Chapter Seven
Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, assorted baddies
Summary: Inspector Lestrade is frustrated with a case and turns to Sherlock Holmes, and his friend, Dr. Watson, for assistance. And then things go wrong. In this chapter, reunion (and whump).
Warnings: Rambling plot development
Word Count: 1560
Author's Notes:
- First attempt at a multi-chaptered story ~ this is Chapter Seven
Chapter One (1120 words)
Chapter Two (1290 words)
Chapter Three (1355 words)
Chapter Four (1360 words)
Chapter Five (1410 words)
Chapter Six (1675 words)
.oOOo.
Watson’s time over the next few days alternated from brief moments of frenzied activity to hours of mindless inaction, all underscored with the constant worry over the fates of Holmes and Lestrade. The newspapers had no further details on the Riverside arson, and the agony columns contained no reply from Holmes.
George Lestrade was particularly downhearted to see Freddie return to London. He remained quiet and withdrawn for the rest of their journey to Weymouth. Even the lure of farm animals and the company of other children his own age failed to raise his spirits. Théa, on the other hand, was as joyous and exuberant as ever.
Gledrick House was situated on the crest of one of the many rolling hills a few miles east of Weymouth. Emily’s parents, two brothers, their wives, and seven young children, cheerfully welcomed their new guests. If strangers sought to cause trouble, the old farm’s isolation and Emily’s formidable brothers would provide enough protection to keep the Lestrades safe.
It was not without regret that Watson left for Bristol that evening. His cryptic message in the “Standard” indicated that he would remain in Bristol until the 25 th of July, and he sincerely hoped that Holmes would be able to meet him before then. Emily’s father drove him to the train station and wished him well.
Over the next two days Watson spent his time examining the notebook, reading the London and Bristol newspapers, and becoming more frustrated. None of his instincts told him what to do in times of inaction and uncertainty. His appetite dwindled and sleep continued to elude him.
After another restless night, Watson prepared himself for the day ahead. If Holmes did not meet him today, he would have to be prepared to move on to another city. He packed his valise, and after breakfast, returned by foot to the Temple Meads railway station. There he checked his valise at the luggage office. A light rain started to fall so Watson flagged a cab for a ride to the Bristol Central Library.
The old building’s collection had been made accessible to the public nearly thirty years earlier, and its reading room made a quiet sanctuary for those patrons studying there. Watson consulted with a librarian, asking if the notes in Lestrade’s notebook were recognisable. The young man was unsure and a more senior librarian’s advice was also sought. Despite their combined efforts, no further progress was made, but the doctor was given the name of a Professor Stern, at the university, who was a renowned expert on linguistics. Watson thanked them for their efforts, then selected a book from the stacks, and settled into a desk by one of the tall windows. After an hour of reading, he sat back and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you cannot sleep in the library,” said a hushed voice near his ear.
“Hello, Holmes.” Watson smiled in recognition of the familiar voice. “Any news of Lestrade?”
“Always nice to see you too, Watson,” the detective replied. “The Inspector survived the surgery and is recovering well, according to his doctor. You are to be congratulated on your medical expediency; your prompt actions undoubtedly saved his life.”
Holmes pulled up a chair and sat down beside his friend. Keeping their voices low, each related his recent escapades. Holmes had already heard the beginning of Watson’s story from Freddie and congratulated the doctor on his fast-thinking ingenuity in removing the Lestrade family from London. Watson was intrigued to hear the details about Holmes’ exploits in foiling his arrest and his subsequent investigation into the fire at the warehouse, but the level of corruption within Scotland Yard left him with a niggling sense of dread.
“I trust you still have the notebook?” Holmes asked.
Watson nodded, fumbling in his jacket to retrieve the Inspector’s notes.
“I’ve been over and over this, and I’m sorry, but it is incomprehensible. I thought the squiggles might be Araby or some other eastern language… they may still be, for all I know. There may be an expert at the university college we can consult…
”Holmes smiled at his friend’s earnest attempt to solve a puzzle that was clearly beyond his capacity.
“I am the only expert we need on this. Phonetics, Watson. I am almost positive Lestrade’s notes are using a phonetic notation. I only need the time to decode it.”
