They Found John Fitch, but not Sherlock Holmes
It was Watson’s fault, he decided. It must be. Watson had left him all alone, and now Holmes was paying for it. Well, he wasn’t paying anymore, Mrs. Hudson had kicked him out as soon as he couldn’t pay the rent. Holmes had personally thought it to be most unjust, but she was the landlady. Holmes looked bleakly out the window as he took another sip straight from the bottle he had. He wasn’t really sure exactly what he was drinking, but it made him feel all warm and tingly inside, and he couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, so he assumed it was illegal. He set down the bottle and picked up his pipe, lighting it quickly. Setting the pipe to his lips he took a long drag of that, feeling the noxious smoke fill his lungs and make them burn slightly. He sighed and let his head fall back against the shabby chair he was in. Really, the whole place was shabby. Shabby tables and chairs, shabby lanterns, shabby food, shabby people. It was just a shabby neighborhood. It didn’t really help that it was London’s underbelly, but Holmes had been there for enough cases that it wasn’t too hard to fit in. The first thing he had to do was lose weight. He had never been a particularly large man, but he had filled out under the past few years of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking and Watson forcing him to eat. Besides, it was only fitting that a man who had lost everything when his wife and son died looked gaunt and haunted.
Holmes was currently sitting in a falling-apart chair in the cellar of a bar, where he had rented out space because it was cheaper than Mrs. Hudson’s rent, and he was close to food and fighting. Down the street was the arena he frequently visited, and they knew him there as John Fitch, and he spent most nights there fighting until he passed out. Before the men had laughed and joked with him. Before they sometimes bet on him, but not frequently. No one bet on him anymore. He wasn’t even unpredictable. Men liked to fight him because everyone knew that John Fitch wanted to lose. He wanted to feel every punch landing on his body, he wanted to see it coming and do nothing to stop it. He wanted the ugly purple marks that decorated his body for weeks afterward. He wanted the split lips and the black eyes and the concussions and the fractured wrists. In short, he just wanted to feel something that wasn’t self pity.
Tonight was exactly like every other night. Tonight Holmes sat in a shabby chair and injected cocaine straight into his blood stream via his elbow, then drank half a bottle of something, he thought it might be scotch, and then went down to the arena. Mike, the guy who owned the bar, greeted Holmes as he walked in. Holmes nodded drunkenly at him before continuing down to the arena to watch some fights before going in himself.
The round of the first fight was a bit boring, where they were just measuring each other up, but the second round the bigger guy got in some punches the littler one had to have seen coming. And then out of no where the little guy floored his opponent. Nailed him with a quick upper-cut to the jaw and a kick to the ribs and the guy was out like a light. Holmes grinned and stood with the crowd when they roared their approval. Mike walked in to the middle of the arena while the big guy’s friends were helping him out.
“That was something I think no one saw coming!” he laughed and some of the men grumbled loudly as they handed money over. “Who wants the next fight with the Whippet?” When no one volunteered, Holmes stood up again and stepped forward.
“I’ll fight him.” Mike laughed.
“You sure, John? You just wanna get beat up again, we can find someone else, ‘cause I think we all want an entertainin’ fight!” Some of the men had laughed when Mike mentioned Holmes just wanting to get beat up.
“Let me try, Mike. You remember how well I used to fight. Let’s see if I’ve still got it.” Mike smiled and nodded.
“Alright then. Let’s see if you still got it,” he agreed.
The man Mike had called Whippet sized Holmes up smugly. Holmes had lost weight and his clothes hung loosely on his frame, giving no hint as to how much muscle he had retained. Surprisingly (or perhaps not since he had just shot up) Holmes was buzzing with energy and felt like he could take on the world. He elbowed his way through the crowd to the open area behind the arena and in front of the bar to shrug off his coat and stretch a bit before entering the arena.
“Come on, just go in already! You know you’re gonna lose on purpose!” someone yelled from the crowed. They laughed rudely and harshly, grating at Holmes’s ears. He nodded at Mike who opened the door for him.
“Careful, John. He’s got a nasty upper-cut,” Mike muttered to him as Holmes walked past him. Holmes nodded.
“I noticed as much.” Mike laughed and entered the arena to introduce the fight.
