term prisoner told him, “I have a message for you. From Holmes.”
Watson stiffened. “Do you?”
The stranger produced a very small package and surreptitiously slid it into Watson's hand. “He says if you value your freedom, you're to take this.”
“What is it?”
“Don't know." The man's voice, already low, became nearly inaudible. "He said to tell you it's what Lord Blackwood used.”
Watson pulled the man closer. “All right. Talk.”
Having heard the stranger's further instructions, Watson went to speak to his friend the Lion, and later to Baker. Their discussions were heated, but quiet.
The brawl between Watson and the Lion later that afternoon was even more heated, but certainly not quiet. It was a bloody, raw fight, and to no one's surprise, Watson hobbled out of it battered and bruised.
Not long thereafter, Baker stumbled upon Watson's unresponsive body by a wall. There was no breathing, no pulse, and when the wardens were called, they could do nothing but cover him up and have him sent off to the mortuary.
In a city the size of London, it is not rare for a transport to take longer than expected. Even so, it is worth noticing that this particular carriage stopped briefly at one point during its journey, and that the body delivered to the mortuary had the rough size and shape of John Watson, and would indeed be buried as John Watson, but was not, strictly speaking, John Watson.
Corpses are, after all, very easy to produce.