Leverage, 1/?
Title: Leverage, 1/?
Author: jenlee1
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, eventually
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2209 (this chapter)
Summary: A past case creates unforeseen difficulties.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Note: Special thanks to the lovely and talented ingridmatthews for her cover art.
- Watson -
Ironically enough, the day had begun as an unusually pleasant one. Which only proves, I suppose, that life is supremely unpredictable, or that fate has a rather dark sense of humor, at times. Holmes was between cases, but only just; the most recent, a relatively trivial matter involving a missing necklace, had been successfully resolved that very afternoon, and the black mood that often comes upon him when he is without work had yet to rear its head.
As for myself, I had completed my patient appointments for the day, and at my suggestion, Holmes agreed to tear himself from his latest chemistry experiment to spend the evening in more social pursuits. He was in high spirits, buoyed by his most recent success, and I was glad of the opportunity to relax after a difficult week. Accordingly, we took a leisurely dinner at Simpson’s, talking of whatever subjects took our fancy and enjoying each other’s company. Twilight was just falling when, at last, we reluctantly concluded our meal and departed.
We were nearly home, busily engaged in conversation as we turned the corner onto Baker Street, when a silent figure melted out of the shadows of a dark alleyway just as we passed. In the blink of an eye, it had seized Holmes from behind, and I could just make out the sliver gleam of a knife blade pressed to his throat. Our eyes locked for only an instant-mugging?-before Holmes drove his body back, twisting hard against his attacker to free himself. Something heavy and solid struck the back of my head as I lunged forward to help, and I was only dimly aware of another figure joining the first, still grappling with Holmes in a confused, silent tangle of bodies and limbs, before my vision dissolved completely and I knew nothing more.
******
As my senses returned, the first impression to penetrate the fog drifting hazily through my mind was a gnawing pain in my wrists. Instinctively, I flexed my hands, attempting to rid myself of the troublesome sensation, only to find that their range of motion was oddly limited. Further contemplation revealed that they were, in fact, fastened behind me at a distinctly uncomfortably angle, with bindings that were rather tighter than necessary. The sudden realization that I was trapped and restrained triggered a brief flare of instinctual panic, and for an instant, I pulled blindly against the ropes in a futile struggle to free myself.
Abruptly, a smooth, drawling voice broke the silence. “Calm yourself, Doctor. You’ll want to save your strength, I think.” The tone was unsettling, filled with a certain malevolent satisfaction that hinted at unpleasant things to come, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Slow, deliberate footsteps circled me, as though the owner of the voice wished to inspect me carefully from every angle.
With growing awareness, I registered the polished surface of the chair I was bound to, my feet resting lightly on the floor, which was hard and smooth beneath the soles of my boots. The air was cool and vaguely musty-a cellar, perhaps, not that it made much difference at the moment. Having discerned all I could about my surroundings without the benefit of seeing them, I opened my eyes, with some reluctance, to find a tall, silver-haired man gazing back at me. He was rather well-dressed, I thought nonsensically, considering the circumstances. A gentleman. Distinguished-looking, civilized, not that it was any comfort. His eyes bored into me with chilling intensity, cold and hard as flint, and I shifted slightly under his strangely predatory stare.
“Who are you?” I whispered. His smile was jagged and dangerous, but he gave no reply.
With a sudden lurch of dread, I noticed that Holmes was conspicuously absent. It was too much to hope for that he had fought off his assailants and gone for help; he would sooner have been killed than abandon me to the mercy of our attackers, which was a train of thought that I did not wish to pursue further. As this man obviously knew who we were, it followed that we had been targeted for a reason. He wanted Holmes for something, almost certainly, and so they would not have killed him on the street. They absolutely would not have, and I assured myself of this until I believed it. What they might be doing to him now, of course, was another matter entirely, and I could restrain myself no longer.
Careful to keep my voice steady, I addressed the man again. “What have you done with Holmes?”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about him.” Again, the icy smile.
This assurance provided little comfort, but it seemed that, for the moment, no additional information was forthcoming. With an effort, I forced my thoughts away from Holmes, turning my attention instead to the layout of the room. My immediate impression was of a damp, cold basement, dimly lit and not overly large. The sparse furnishings and musty odor contributed to a general air of disuse, as though the house had not been occupied in some time. A single door in the far wall appeared to be the only route of entry or exit, an observation that I filed away for future reference.
As I took stock of my surroundings, the grey-haired man ignored me completely, leaning easily against the wall as if there were nothing unusual about the situation. At length, he extracted a pocket watch from his waistcoat, glancing idly at it before slipping it back to its place. Clearly, we were waiting for something, although he seemed to be in no particular hurry.
Before I had time to speculate further, the muffled sound of heavy footfalls from across the room announced that someone was descending the stairs. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal two men; our assailants, presumably, from earlier in the evening. Just in front of them, propelled forward by a rough hand on his arm, was Holmes.
Not surprisingly, it seemed that he had not been subdued without a fight; a vivid bruise was already forming along his jaw line, and a bloody gash along his right side suggested that he had come up on the wrong end of the knife at some point in the struggle. He wavered unsteadily between his captors, eyes casting about with the dazed, unfocused look that I had come to associate with a recent blow to the head, and I thought I had never seen such a beautiful sight in my life. He was not dead, or dying, or being tortured someplace, and that was enough. The rest, we could deal with.
