Playing With Fire
Author: capt_facepalm
Artist: quillwrecker (original art is here)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Summary: Holmes solves a mystery; Lestrade picks up the pieces; Watson tags along
Warnings: A child is hurt; some scary, whumpy bits; no slash
Word Count: 1990
Author's Notes:
This is a collaboration spawned by the 500 Members Party at watsons_woes. A call for art prompts resulted in a wonderful illustration, which in turn, demanded a fuller story.
Contributors:
.oOOo.
After six days of chasing down barely tangible leads, Sherlock Holmes had solved the mystery of who had arranged the abduction of six-year old Percival Allenbey-Read.
“His own father?” exclaimed Doctor Watson. “Surely not!”
“Regrettably, it is true. Although he is quite the miser towards his daughter and son-in-law, Lord Allenbey is willing to pay any ransom to get his grandson back safe and sound. I have proof enough against Mr. Crawford Read for hiring the kidnappers.”
“What kind of man, nay, what kind of father, could allow his own son to be used thus?”
Holmes gave a thin, indulgent smile.
“A desperate one, my friend,” the detective replied, and paused, regarding his flatmate. “Poor Watson! You honestly have no concept of real greed. I’m afraid you will never be a rich man.”
“I should rather be destitute and low, than be wealthy by such means!” Watson declared.
“Of that, my friend, I have no doubt! I’m off to see Lord Allenbey. Once Read's involvement is revealed, this whole matter will resolve itself. The family will do anything to avoid public scandal and will likely refuse to press criminal charges. Lestrade will be by to pick up this dossier; it contains my notes for him on the case. It was a sordid affair; one which I’m glad you were kept well out of.”
.oOOo.
With little else to occupy his time, Watson spent the rest of the morning studying the case file and brooding over the unsettling particulars. Of the many facts in the case, one horrific detail bothered him above all the others: the little boy’s ear had been severed as extra incentive to pay the ransom. That the boy's father orchestrated the whole situation, and allowed such harm to come to his own child, was not something the good doctor could reconcile. Even though he had seen enough of it in his brief years, Watson still shuddered in contemplation of the depths of cruelty in the world. Holmes was right to keep him away from this whole business.
Inspector Lestrade arrived before noon and sat down to join the doctor in a light luncheon of Mrs Hudson’s sandwiches. As they discussed the case, Watson could not censor his distress.
“It is a sad truth in this world, John: not all men deserve to be fathers, and not all fathers love their children as well as they ought to,” sighed Lestrade.
As he rose to leave, the inspector observed the disheartened mood that Watson had fallen into, and on a whim, invited him to come along. With Holmes dealing with Lord Allenbey and the Reads, the child’s safe return was assured. All that remained was rounding up the gang of kidnappers. If knocking such louts about the head was cathartic therapy for policemen, Lestrade reasoned, it would be good for Watson as well. The doctor accepted gladly, not relishing the alternative of remaining alone in the flat with the melancholia that had descended upon him.
Several hours of interviewing witnesses and tracing receipts finally resulted in one single address; an abandoned building, which in better days, functioned as a small millinery.
When Lestrade and Watson arrived, they were surprised to find a small crowd gathering, four constables already at the scene, and at least two reporters from the press. There was oily, black smoke issuing from the second storey windows. It seemed that even small fires were newsworthy in London these days. None, except Lestrade and Watson, knew of the connection to the Allenbey-Read case. Presuming this was the correct address, the kidnappers had set the building ablaze, probably to destroy evidence of their identities and their crime.
“Did you hear that?” asked Lestrade, “Someone is still inside.”
“Yes! It sounded like a child, unless I’m imagining it,” replied Watson, his eyes widening with sudden realisation.
“No, John, I heard it too… it was a child; scared, or perhaps hurt! I’d know that sound anywhere!” cried Lestrade as he lunged for the door.
Watson caught him, holding him back and indicating the water trough. The doctor stripped off his coat and submerged it in the murky water, then threw it back on without stopping to wring it out. Lestrade followed suit and then, with soaked handkerchiefs over their faces, the two men entered the smoke-filled building.
