The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime 6
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Title: The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG-17
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Summary: Singular Warnings arrive at Baker Street in the most inopportune moment. A horrendous crime is to be committed...
Warnings: mention of drug use, torture, violence (nothing too graphic)
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.
--------------------
The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
I hurried up the stairs and entered the room without preamble, knowing that Holmes was not likely to answer. The shutters were down in both rooms, and the gas lit in the sitting room, whereas the bedroom lay in almost complete darkness. I lit a candle and approached the bed. “Holmes?” I heard his breathing, irregular and pained, and when the light of my candle hit his face, he looked away, but that could not hide the expression of pain from me, who was so accustomed to his features. The mattress was very soft, and he sank deeply into it, a blanket drawn up to his chest, but his hands where resting on top of it, trembling slightly. He looked quite fearful, and I was sure that under the dressing gown he was wearing - apparently his brother's, for it was too large for him - more bruises were hidden than those I could see at the edges, where his skin lay bare. There was an ugly red stripe on his throat which could not quite be covered by the bandage. His upper lip was split, and the old bruise on his forehead had worsened, remains of blood still visible, and his eye now quite truly swollen shut. His leg, while covered by a blanket, was propped up on a cushion, and thus hurt, too. He was lying still, and yet an enormous tension was radiating from him, as if he would rather wreathe in agony.
“Holmes?” I sat down at his side, carefully avoiding to disturb him, and placed the candle on the floor, where it would not molest him, before I rummaged through my medical bag in search of a syringe and a bottle of morphine. “Are you awake?”
“Is it you, Watson?”
“Yes, old fellow.” I touched his hand softly. “I'm going to inject morphine now. It will help you sleep.”
“Wait.”
“What is it? Holmes, you are in pain. You must rest. I only want to help.”
“Don't you think-” He gasped for air. “Don't you think it will happen again? When they discover they did not succeed...” Holmes was hit by an already familiar bout of coughs, and I decided to take his temperature, only to find that his fever had spiked, and that he would probably spent a night of delirium, no longer confined to nightmares. He did not attempt to speak again, exhausted, and did not object as I took his hand in mine.
“They don't know where you are for now, Holmes. You get better first, and then we clear the matter up, how does that sound? Or do you know who they are?”
“No, Watson. Say, Watson?” His voice was terrible feeble.
“Yes, Holmes.”
“You have to return to Baker Street.”
“I can't possibly leave you in such a state!”
“My brother will take care of me. Don't you think they will be watching you? They have to assume I'm in Baker Street when I'm really elsewhere. Tell Mrs Hudson to keep out of the way, and have your revolver at hand. And stay there, or you will lead them here. Also tell the papers I'm dying.”
“Holmes!”
“We need time.” He tensed, a suppressed groan escaping him.
“That's it. I'm injecting the morphine now. You have no need to remain lucid now.”
He didn't succeed in pulling his arm away, although he certainly tried. “You have to do it, Watson, if you care anything for me.”
“How can you possibly doubt that? I am your friend, Holmes, you know that.”
He looked at me through barely opened eyes. “Then do as I ask. If you must, enter through the front door and leave through the back window. But no one must see you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Holmes. Go to sleep now. I will be back shortly.”
I carried out his instructions to the letter, and when I returned to his brother's lodgings in the simple disguise of a violinist, which would have made Holmes sneer, he was awake already, and waiting, but his eyes were blank, and he murmured unintelligible words.
“Holmes? Holmes, do you hear me?”
He shifted uncomfortably, and just as I thought my efforts to rouse him were futile, he trapped my hand in a vice-like grip. “Watson? Is it you? I thought you had gone to Baker Street. You must...”
“I know. I have been to Baker Street. I've just come back - I brought your violin.” I twitched a string of the instrument, and some of the strain left his features.
“It's a pity you don't play, my dear Watson.”
“Just rest.”
“It's cold.”
“I will light a fire.”
“No! No, you must not leave me, I... don't leave.”
“Very well. I will not.”
“How would I know? I can hardly see, much less concentrate. I'm wandering, Watson, even when I'm not asleep - Watson? Are you listening? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I'm here. You're holding my hand.”
