Leverage, 2/?
Title: Leverage, 2/?
Author: jenlee1
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, eventually
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2137 (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.
-Holmes-
Our abductor was as good as his word, at least on one point; I was wrenched abruptly back to consciousness by Mrs. Hudson’s startled cry as she nearly tripped over me on her way to the market at half past eight. For a moment, I was as confused as she to find myself lying on the doorstep, but as I sat up, head spinning, memories of the previous night came rushing back. Watson.
I dragged myself painfully to my feet, breathing hard, as our landlady looked on in some alarm. She was, understandably, rather taken aback by my disheveled appearance and obvious injuries, but I had no time to spare for explanations. I had no time for anything, in fact, apart from the problem at hand, and I mumbled a hasty apology and pushed past her into the house without another word.
The stairs presented a formidable challenge, as the effects of the sedative had not entirely worn off, and I was obliged to lean heavily on the banister to keep my balance as I made the long ascent to my rooms. Once inside, I pulled the door closed behind me, leaning back against it for a moment with a sense of quiet relief as I struggled to collect my thoughts. The situation, I assured myself, was entirely manageable; it was a puzzle, like any other, and I only needed to give the matter proper thought to reveal the solution.
Distantly, I registered a wet stickiness, and an insistent burning sensation along my right side. Glancing down, I was vaguely surprised to see that a considerable amount of blood appeared to have soaked through my shirt and coat. The knife wound had been all but forgotten in light of more pressing concerns, and even now, I felt only a rush of impatience as I realized that something would have to be done about it. Pushing myself away from the door at last, I divested myself of the bloody clothing to reveal an angry gash, several inches long. Careful probing revealed that it was, mercifully, not deep enough to be serious.
Retrieving Watson’s medical bag from the side table, I rummaged hurriedly through it for bandaging supplies. I make no claim to extensive medical expertise, but a simple dressing was within my capabilities, and it would have to suffice for now. Some tiny, nagging corner of my mind was aware that the wound should be cleaned and disinfected, and probably sutured, but my concentration was already elsewhere and I couldn’t bring myself to care. My Doctor, after all, was not here; I needed to stop the bleeding, but anything further would have to wait until he returned. Once he was safely back at Baker Street-which, of course, he would be soon-he could fuss and lecture to his heart’s content.
The dressing thus applied to my satisfaction, I slipped gingerly into a clean shirt. The burning had intensified, and I pressed a hand briefly to my side, breathing deeply as I waited for the worst of the discomfort to pass. I dared not take anything to alleviate the pain; any drug that deadened physical sensation would also dull my senses, and now more than ever, I desperately needed my mind to be sharp and clear. Pain could be ignored, with proper focus and concentration, and so I put the matter firmly from my mind. There were other problems, distinctly more important, that required my attention.
For now, I needed to think. I needed to organize the available data in my mind, to make sense of it and form a plan, because Watson’s life depended on it. I snatched my trusted pipe from the mantelpiece and set about filling the little clay bowl with tobacco. Normally, the familiar routine had a calming effect on my nerves; today, however, I cursed my unsteady hands, giving my head a sharp, violent shake in an effort to dispel the lingering dizziness from whatever they had given me. The room dipped and swayed around me, and in a sudden fit of frustration, I flung the pipe across the room and raked my fingernails down my forearm, as though I could tear the drug’s influence from my mind by clawing at the tiny red mark that remained. At last, trembling in earnest, I sank into my usual armchair and passed a hand across my eyes.
Focus. Breathe. Watson would be fine, everything would be fine, because I would figure something out. After all, this was hardly the most difficult problem I had faced; ensuring Watson’s safe return was a simple matter of sorting through the facts to determine the most effective approach. I curled further into the chair, drawing my knees up to rest my chin on them, and allowed my eyes to drift closed as I turned over the possibilities in my mind.
How long I sat there, I cannot say; the room was considerably brighter when I next looked, suggesting that the morning was progressing at a frankly alarming pace, but at long last, I had managed to reach some conclusions. Without further hesitation, I sprang from the chair and left the room without stopping to collect my coat and hat. For my strategy to work, as much as it pained me to admit it, I would need a certain amount of assistance.
******
Scotland Yard was a bustle of activity, as one would expect on a normal weekday morning, but I had no time to observe the usual niceties. Striding straight through to Inspector Lestrade’s office, I entered without knocking and locked the door behind me. The inspector watched impassively, eyebrows raised, as I dropped unceremoniously into the chair across from his desk.
“I need your help,” I stated without preamble. Normally, the words would have been bitter on my tongue-the idea that the bumblers at the Yard had anything to offer me in the way of skill or expertise was faintly ridiculous-but desperate times call for desperate measures, and the irony of the situation was the least of my concerns today. Lestrade looked, for a moment, as though he had something to say on that very subject, but something in my expression seemed to change his mind.
“What’s happened, then?” he asked, putting aside the paperwork in front of him to give me his full attention. To my dismay, I was nearly overcome by an abrupt, foolish surge of gratitude, and I hastily forced it away as I outlined the situation, careful to keep my tone clinical and dispassionate. The inspector listened attentively, his face grave, until I had finished recounting the previous night’s events. At last, he leaned forward in his chair, pressing his hands together in thought.