The inspector bellowed for the child and Watson strained his hearing listening for a response. The fire had given the structure a voice of its own and it protested volubly in rumbles and groans. The smoke was too dense to see anything and Watson struggled to breathe even through the dubious protection of his handkerchief. After a few minutes, Lestrade could no longer draw air to call out; gasping, he fell to the floor. Watson fumbled around and found the inspector by his coat, hauled him back to his feet, and dragged him towards what he hoped was the door.
Fortunately, it was, but just before he reached it, Watson distinctly heard the cry of a child. It was coming from upstairs. He flung Lestrade through the door, propelling the inspector as far as he could, and hurried towards the sounds of distress.
.oOOo.
Crawford Read eventually confessed and told Sherlock Holmes where the kidnappers were holed up. The detective arrived by cab in time to see Lestrade emerge, stumbling, from the cloud of smoke emanating from the former millinery shop. He ran toward the inspector and caught him as he fell.
“Watson…” the inspector rasped, his eyes frantically searching the smoking doorway.
“Lestrade! What do you mean? Where is Watson? You didn’t bring him here, I pray!” the detective exclaimed.
Lestrade coughed, wheezed and gestured at the door “He was right behind me…” he gasped. Holmes leapt to his feet but was seized by Constables Hunter and Wright before he could do anything rash. The firmness of their grip was put to the test as the building howled and the roof collapsed. A great fireball lit up the evening sky.
.oOOo.
Soon after Watson gained the top of the stairs, the overhead timbers shrieked in protest as the roof collapsed. A huge roar went up as new oxygen fed the starving flames. A roofing joist suddenly gave way, slamming into the doctor and pinning him to the floor. Debris continued to fall and strike him where he lay trapped. Watson screamed as flaming, molten pitch drained from the ruined roof and spilled onto his back, burning a trail along his side.
Briefly, in the light of the energised blaze, Watson spotted the little boy, slumped and bound to an upright timber. He wanted to call out to the boy; to reassure him, but he could not. More large sections of the ruined roof came crashing down. Suddenly the joist pinning him shifted, taking enough of its weight away that Watson could gain enough leverage to escape. With single-minded determination, he managed to crawl out from under the wreckage and make his way to the child. Dizziness threatened and he closed his eyes to concentrate. His hands were numb and were slow to cooperate as he worked his pocketknife on the restraining ropes. He doffed his coat and wrapped the boy in it, then secured his handkerchief around the child’s face. The heat was so intense he felt like he was being steamed alive in his own clothing and feared his eyes would melt should he keep them open too long.
Watson fought the panic which threatened to set in as he realised he did not know how to get out. He knew he had to find the stairs again. Making his best guess, he carried his precious burden and crouching low, worked his way along the wall. More timbers whined in protest as Watson half stumbled, lost his balance and slid down the remaining stairs to the ground floor. The path to the door was now covered with fallen rubble and waste, but the doctor ploughed through it in desperation. Finally the door was before him and he staggered out into the cool evening air.
Strong hands grabbed Watson and removed him from the inferno's vicinity; still others tried to free the boy from his protective embrace. The little hand which gripped his waistcoat so tightly had to be pried loose. He gasped as he was doused with a bucketful of water, and continued to choke for air. Someone was holding him down. He could not open his eyes and when he tried to speak, his attempts only brought on another coughing fit.
Then he heard the most blessed sound in all the entire world: the little boy was crying for his mother. Watson lay back with a sob and cracked open his eyes to look up into the face of Sherlock Holmes, fraught with concern, drawn with anger, and relieved beyond words.
.oOOo.
Later that night, at the Archangel Pub:
Late editions of the Gazette and the Evening Star circulated around the establishment favoured by policemen of the Metropolitan force.
“It’s not often the police receive fair treatment from the press,” said Inspector Lestrade as he rose to head toward the bar.
“Sit down!” Holmes hissed.
“Ow, Holmes! Let go my arm!” Lestrade exclaimed in pain as he was pulled back to his seat.
“Look over there, and tell me what you see,” said the detective, indicating the corner of the bar where Watson and some of the constables were gathered.
The doctor’s clothes bespoke of their earlier adventures; his shirt and waistcoat were singed and blackened in places, and he had failed to remove all the soot from his face. Even so, his eyes shone with merriment and his grin radiated throughout the room. Whatever the constable was saying was obviously humorous for the little group burst into laughter anew.