“Ah, of course.” His fingers moved a little, allowing the blood to rush back into my limb. “Strange how it affects me.”
“Your health has broken down completely, Holmes. These ruffians! If I could only lay hands on them!”
“No! Watson, they are dangerous. You mustn't get in their way, or you will be hurt.”
“But who are they?”
“I don't know.” Again, he shifted, again, the movement ceased in the middle. “Watson, do something. Make it stop.”
“What is it?”
“My head is spinning, I can't think. Watson, where are we?”
“Your brother's lodgings, Holmes. Try to concentrate.”
“I feel sick.”
“I know. Who were they, Holmes? I say, are you still with me?”
He had sunken back limply into the pillows, his hand almost losing its grip around my wrist.
“They were hired, Watson, by a person far more dangerous than all of them. This person we must find. But not now. I'm exhausted. Please, Watson, turn off your candle, and light the fire, and let me have some rest.”
“You will. Try to sleep. You haven't slept properly in days.”
“Promise you won't leave.”
“I promise.”
He relinquished his hold, and was asleep already as I placed his hand back on the bed. I knew him to be badly hurt, although he would not admit the true extent of his injuries even to me. Vulnerability did not sit well with him, and he would rather push himself to complete breakdown than admit defeat, and now he still retained this mentality, even though he was clearly past the point of breakdown. It was a mere coincidence that he was still alive. Or was it? I wondered who would wish to do this to Holmes, and not only send warnings to us, but to Scotland Yard as well, as if he wanted to see his plans fail, or prove that he would succeed nevertheless. If so, the previous attempts on Holmes's life had been naught but warnings, and the intensity was increasing. Possibly the illness had not been natural after all...
The night, however, passed without disturbance, save the return of Mycroft Holmes, whose steps I heard on the stairs but who did not intrude upon us. I had carried a chair to Holmes's bedside, in which at some time I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke, it was broad daylight, as far as I could tell by the streak of light breaking through the gap in the shutters. They caressed Holmes's face, adding all the more to his pallor. As I listened to the noise of Pall Mall outside, I wished for the quiet of our own rooms, but it was impossible to return there. The threat of yet another attempt simply was too great.
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Title: The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG-17
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Summary: Singular Warnings arrive at Baker Street in the most inopportune moment. A horrendous crime is to be committed...
Warnings: mention of drug use, torture, violence (nothing too graphic)
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.
--------------------
The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
I hurried up the stairs and entered the room without preamble, knowing that Holmes was not likely to answer. The shutters were down in both rooms, and the gas lit in the sitting room, whereas the bedroom lay in almost complete darkness. I lit a candle and approached the bed. “Holmes?” I heard his breathing, irregular and pained, and when the light of my candle hit his face, he looked away, but that could not hide the expression of pain from me, who was so accustomed to his features. The mattress was very soft, and he sank deeply into it, a blanket drawn up to his chest, but his hands where resting on top of it, trembling slightly. He looked quite fearful, and I was sure that under the dressing gown he was wearing - apparently his brother's, for it was too large for him - more bruises were hidden than those I could see at the edges, where his skin lay bare. There was an ugly red stripe on his throat which could not quite be covered by the bandage. His upper lip was split, and the old bruise on his forehead had worsened, remains of blood still visible, and his eye now quite truly swollen shut. His leg, while covered by a blanket, was propped up on a cushion, and thus hurt, too. He was lying still, and yet an enormous tension was radiating from him, as if he would rather wreathe in agony.
“Holmes?” I sat down at his side, carefully avoiding to disturb him, and placed the candle on the floor, where it would not molest him, before I rummaged through my medical bag in search of a syringe and a bottle of morphine. “Are you awake?”
“Is it you, Watson?”
“Yes, old fellow.” I touched his hand softly. “I'm going to inject morphine now. It will help you sleep.”
“Wait.”
“What is it? Holmes, you are in pain. You must rest. I only want to help.”
“Don't you think-” He gasped for air. “Don't you think it will happen again? When they discover they did not succeed...” Holmes was hit by an already familiar bout of coughs, and I decided to take his temperature, only to find that his fever had spiked, and that he would probably spent a night of delirium, no longer confined to nightmares. He did not attempt to speak again, exhausted, and did not object as I took his hand in mine.