Roars of approval came for the Whippet and laughter and jeers for Holmes. Not that it mattered. Holmes had never really given them much of a reason to cheer for him. Even when Watson had still been with him, he was too unpredictable to bet on. Mike closed the door and immediately the Whippet was on him, quick sharp jabs that Holmes managed to deflect the worst of. He knew it was impossible to win with even the best defense, and he intended to put up a fight tonight. When his opponent realized what was happening, that Holmes wasn’t tiring, he switched tactics. He moved back, trying to draw Holmes to him. The dark haired man grinned. He could outwait anyone. The man would get upset that Holmes was not attacking and he would eventually go in himself. Holmes felt himself slipping back into the familiar ways of when he was a detective. His eyes flicked over the man’s body, trying to find his weak points. He was a smoker, that was for sure, so quick punches to the upper chest could wind him, as could a kick to the diaphragm. He was favoring his right arm, but not the wrist. There was something wrong with his elbow, and Holmes could easily exploit that. A fighter with only one functioning arm was pretty much done for. Just as Holmes was noticing the broken toe, the Whippet launched himself forwards, almost taking Holmes off guard. He barely managed to block a calculated blow to his sore shoulder by turning quickly enough that the other man lost his balance and fell to the ground. Never one to waste and opportunity, Holmes jumped on his back and stepped on his bad elbow. The Whippet screamed and cried that he was finished, that Holmes had won. Holmes moved off him slowly, suspecting that the man’s surrender was made under false pretences. Surprisingly, he made no moves and Mike entered the arena and declared Holmes the winner. Very little money exchanged hands. Holmes received the money he had won from betting on himself, and he silently pulled on his coat and left the building to return to his shabby bar cellar.
He hadn’t gotten far before he noticed people behind him. He turned quickly and ducked under a blow swung by a drunken man. “You cheated back there, ya know?” he slurred. His three friends laughed too, sneering at Holmes from behind their pipes and fists.
“Just because I am able bodied enough to defeat a younger and more sober opponent does not by any means, imply that I cheated,” he responded, hoping to throw them off with the larger words. The first man’s lip twitched.
“You cheated,” he repeated simply, swinging his fist at Holmes’s head again. And then they were all on him. Everyone, hitting him with their fists, pipes, rocks that were on the ground. Anything they could. The only relief he found was when he finally blacked out and expected to never wake up again.
It was ridiculously bright when he did wake up. He was laying on his back in the alley, and judging by his damp clothes it had rained sometime during the night. Rats crawled around and alley cats chased them in hopes of breakfast. He groaned and tried to sit up. He felt nauseated when he moved, so he just rolled over so when he threw up he wouldn’t choke on it. Suddenly there was a man crouching next to him, a well dressed man in a brown suit with blonde hair and a familiar wooden cane.
“It would be better if you didn’t try to move,” he said in a clear voice. A rich voice. Harsh, colored by the years of smoking. Holmes would know that voice anywhere. He tried to tilt his head to look up into Watson’s face, but Watson shook his head. “I told you not to move. I had a friend once, who was as stubborn as you. I miss him sometimes, even if he was an idiot.” Holmes coughed and groaned when he tried to speak. “You probably won’t be able to speak for a bit. The most I can do is move you to a hospital. I could help you, I am a doctor, but I have an appointment. Someone told me where my friend was staying. They said someone named Mike could help me.” Holmes wheezed and coughed and shook his head. “You’re probably right. How am I even going to find this ‘Mike’ anyway? I have to get you to a hospital now. I need to be going.” Watson helped him to his feet and led him down the street into a hospital for the poor and homeless. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help old boy, but I must be going.” Holmes looked up into Watson’s intelligent blue eyes and would have sworn he saw a spark of recognition, but it was gone in an instant and the doctor was out the door to look for Mike and his old friend.
When Holmes was released the first thing he did was go back to Mike. He told him about the three men and passing out and the tall blonde gentleman with the cane. “Has he come to see you, Mike?” Mike shook his head.
“I ain’t seen no one new round here. Tall blonde gentleman, ye say?”
“With a distinctive black cane and a limp. Probably wore a hat. Fine clothes.”
“No, we ain’t seen no one like that ‘ere.”
“Thanks Mike.”
“No problem, John. The men are askin’ when you’ll be back to fightin’. I told ‘em I didn’t know where you was, so that kept ‘em off me back, but what should I tell ‘em now, John?”
“Tell them I don’t know when I will return. Possibly tomorrow possibly next month, possibly never. I cannot tell you at this juncture.” Mike nodded, looking confused because of the word “juncture”.
Holmes left the bar/arena with a sense of determination. He had to find Watson.