“Are you going to take the letters?” he inquired bluntly, and I nearly laughed. Lestrade was nothing if not pragmatic.
“No,” I answered, allowing myself a slight smile in spite of the circumstances. “Rest assured, Inspector, if I were planning to carry out a burglary, I would not have attempted to involve you.” He looked vaguely relieved.
“I did consider it,” I added, “but in all honesty, I don’t believe that recovering the letters would solve our problem.” As his features shifted in puzzlement, I sighed impatiently. “Think, Lestrade,” I snapped. “Once this man has what he wants, there is no reason to believe that he would release Watson unharmed. On the contrary, it would be much safer to simply kill him; he has undoubtedly seen and heard a great deal, already. These people are too intelligent to leave such a dangerous witness alive.” I stopped, realizing that my voice was wavering dangerously. Focus, I told myself firmly. Emotion was rarely of any use when I needed to think, and this was no exception.
Lestrade, to his credit, took no offense at my outburst. Years of interacting with me on various cases had schooled him in patience, and he only nodded, acknowledging the point, and waited calmly for me to continue.
“What I propose,” I pressed on, making an effort to speak quietly, “is that we take a more active approach. If we can determine who this man is, and where Watson is being held, we can mount a rescue.”
The inspector gazed back at me, incredulous. “And how, exactly, do you suggest that we do that?” he asked, his tone clearly conveying his skepticism. “It seems to me, we’ve got nothing to go on.”
“We have enough,” I assured him, with a confidence I did not entirely feel. In truth, we had very little, but it would be enough. It would have to be, because the alternative was unacceptable, and I steadfastly refused to consider it.
He appeared unconvinced, eyebrows furrowed in consternation, and so I elaborated. “The man is an older gentleman, educated and well-spoken, with some connection to the original blackmailer. Possibly some type of medical professional, as he obviously has access to drugs used for sedation and knowledge of how to use them.” I rubbed absently at my forearm, recalling the unwelcome sting of the needle. “That gives us a place to start.”
“Regarding the location,” I continued insistently, as he seemed about to interrupt, “we are looking for an empty house, fairly small, that has probably not been lived in for some time. Given that they were intelligent enough to knock me unconscious rather than simply blindfolding me, I’m afraid that I can’t hazard a guess as to the area of the city. But you can tell your men to keep an eye out, at any rate.”
Lestrade gazed at me across the desk as I fell silent, his expression unreadable. Whatever his thoughts on our odds of success, he kept them to himself, for which I was profoundly grateful. At last, he sighed. “We’ll do our best,” he told me earnestly, and I nodded my thanks.
With that, my business at Scotland Yard was concluded and I rose from my seat, wincing slightly at the resulting stab of pain. Lestrade’s eyes flicked to my right side, and I glanced down to see a small, unobtrusive spot of crimson seeping through the fabric of my shirt. He opened his mouth to say something, but I shot him a warning glare, and he cleared his throat, turning back to his papers. As I turned to leave, however, he spoke again.
“One thing, Holmes,” he said, hesitation in his voice. “You said they had given you a timetable. Twenty-four hours, wasn’t it?”
I nodded wordlessly. I knew what he was getting at, of course, but it couldn’t be helped.
“We won’t be able to find him by this evening, you know,” he told me, his voice strangely gentle, and something inside me twisted fiercely. “Collecting information takes time.”
“I know,” I answered dully. There was nothing else to say.
“What will you tell them, when they contact you?” he asked. It was a reasonable question, and one that I had already considered at great length. The answer was a carefully calculated gamble; it was our best chance-Watson’s best chance-but there was a definite element of risk, regardless.
“I’m going to tell them that I need another day,” I replied, my mouth suddenly quite dry. “They won’t kill him, as long as there’s still a chance that I’ll cooperate.” This was the great sticking point of the plan, and I had examined it in my mind from every possible angle. Our abductor was cold, reasonable, not prone to fits of pique, and he would follow the most logical course of action to get what he wanted. Which, in this case, was to keep Watson alive until I had recovered the letters. The fact that I was virtually certain of this did little to calm my fears.
Lestrade let out a breath. He followed my reasoning, I could see, but his doubts showed plainly on his face. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said at last, and I nearly gave a sharp reply, but his eyes were shadowed and anxious, and his tone was sincere. He liked Watson well enough, I knew; almost everyone liked Watson, because there was no reason not to.
And so, instead of snapping back, I paused for a moment with my hand on the doorknob. “I hope so, too,” I confessed quietly, without looking at him. The inevitable rustling of paperwork signaled that the discussion was over, and I stepped out of the office, closing the door behind me with an air of finality. The inspector would do his part, I was certain, and now I had to do mine.
The matter thus settled, I strode briskly out of the building, quickening my steps as I glanced at my watch. It was past midday already, and I had a great deal to accomplish before nightfall.
Chapter 3