“They don't know where you are for now, Holmes. You get better first, and then we clear the matter up, how does that sound? Or do you know who they are?”
“No, Watson. Say, Watson?” His voice was terrible feeble.
“Yes, Holmes.”
“You have to return to Baker Street.”
“I can't possibly leave you in such a state!”
“My brother will take care of me. Don't you think they will be watching you? They have to assume I'm in Baker Street when I'm really elsewhere. Tell Mrs Hudson to keep out of the way, and have your revolver at hand. And stay there, or you will lead them here. Also tell the papers I'm dying.”
“Holmes!”
“We need time.” He tensed, a suppressed groan escaping him.
“That's it. I'm injecting the morphine now. You have no need to remain lucid now.”
He didn't succeed in pulling his arm away, although he certainly tried. “You have to do it, Watson, if you care anything for me.”
“How can you possibly doubt that? I am your friend, Holmes, you know that.”
He looked at me through barely opened eyes. “Then do as I ask. If you must, enter through the front door and leave through the back window. But no one must see you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Holmes. Go to sleep now. I will be back shortly.”
I carried out his instructions to the letter, and when I returned to his brother's lodgings in the simple disguise of a violinist, which would have made Holmes sneer, he was awake already, and waiting, but his eyes were blank, and he murmured unintelligible words.
“Holmes? Holmes, do you hear me?”
He shifted uncomfortably, and just as I thought my efforts to rouse him were futile, he trapped my hand in a vice-like grip. “Watson? Is it you? I thought you had gone to Baker Street. You must...”
“I know. I have been to Baker Street. I've just come back - I brought your violin.” I twitched a string of the instrument, and some of the strain left his features.
“It's a pity you don't play, my dear Watson.”
“Just rest.”
“It's cold.”
“I will light a fire.”
“No! No, you must not leave me, I... don't leave.”
“Very well. I will not.”
“How would I know? I can hardly see, much less concentrate. I'm wandering, Watson, even when I'm not asleep - Watson? Are you listening? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I'm here. You're holding my hand.”
“Ah, of course.” His fingers moved a little, allowing the blood to rush back into my limb. “Strange how it affects me.”
“Your health has broken down completely, Holmes. These ruffians! If I could only lay hands on them!”
“No! Watson, they are dangerous. You mustn't get in their way, or you will be hurt.”
“But who are they?”
“I don't know.” Again, he shifted, again, the movement ceased in the middle. “Watson, do something. Make it stop.”
“What is it?”
“My head is spinning, I can't think. Watson, where are we?”
“Your brother's lodgings, Holmes. Try to concentrate.”
“I feel sick.”
“I know. Who were they, Holmes? I say, are you still with me?”
He had sunken back limply into the pillows, his hand almost losing its grip around my wrist.
“They were hired, Watson, by a person far more dangerous than all of them. This person we must find. But not now. I'm exhausted. Please, Watson, turn off your candle, and light the fire, and let me have some rest.”
“You will. Try to sleep. You haven't slept properly in days.”
“Promise you won't leave.”
“I promise.”
He relinquished his hold, and was asleep already as I placed his hand back on the bed. I knew him to be badly hurt, although he would not admit the true extent of his injuries even to me. Vulnerability did not sit well with him, and he would rather push himself to complete breakdown than admit defeat, and now he still retained this mentality, even though he was clearly past the point of breakdown. It was a mere coincidence that he was still alive. Or was it? I wondered who would wish to do this to Holmes, and not only send warnings to us, but to Scotland Yard as well, as if he wanted to see his plans fail, or prove that he would succeed nevertheless. If so, the previous attempts on Holmes's life had been naught but warnings, and the intensity was increasing. Possibly the illness had not been natural after all...
The night, however, passed without disturbance, save the return of Mycroft Holmes, whose steps I heard on the stairs but who did not intrude upon us. I had carried a chair to Holmes's bedside, in which at some time I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke, it was broad daylight, as far as I could tell by the streak of light breaking through the gap in the shutters. They caressed Holmes's face, adding all the more to his pallor. As I listened to the noise of Pall Mall outside, I wished for the quiet of our own rooms, but it was impossible to return there. The threat of yet another attempt simply was too great.
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