Three days later the search seemed hopeless. No one he talked to had seen a well-dressed man asking questions where he lived. It seemed Watson had given up on him. Really though, why did he mention their old friendship anyway? It puzzled Holmes, and he hated being puzzled. Deciding the best way to get answers was to go find John himself, he took a bath and put on his least filthy clothes and walked into the nicer parts of London. A few questions got him the location of the esteemed Dr. Watson’s new practice. It was a very lovely building, and as soon as Holmes walked in, he could tell Mary had helped Watson decorate. There was a young man sitting behind a desk, looking over some papers. He looked up when Holmes opened the door.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked, straightening his glasses. Holmes smiled. Always organized, his Watson.
“No, I’m an old friend.”
“I’m sorry sir, but Dr. Watson is very busy. If you could make an appointment, I’m sure he would be happy to see you.” Holmes shook his head.
“No, I’m only in town for the day. Tell him I stopped by, won’t you? The name is Fitch.” Holmes said, giving his false name. Watson would know who he was. The young man nodded.
“Of course, sir. Have a nice day.” Holmes nodded and left, stepping out into the bright sunlight on a busy London street.
As he walked down the street, he thought he saw a familiar figure walking ahead of him. She was wearing a full blue dress, and her blonde hair was curled and pinned up. Walking next to her was a tall man, and in front of them was a small baby carriage. Oh God, how long had he been gone? Holmes hurried to catch up to the couple, but stopped before saying anything. Perhaps Watson didn’t want Mary to know he had gone looking for Holmes. No, the man wouldn’t keep a secret from his wife.
“Dr. Watson!” he called out loudly. “Dr. please.” The couple stopped and turned towards Holmes. Mary smiled vacantly, like she was just smiling to someone she had never met. John blinked a few times, as if trying to remember something.
“Oh yes! This is the chap I was telling you about, Mary. The one I found lying in an alley on my way to work. Dreadful affair, really. Good to see you are doing better.” Watson smiled at him, as if he was truly happy Holmes was feeling better after being beaten within an inch of his life. Holmes smiled vacantly.
“Yes, I just wanted to thank you. My name is John, John Fitch, and if there is anything I could ever do for you, just go looking for me at Mike’s Bar. I’ll do anything for you, sir.” Holmes saw the flash of recognition in John’s blue eyes before he nodded his head and hurried off. Mary smiled.
“You’re such a good man, John. I love you.” Watson nodded, a bit unsteady.
“Yes, of course darling. Of course.”
By the time Holmes reached the bar cellar where he stayed, he could hardly see for the tears clouding his vision. And by the time night came, Holmes could hardly breathe for the tightness in his chest, after having no more tears left. And by the time morning came, Holmes could not feel for the blood that had left his wrists. And by the time they found his body, the blood had dried and stuck him to the dirty floor, and no one cared to bury him properly, they just dropped his body in the ocean to wash up on some distant shore, waterlogged and decomposing and forgotten.
Holmes was currently sitting in a falling-apart chair in the cellar of a bar, where he had rented out space because it was cheaper than Mrs. Hudson’s rent, and he was close to food and fighting. Down the street was the arena he frequently visited, and they knew him there as John Fitch, and he spent most nights there fighting until he passed out. Before the men had laughed and joked with him. Before they sometimes bet on him, but not frequently. No one bet on him anymore. He wasn’t even unpredictable. Men liked to fight him because everyone knew that John Fitch wanted to lose. He wanted to feel every punch landing on his body, he wanted to see it coming and do nothing to stop it. He wanted the ugly purple marks that decorated his body for weeks afterward. He wanted the split lips and the black eyes and the concussions and the fractured wrists. In short, he just wanted to feel something that wasn’t self pity.
Tonight was exactly like every other night. Tonight Holmes sat in a shabby chair and injected cocaine straight into his blood stream via his elbow, then drank half a bottle of something, he thought it might be scotch, and then went down to the arena. Mike, the guy who owned the bar, greeted Holmes as he walked in. Holmes nodded drunkenly at him before continuing down to the arena to watch some fights before going in himself.
The round of the first fight was a bit boring, where they were just measuring each other up, but the second round the bigger guy got in some punches the littler one had to have seen coming. And then out of no where the little guy floored his opponent. Nailed him with a quick upper-cut to the jaw and a kick to the ribs and the guy was out like a light. Holmes grinned and stood with the crowd when they roared their approval. Mike walked in to the middle of the arena while the big guy’s friends were helping him out.