“He looks… happy,” Lestrade observed.
“He’s drunk,” Holmes replied in disgust, as the publican set another whisky down in front of the doctor, indicating the table where more policemen raised their glasses to him. Watson smiled and raised his glass with appreciation in return.
“And why not? He’s a genuine hero, Holmes. He got me out the door and then went back for the child. He risked his life to save us both.”
“That is the problem. He would risk his life for me; for you; for a stranger; even for a vile blackguard, or some ruddy cat up a tree.”
“I’m sorry. I do not follow. That sounds like the very definition of heroism...”
“Yes, I know. This may be difficult for you to understand, but trust me when I say this: It is not Doctor Watson’s altruism that drives him, but his complete lack of self-worth and total disregard for his own person. He is not a hero; he is a martyr looking for a cause,” Holmes angrily insisted. “He is a danger to himself, and you would do well to realise it.”
Lestrade shook his head, not wanting to hear these words, and failing to think of a suitable rebuttal. “I do not understand your reasoning, Mister Holmes. John Watson is a sensible man and is responsible for his own choices and actions.”
“So it would seem, and yet, he continues to linger under some misguided notion that he owes a debt to his late army comrades. After all this time, the war still plagues him, and in spite of everything, he feels unworthy for surviving when others did not.”
“Surely not! I know he tends to be a pensive fellow, but you are describing a depressive state. Look at him. I have never seen him in such high spirits.”
“It is a passing phase. He will not be so jovial when the lustre of the evening wears off and the nightmares return. And they will return; they always do.”
Both men looked back toward the doctor. When another constable clapped him soundly about the shoulders in congratulations, Watson winced and paled with the sudden pain. However, an instant later his smile returned, and he disengaged from his comrades to weave his way toward Holmes’ and Lestrade’s table, modestly, yet graciously, receiving more kind words and handshakes along the way.
“Consider my words, Lestrade, the next time you ask him out on a case when I am not around,” Holmes intoned, finally releasing his grip on the inspector’s sleeve.
.oOOo.
Please sign the guestbook!
Artist: quillwrecker (original art is here)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Summary: Holmes solves a mystery; Lestrade picks up the pieces; Watson tags along
Warnings: A child is hurt; some scary, whumpy bits; no slash
Word Count: 1990
Author's Notes:
This is a collaboration spawned by the 500 Members Party at watsons_woes. A call for art prompts resulted in a wonderful illustration, which in turn, demanded a fuller story.
Contributors:
- quillwrecker makes art
- capt_facepalm makes words
- med_cat makes it all make sense (thanks for the beta!)
.oOOo.
After six days of chasing down barely tangible leads, Sherlock Holmes had solved the mystery of who had arranged the abduction of six-year old Percival Allenbey-Read.
“His own father?” exclaimed Doctor Watson. “Surely not!”
“Regrettably, it is true. Although he is quite the miser towards his daughter and son-in-law, Lord Allenbey is willing to pay any ransom to get his grandson back safe and sound. I have proof enough against Mr. Crawford Read for hiring the kidnappers.”
“What kind of man, nay, what kind of father, could allow his own son to be used thus?”
Holmes gave a thin, indulgent smile.
“A desperate one, my friend,” the detective replied, and paused, regarding his flatmate. “Poor Watson! You honestly have no concept of real greed. I’m afraid you will never be a rich man.”
“I should rather be destitute and low, than be wealthy by such means!” Watson declared.
“Of that, my friend, I have no doubt! I’m off to see Lord Allenbey. Once Read's involvement is revealed, this whole matter will resolve itself. The family will do anything to avoid public scandal and will likely refuse to press criminal charges. Lestrade will be by to pick up this dossier; it contains my notes for him on the case. It was a sordid affair; one which I’m glad you were kept well out of.”
.oOOo.
With little else to occupy his time, Watson spent the rest of the morning studying the case file and brooding over the unsettling particulars. Of the many facts in the case, one horrific detail bothered him above all the others: the little boy’s ear had been severed as extra incentive to pay the ransom. That the boy's father orchestrated the whole situation, and allowed such harm to come to his own child, was not something the good doctor could reconcile. Even though he had seen enough of it in his brief years, Watson still shuddered in contemplation of the depths of cruelty in the world. Holmes was right to keep him away from this whole business.