The man turned as they entered, evidently pleased. “It’s good to see you awake, Mr. Holmes,” he remarked pleasantly. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
It was difficult to say whether or not Holmes registered his words, as his eyes had fixed on me almost at once. His gaze sharpened a bit as it swept methodically over my body, and I gave him a quick, reassuring nod. There was a subtle, nearly imperceptible change in his bearing as he allowed himself to relax a bit; it seemed that my fears for his safety had been mutual.
The man observed our silent exchange with keen interest. He chuckled as Holmes finally glanced at him, apparently satisfied with what he had seen. “Not to worry,” he said softly. “Your dear doctor is unharmed, and he will remain so, provided that you do as I ask.”
A cold fist closed around my insides as I grasped the true extent of our predicament. Evidently, my initial suspicions had been correct; Holmes was needed as in instrument in this man’s nefarious plot, whatever it was. I had not anticipated, however, that I would be used to ensure his cooperation, and this detail made the situation infinitely more dangerous. With a tingle of horror at the array of unpleasant possibilities, I began working my wrists against their bindings in an effort to free my hands.
“Do I have your attention, Mr. Holmes?” the man inquired, still staring intently at my friend. I knew Holmes to be an excellent actor when circumstances required it, and although he had paled noticeably, his features betrayed nothing.
“You do,” he replied evenly, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
“Excellent.” The man’s eyes glinted with satisfaction. “I have a favor to ask of you, then, concerning a case that you recently concluded. A trifling matter of some letters that you recovered for the esteemed Lady Carlisle, to be more specific.”
I remembered the case well, as Holmes had taken it not more than a fortnight ago. As it happened, some rather damning correspondence between Lady Carlisle and her lover had fallen into the wrong hands. An attempt at blackmail had very nearly been successful, as she was most anxious that Lord Carlisle remain ignorant of the affair, and the lady had enlisted Holmes’ services in desperation. Within days, the letters were safely back in her possession with no one the wiser, but if our current predicament was any indication, it seemed that the matter was not entirely resolved.
Holmes nodded stiffly in acknowledgement.
“The situation,” he explained, waving a hand amiably as he spoke, “is really quite simple. You obtained those letters from a rather incompetent associate of mine who, regrettably, bungled what would have been a very lucrative endeavor.” He paused. “I want them back, Mr. Holmes, and you are going to get them for me.”
“Why not get them yourself?” snapped Holmes, with all the disdain he could muster. “Theft is generally simpler than kidnapping, after all.”
“Because I prefer to avoid the risk of myself, or someone working for me, being caught in Lady Carlisle’s home,” he answered smoothly, giving a careless little shrug. “It would lead to awkward questions, you see, and I would rather not have my name connected to a scandal. You, on the other hand,” he continued, “are quite skilled enough to accomplish the task undetected, from what I hear. And if you should be discovered, I believe I can count on your discretion.” He glanced pointedly at me, the implication clear, before returning his eyes to Holmes.
My friend stood silent, processing his words, as the man waited expectantly for a response. Surely, I told myself, he could not be considering the request; he would not stoop to stealing from a client to aid a criminal, whatever was at stake. Again, his eyes flicked to mine with an expression I could not decipher, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. At last, he cleared his throat, fixing the man with a look of pure loathing. “Agreed,” he spat reluctantly, as though the word had been torn from his throat.
“Holmes,” I whispered, but he shook his head warningly.
“What shall I do with the letters, once I have them?”
The man’s eyes gleamed. “You will receive instructions. Twenty-four hours should be sufficient, I think,” he added, “so I will expect to see results within that time. And now, Mr. Holmes, I must ask for your cooperation in one final matter.” Carefully, he withdrew a syringe from his pocket, and my friend’s eyes widened in alarm. The man gave a thin, tight-lipped smile. “A sedative, nothing more. I’m afraid that I cannot allow you to see where we are, but rest assured that you will wake up safely at home. Collins, if you would?”
One of the brutes flanking Holmes stepped forward to take the syringe, his face set with malicious resolve. Holmes tensed as Collins rounded on him, moving instinctively to protect himself, and I struggled desperately against my bindings with renewed vigor. I froze, however, at the sound of a familiar click, just inches from my ear, and the barrel of a gun pressed itself to the back of my head. My revolver, I noted dimly, no doubt taken from my pocket while I was unconscious.
“Mr. Holmes.” The cold, smooth voice spoke from somewhere behind me. “If you please.”
Holmes had ceased struggling at once, and I caught a flicker of helpless frustration in his eyes as he lowered his hands in surrender. In the next instant, over my futile shout of protest, Collins had shoved him hard against the wall, roughly grasping his arm to drive the needle home. The drug did its work almost immediately, and he slumped bonelessly to the floor.
The revolver was withdrawn at once, and the grey-haired man shrugged regretfully. “My apologies, Doctor.” I scarcely heard the words, as my attention was fixed on the limp form of my friend as Collins and his partner lifted him, none too gently, and turned for the stairs.
He followed my gaze, one corner of his mouth turning up in apparent amusement. “I give you my word, the drug will not harm him.” Still trembling with fury, I nearly snapped that it wasn’t only the drug I was concerned about, but thought better of it. And in any case, it seemed that he was not inclined to discuss the matter further; with a final, enigmatic glance in my direction, he disappeared up the stairs after his henchmen, and I found myself, at last, alone in the silence.
Chapter 2