“That was something I think no one saw coming!” he laughed and some of the men grumbled loudly as they handed money over. “Who wants the next fight with the Whippet?” When no one volunteered, Holmes stood up again and stepped forward.
“I’ll fight him.” Mike laughed.
“You sure, John? You just wanna get beat up again, we can find someone else, ‘cause I think we all want an entertainin’ fight!” Some of the men had laughed when Mike mentioned Holmes just wanting to get beat up.
“Let me try, Mike. You remember how well I used to fight. Let’s see if I’ve still got it.” Mike smiled and nodded.
“Alright then. Let’s see if you still got it,” he agreed.
The man Mike had called Whippet sized Holmes up smugly. Holmes had lost weight and his clothes hung loosely on his frame, giving no hint as to how much muscle he had retained. Surprisingly (or perhaps not since he had just shot up) Holmes was buzzing with energy and felt like he could take on the world. He elbowed his way through the crowd to the open area behind the arena and in front of the bar to shrug off his coat and stretch a bit before entering the arena.
“Come on, just go in already! You know you’re gonna lose on purpose!” someone yelled from the crowed. They laughed rudely and harshly, grating at Holmes’s ears. He nodded at Mike who opened the door for him.
“Careful, John. He’s got a nasty upper-cut,” Mike muttered to him as Holmes walked past him. Holmes nodded.
“I noticed as much.” Mike laughed and entered the arena to introduce the fight.
Roars of approval came for the Whippet and laughter and jeers for Holmes. Not that it mattered. Holmes had never really given them much of a reason to cheer for him. Even when Watson had still been with him, he was too unpredictable to bet on. Mike closed the door and immediately the Whippet was on him, quick sharp jabs that Holmes managed to deflect the worst of. He knew it was impossible to win with even the best defense, and he intended to put up a fight tonight. When his opponent realized what was happening, that Holmes wasn’t tiring, he switched tactics. He moved back, trying to draw Holmes to him. The dark haired man grinned. He could outwait anyone. The man would get upset that Holmes was not attacking and he would eventually go in himself. Holmes felt himself slipping back into the familiar ways of when he was a detective. His eyes flicked over the man’s body, trying to find his weak points. He was a smoker, that was for sure, so quick punches to the upper chest could wind him, as could a kick to the diaphragm. He was favoring his right arm, but not the wrist. There was something wrong with his elbow, and Holmes could easily exploit that. A fighter with only one functioning arm was pretty much done for. Just as Holmes was noticing the broken toe, the Whippet launched himself forwards, almost taking Holmes off guard. He barely managed to block a calculated blow to his sore shoulder by turning quickly enough that the other man lost his balance and fell to the ground. Never one to waste and opportunity, Holmes jumped on his back and stepped on his bad elbow. The Whippet screamed and cried that he was finished, that Holmes had won. Holmes moved off him slowly, suspecting that the man’s surrender was made under false pretences. Surprisingly, he made no moves and Mike entered the arena and declared Holmes the winner. Very little money exchanged hands. Holmes received the money he had won from betting on himself, and he silently pulled on his coat and left the building to return to his shabby bar cellar.
He hadn’t gotten far before he noticed people behind him. He turned quickly and ducked under a blow swung by a drunken man. “You cheated back there, ya know?” he slurred. His three friends laughed too, sneering at Holmes from behind their pipes and fists.
“Just because I am able bodied enough to defeat a younger and more sober opponent does not by any means, imply that I cheated,” he responded, hoping to throw them off with the larger words. The first man’s lip twitched.
“You cheated,” he repeated simply, swinging his fist at Holmes’s head again. And then they were all on him. Everyone, hitting him with their fists, pipes, rocks that were on the ground. Anything they could. The only relief he found was when he finally blacked out and expected to never wake up again.
It was ridiculously bright when he did wake up. He was laying on his back in the alley, and judging by his damp clothes it had rained sometime during the night. Rats crawled around and alley cats chased them in hopes of breakfast. He groaned and tried to sit up. He felt nauseated when he moved, so he just rolled over so when he threw up he wouldn’t choke on it. Suddenly there was a man crouching next to him, a well dressed man in a brown suit with blonde hair and a familiar wooden cane.