Inspector Lestrade arrived before noon and sat down to join the doctor in a light luncheon of Mrs Hudson’s sandwiches. As they discussed the case, Watson could not censor his distress.
“It is a sad truth in this world, John: not all men deserve to be fathers, and not all fathers love their children as well as they ought to,” sighed Lestrade.
As he rose to leave, the inspector observed the disheartened mood that Watson had fallen into, and on a whim, invited him to come along. With Holmes dealing with Lord Allenbey and the Reads, the child’s safe return was assured. All that remained was rounding up the gang of kidnappers. If knocking such louts about the head was cathartic therapy for policemen, Lestrade reasoned, it would be good for Watson as well. The doctor accepted gladly, not relishing the alternative of remaining alone in the flat with the melancholia that had descended upon him.
Several hours of interviewing witnesses and tracing receipts finally resulted in one single address; an abandoned building, which in better days, functioned as a small millinery.
When Lestrade and Watson arrived, they were surprised to find a small crowd gathering, four constables already at the scene, and at least two reporters from the press. There was oily, black smoke issuing from the second storey windows. It seemed that even small fires were newsworthy in London these days. None, except Lestrade and Watson, knew of the connection to the Allenbey-Read case. Presuming this was the correct address, the kidnappers had set the building ablaze, probably to destroy evidence of their identities and their crime.
“Did you hear that?” asked Lestrade, “Someone is still inside.”
“Yes! It sounded like a child, unless I’m imagining it,” replied Watson, his eyes widening with sudden realisation.
“No, John, I heard it too… it was a child; scared, or perhaps hurt! I’d know that sound anywhere!” cried Lestrade as he lunged for the door.
Watson caught him, holding him back and indicating the water trough. The doctor stripped off his coat and submerged it in the murky water, then threw it back on without stopping to wring it out. Lestrade followed suit and then, with soaked handkerchiefs over their faces, the two men entered the smoke-filled building.
The inspector bellowed for the child and Watson strained his hearing listening for a response. The fire had given the structure a voice of its own and it protested volubly in rumbles and groans. The smoke was too dense to see anything and Watson struggled to breathe even through the dubious protection of his handkerchief. After a few minutes, Lestrade could no longer draw air to call out; gasping, he fell to the floor. Watson fumbled around and found the inspector by his coat, hauled him back to his feet, and dragged him towards what he hoped was the door.
Fortunately, it was, but just before he reached it, Watson distinctly heard the cry of a child. It was coming from upstairs. He flung Lestrade through the door, propelling the inspector as far as he could, and hurried towards the sounds of distress.
.oOOo.
Crawford Read eventually confessed and told Sherlock Holmes where the kidnappers were holed up. The detective arrived by cab in time to see Lestrade emerge, stumbling, from the cloud of smoke emanating from the former millinery shop. He ran toward the inspector and caught him as he fell.
“Watson…” the inspector rasped, his eyes frantically searching the smoking doorway.
“Lestrade! What do you mean? Where is Watson? You didn’t bring him here, I pray!” the detective exclaimed.
Lestrade coughed, wheezed and gestured at the door “He was right behind me…” he gasped. Holmes leapt to his feet but was seized by Constables Hunter and Wright before he could do anything rash. The firmness of their grip was put to the test as the building howled and the roof collapsed. A great fireball lit up the evening sky.
.oOOo.
Soon after Watson gained the top of the stairs, the overhead timbers shrieked in protest as the roof collapsed. A huge roar went up as new oxygen fed the starving flames. A roofing joist suddenly gave way, slamming into the doctor and pinning him to the floor. Debris continued to fall and strike him where he lay trapped. Watson screamed as flaming, molten pitch drained from the ruined roof and spilled onto his back, burning a trail along his side.
Briefly, in the light of the energised blaze, Watson spotted the little boy, slumped and bound to an upright timber. He wanted to call out to the boy; to reassure him, but he could not. More large sections of the ruined roof came crashing down. Suddenly the joist pinning him shifted, taking enough of its weight away that Watson could gain enough leverage to escape. With single-minded determination, he managed to crawl out from under the wreckage and make his way to the child. Dizziness threatened and he closed his eyes to concentrate. His hands were numb and were slow to cooperate as he worked his pocketknife on the restraining ropes. He doffed his coat and wrapped the boy in it, then secured his handkerchief around the child’s face. The heat was so intense he felt like he was being steamed alive in his own clothing and feared his eyes would melt should he keep them open too long.