“Well, I know I’m not much use at that. I’ve been examining the bloody thing for days now and didn’t even recognise the phonetic structure,” Watson said, absently flipping the pages until the page with the circular diagram appeared.
“This, though, is somewhat familiar. I may have seen it before. I think it was back in the army, but neither Stevens nor I could place it.”
“Could it have been a tattoo?” Holmes asked. “Our would-be assassin had a similar mark but I did not have time for sufficient examination. I cannot confirm it to be the same pattern.”
“A tattoo is certainly a possibility, but I doubt that I will be able to remember who might have had one like that, never mind what it meant,” replied the doctor.
“Will you at least try to remember the context in which you might have encountered it?”
“It must surely have belonged to a patient, or a casualty. I might have recognised something if it were a little less ordinary, or one that belonged to a friend, but I saw a wide variety of tattoos in the army and I never paid them much attention. I had other priorities most of the time."
Watson said nothing further, but looked out the window at the heavy rain that was falling. Holmes suggested that the reading room would be a fine place to spend the day; Watson could rest and Holmes could attempt to decipher the enigmatic notes. Watson agreed. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his head upon his folded overcoat on the desk in front of him.
.oOOo.
The rain had all but ceased by the time they left the library and made their way back to the train station. Holmes had not been successful in his attempt to decipher Lestrade's phonetic code, and Watson reasoned that the best way he could help was to remain silent.
Without warning, Holmes pulled his astonished friend into a sheltered doorway. A group of men loitered outside the luggage office.
“That is Rushton!” Holmes hissed, pointing out the lean inspector. “It is time to go to ground. I don’t know how he followed us, but it is too much of a coincidence to find him here.”
“Holmes, my valise is in that office. Everything I brought is... ”
“Leave it, Watson. You will have to make do without your spare socks and your shaving kit!”
“And my revolver?” asked Watson, without humour.
“Regrettable, but necessary.”
“You have the notebook, Holmes. Take it back to London. I’ll keep an eye on this Rushton. I have the advantage of him. He does not know me by sight. You have a distinctive look, whereas I... I can blend in... especially in a city this size.”
.oOOo.
After two long days, Watson saw Rushton board a London-bound train, and gave a sigh of relief. The succession of cheap hotel rooms and the irregular hours required by his surveillance were taking their toll. If he could only get a meal and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, he would be able to leave Bristol as planned.
The doctor weighed his options and entered a welcoming pub. He requested a pint of the local beer and a plate of whatever the good landlord recommended. He sat nursing his pint, waiting for his first warm meal in days, when a frightened girl’s voice rang out.
“Please help me, Dr. Watson!”
He turned in surprise to face the source, only to realise his mistake. A large man pointed a revolver at him while a smaller man slipped the barmaid some coins. Two others seized him, twisting his arms behind his back.
“Gotcha, doctor!” the big man gloated. “Not very bright are you?”
“You must be Baird. Big man... small brain,” Watson replied with more bravado than was wise, considering the situation, “Holmes told me how easily he slipped your grasp in London. I wouldn’t be comparing intellects if I were you.”
The blow was not unexpected. It would have sent Watson to the ground if he wasn’t held by the other men. Still, it rattled his teeth and small pinpricks of light danced before his eyes.
Mention of Holmes struck a raw nerve indeed, Watson thought as he spat out the blood that pooled in his mouth. Judging by Baird’s reaction, he must have lost the respect of his accomplices when he bungled Holmes’s arrest. Perhaps he could exploit that insecurity.
Inspector Baird assured the startled patrons that this was a police matter, and they should not be concerned. Meanwhile, Watson gathered his wits. Fatigue made him reckless enough as it was.
“Can ye do no better than that? Next time, hit me with your purse, ye great pansy!” the doctor jeered, a hint of his ancestral accent returning, as was its wont whenever he was under duress.
The public house’s patrons broke into raucous laughter and some of Baird’s men chuckled aloud. The big man’s face flushed with fury and his next blows fell without reserve. Minutes later Watson was dragged, unconscious and bloody, from the pub by the two henchmen, and tossed into the back of a waiting cart.
.oOOo.
Author's Note: In the next chapter, Watson's captors force him to reveal Holmes's location and some readers may find the content disturbing.
.oOOo.
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