“It would be better if you didn’t try to move,” he said in a clear voice. A rich voice. Harsh, colored by the years of smoking. Holmes would know that voice anywhere. He tried to tilt his head to look up into Watson’s face, but Watson shook his head. “I told you not to move. I had a friend once, who was as stubborn as you. I miss him sometimes, even if he was an idiot.” Holmes coughed and groaned when he tried to speak. “You probably won’t be able to speak for a bit. The most I can do is move you to a hospital. I could help you, I am a doctor, but I have an appointment. Someone told me where my friend was staying. They said someone named Mike could help me.” Holmes wheezed and coughed and shook his head. “You’re probably right. How am I even going to find this ‘Mike’ anyway? I have to get you to a hospital now. I need to be going.” Watson helped him to his feet and led him down the street into a hospital for the poor and homeless. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help old boy, but I must be going.” Holmes looked up into Watson’s intelligent blue eyes and would have sworn he saw a spark of recognition, but it was gone in an instant and the doctor was out the door to look for Mike and his old friend.
When Holmes was released the first thing he did was go back to Mike. He told him about the three men and passing out and the tall blonde gentleman with the cane. “Has he come to see you, Mike?” Mike shook his head.
“I ain’t seen no one new round here. Tall blonde gentleman, ye say?”
“With a distinctive black cane and a limp. Probably wore a hat. Fine clothes.”
“No, we ain’t seen no one like that ‘ere.”
“Thanks Mike.”
“No problem, John. The men are askin’ when you’ll be back to fightin’. I told ‘em I didn’t know where you was, so that kept ‘em off me back, but what should I tell ‘em now, John?”
“Tell them I don’t know when I will return. Possibly tomorrow possibly next month, possibly never. I cannot tell you at this juncture.” Mike nodded, looking confused because of the word “juncture”.
Holmes left the bar/arena with a sense of determination. He had to find Watson.
Three days later the search seemed hopeless. No one he talked to had seen a well-dressed man asking questions where he lived. It seemed Watson had given up on him. Really though, why did he mention their old friendship anyway? It puzzled Holmes, and he hated being puzzled. Deciding the best way to get answers was to go find John himself, he took a bath and put on his least filthy clothes and walked into the nicer parts of London. A few questions got him the location of the esteemed Dr. Watson’s new practice. It was a very lovely building, and as soon as Holmes walked in, he could tell Mary had helped Watson decorate. There was a young man sitting behind a desk, looking over some papers. He looked up when Holmes opened the door.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked, straightening his glasses. Holmes smiled. Always organized, his Watson.
“No, I’m an old friend.”
“I’m sorry sir, but Dr. Watson is very busy. If you could make an appointment, I’m sure he would be happy to see you.” Holmes shook his head.
“No, I’m only in town for the day. Tell him I stopped by, won’t you? The name is Fitch.” Holmes said, giving his false name. Watson would know who he was. The young man nodded.
“Of course, sir. Have a nice day.” Holmes nodded and left, stepping out into the bright sunlight on a busy London street.
As he walked down the street, he thought he saw a familiar figure walking ahead of him. She was wearing a full blue dress, and her blonde hair was curled and pinned up. Walking next to her was a tall man, and in front of them was a small baby carriage. Oh God, how long had he been gone? Holmes hurried to catch up to the couple, but stopped before saying anything. Perhaps Watson didn’t want Mary to know he had gone looking for Holmes. No, the man wouldn’t keep a secret from his wife.
“Dr. Watson!” he called out loudly. “Dr. please.” The couple stopped and turned towards Holmes. Mary smiled vacantly, like she was just smiling to someone she had never met. John blinked a few times, as if trying to remember something.
“Oh yes! This is the chap I was telling you about, Mary. The one I found lying in an alley on my way to work. Dreadful affair, really. Good to see you are doing better.” Watson smiled at him, as if he was truly happy Holmes was feeling better after being beaten within an inch of his life. Holmes smiled vacantly.
“Yes, I just wanted to thank you. My name is John, John Fitch, and if there is anything I could ever do for you, just go looking for me at Mike’s Bar. I’ll do anything for you, sir.” Holmes saw the flash of recognition in John’s blue eyes before he nodded his head and hurried off. Mary smiled.
“You’re such a good man, John. I love you.” Watson nodded, a bit unsteady.
“Yes, of course darling. Of course.”
By the time Holmes reached the bar cellar where he stayed, he could hardly see for the tears clouding his vision. And by the time night came, Holmes could hardly breathe for the tightness in his chest, after having no more tears left. And by the time morning came, Holmes could not feel for the blood that had left his wrists. And by the time they found his body, the blood had dried and stuck him to the dirty floor, and no one cared to bury him properly, they just dropped his body in the ocean to wash up on some distant shore, waterlogged and decomposing and forgotten.