Watson fought the panic which threatened to set in as he realised he did not know how to get out. He knew he had to find the stairs again. Making his best guess, he carried his precious burden and crouching low, worked his way along the wall. More timbers whined in protest as Watson half stumbled, lost his balance and slid down the remaining stairs to the ground floor. The path to the door was now covered with fallen rubble and waste, but the doctor ploughed through it in desperation. Finally the door was before him and he staggered out into the cool evening air.
Strong hands grabbed Watson and removed him from the inferno's vicinity; still others tried to free the boy from his protective embrace. The little hand which gripped his waistcoat so tightly had to be pried loose. He gasped as he was doused with a bucketful of water, and continued to choke for air. Someone was holding him down. He could not open his eyes and when he tried to speak, his attempts only brought on another coughing fit.
Then he heard the most blessed sound in all the entire world: the little boy was crying for his mother. Watson lay back with a sob and cracked open his eyes to look up into the face of Sherlock Holmes, fraught with concern, drawn with anger, and relieved beyond words.
.oOOo.
Later that night, at the Archangel Pub:
Late editions of the Gazette and the Evening Star circulated around the establishment favoured by policemen of the Metropolitan force.
“It’s not often the police receive fair treatment from the press,” said Inspector Lestrade as he rose to head toward the bar.
“Sit down!” Holmes hissed.
“Ow, Holmes! Let go my arm!” Lestrade exclaimed in pain as he was pulled back to his seat.
“Look over there, and tell me what you see,” said the detective, indicating the corner of the bar where Watson and some of the constables were gathered.
The doctor’s clothes bespoke of their earlier adventures; his shirt and waistcoat were singed and blackened in places, and he had failed to remove all the soot from his face. Even so, his eyes shone with merriment and his grin radiated throughout the room. Whatever the constable was saying was obviously humorous for the little group burst into laughter anew.
“He looks… happy,” Lestrade observed.
“He’s drunk,” Holmes replied in disgust, as the publican set another whisky down in front of the doctor, indicating the table where more policemen raised their glasses to him. Watson smiled and raised his glass with appreciation in return.
“And why not? He’s a genuine hero, Holmes. He got me out the door and then went back for the child. He risked his life to save us both.”
“That is the problem. He would risk his life for me; for you; for a stranger; even for a vile blackguard, or some ruddy cat up a tree.”
“I’m sorry. I do not follow. That sounds like the very definition of heroism...”
“Yes, I know. This may be difficult for you to understand, but trust me when I say this: It is not Doctor Watson’s altruism that drives him, but his complete lack of self-worth and total disregard for his own person. He is not a hero; he is a martyr looking for a cause,” Holmes angrily insisted. “He is a danger to himself, and you would do well to realise it.”
Lestrade shook his head, not wanting to hear these words, and failing to think of a suitable rebuttal. “I do not understand your reasoning, Mister Holmes. John Watson is a sensible man and is responsible for his own choices and actions.”
“So it would seem, and yet, he continues to linger under some misguided notion that he owes a debt to his late army comrades. After all this time, the war still plagues him, and in spite of everything, he feels unworthy for surviving when others did not.”
“Surely not! I know he tends to be a pensive fellow, but you are describing a depressive state. Look at him. I have never seen him in such high spirits.”
“It is a passing phase. He will not be so jovial when the lustre of the evening wears off and the nightmares return. And they will return; they always do.”
Both men looked back toward the doctor. When another constable clapped him soundly about the shoulders in congratulations, Watson winced and paled with the sudden pain. However, an instant later his smile returned, and he disengaged from his comrades to weave his way toward Holmes’ and Lestrade’s table, modestly, yet graciously, receiving more kind words and handshakes along the way.
“Consider my words, Lestrade, the next time you ask him out on a case when I am not around,” Holmes intoned, finally releasing his grip on the inspector’s sleeve.
.oOOo.
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