Leverage, 6/?
Title: Leverage, 6/?
Author: jenlee1
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, eventually
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2009 (this chapter)
Summary: A past case creates unforeseen difficulties.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Author's Note: Special thanks to the lovely and talented ingridmatthews for her cover art :)
-Holmes-
It was not quite four o’clock by the time I sank at last onto the upholstered seat of the first available train bound for Manchester, but I found myself strangely exhausted nonetheless. The morning’s horrific shock had taken its toll on my nerves, and I allowed my head to fall back against the threadbare cushions with a long, weary sigh.
Watson. The wrenching, tangled knot in my chest tightened further with every fleeting thought of him, but now that the soporific effects of the morphine had begun to wear off, it was nearly impossible to think of anything else. Over and over, my mind replayed the chain of events leading up to that fateful knock at the door with meticulous precision, reaffirming my culpability in his death with the kind of grim, biting satisfaction that comes of worrying at a hangnail until it bleeds.
I had considered the matter from every conceivable angle, but regardless of how I approached it, the conclusion remained the same. In the end, it came down to a single, inescapable point: Watson’s murder had been so utterly and completely unthinkable that I had neglected to give it proper consideration as a valid possibility. Understandable, perhaps, that I had been reluctant to face the ugly truth of the situation, but inexcusable nonetheless. I had gambled that his captors would not be willing to harm him, and he had paid dearly for my miscalculation.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, and I knew, with cold, unforgiving certainty, that had I truly understood what was at stake, I would have gladly committed a thousand burglaries - a thousand crimes of any kind - to ensure his safe return. My scruples had seemed foolish indeed in the cold light of dawn, as I stood in the smoldering ruin to confront the sickening, undeniable evidence of my failure; whatever moral integrity I had managed to retain by refusing to cooperate, I had traded Watson’s life for it.
My injured side throbbed accusingly with the steady rhythm of the train, and I wished, not for the first time, that I had thought to slip the tiny glass bottle and syringe into my pocket before leaving the house. There was nothing to be done about it now, however, and I shrugged off the growing discomfort with a sense of tired resignation; foresight was certainly not my strong point, lately, and I had endured worse in the past without complaint.
Shifting on the seat in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position, I directed my restless thoughts toward the man I was hunting. He was a formidable villain, to be sure, and one who deserved to answer for what he had done, but this was not the reason that I sought to find him. Or rather, it was - but it was not the only reason, or even the most important one.
I have often found that the intense, all-consuming concentration so often required by my trade has a surprisingly soothing effect on my overactive mind. Left to their own devices, my thoughts scatter disconcertingly in too many different directions, or fasten themselves onto undesirable subjects with stubborn, unyielding tenacity. The application of my considerable talents in pursuit of a worthy objective brings with it a certain, peculiar brand of relief; everything irrelevant falls away, unwelcome distractions and useless sentiments alike, until nothing remains except logic and strategy, and disjointed bits of information perfectly aligned to form a shining, coherent whole.
I knew all too well that without a diversion of some kind, the sheer enormity of my loss would devour me alive; I had glimpsed the demon already, lying on the floor of my study, and it still lurked in the shadows of my darkest thoughts. What I required, above all else, was something, anything, to occupy my mind, and I craved the cold, emotionless focus of the hunt with a desperation that I had never before experienced. It was for this reason, more than any other, that I had set myself the task of finding the enigmatic Mr. Thomas Brighton. The question of what I would do once I caught him was another matter entirely, and one that I had not yet allowed myself to contemplate.
******
The journey dragged endlessly on, with nothing but the sound of the steam engine and the wheels grinding over the tracks to break the monotonous silence. I had engaged a private compartment, as I had no wish to see or speak to anyone, and I found that I was profoundly grateful for the solitude. The muted throb along my right side was rapidly gaining intensity, and a dull, pounding ache had settled just behind my eyes; feeling steadily worse with each passing mile, I tilted my head back against the seat and tried to sleep.
Predictably, my overtaxed mind refused to rest, no matter how my body demanded it, and I managed only a light, fitful doze in spite of my exhaustion. Still, my usual sharp awareness was considerably blunted by fatigue; the remainder of the trip passed in a dazed, uncomfortable blur, and I jerked awake with a painful start as the great steel behemoth lurched to a halt at the Manchester station.
I was standing to disembark when a sudden, unexpected wave of dizziness nearly forced me to sit again, and I gripped the back of the seat to keep my balance as I waited for it to pass. Head down, I reminded myself with the ease of long practice. Just breathe. Slowly, in and out. Somewhere, a nagging voice at the back of my thoughts reminded me that if my dear doctor were here, he would undoubtedly insist that I eat something. But he wasn’t, of course - which was the crux of the problem - and the thought of food was distinctly unappealing.
Seconds passed, and I straightened at last with a certain amount of caution, blinking to clear the hazy spots that still swam across my vision. It was not the first such spell I had experienced, but it made no difference; they generally receded as quickly as they had come, and in any case, I had more important things to attend to. With a final, careful exhalation, I released my white-knuckled hold on the seat and put the matter from my mind, slipping out of the compartment to join the steady throng of passengers jostling their way toward the platform.
Clearing the narrow door at last, I stepped out into the open air, peering ahead to get my bearings in the misty twilight. Nightfall was fast approaching, and I was tired beyond belief; any further progress toward my objective would have to wait until morning, but I had one final errand to complete before seeking a place to stay for the night.
Despite my best efforts, the infernal knife wound was becoming impossible to ignore, sending white-hot tendrils of agony searing into my rib cage with every jarring step, and the need for some sort of relief was growing increasingly desperate. I had trudged through the streets for nearly half an hour before, at long last, I managed to locate the object of my single-minded quest: a pharmacy, stocked with everything necessary to ease my suffering. The exertion of the walk, mild as it was, had driven my discomfort to nearly unbearable levels, and it required every ounce of willpower I could muster to maintain a calm, self-possessed demeanor as I made my purchase from the druggist.
Moments later, in the silent shadows of a nearby alleyway, I let out a long, shuddering breath and allowed the precarious facade to crumble. Resting my head heavily against the wall, I stifled a choked whimper into the unforgiving bricks as I fumbled with the little package, withdrawing the newly acquired bottle and syringe with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. My hands shook so badly that it took several attempts to find a vein, but the task was accomplished at last, and I tried hard to regain some control of myself as I waited for the numbed euphoria of the drug to take hold.
Still struggling to breathe, I allowed my eyes to slip shut and devoted the whole of my concentration to staying upright, fighting the powerful, instinctive urge to curl protectively over my wounded side. Lost in a blinding haze of pain and fatigue, my traitorous mind grasped senselessly at a distant memory, a far-off echo of the only voice I wished to hear. My eyes stung as faint, murmured reassurances hovered in my ears, soft and indistinct but clearly recognizable, as though my dear friend had come at last to tend to me.
It’s all right, Holmes. It’s all right. I have you.
I remained perfectly still, straining to hear - not moving, scarcely breathing for fear of breaking the spell. Eyes still tightly closed, I clung to the comforting illusion of his presence, and I had to stop myself from leaning gratefully into the familiar support of strong, steady hands that weren’t there.
“It hurts,” I whispered, the words twisting in my throat. It was the truth, and I hadn’t the strength to deny it any longer.
The indifferent shadows gave no reply, but I shivered at the barely-present ghost of a gentle touch along my arm, careful and concerned. Forgetting myself for a single, blissful instant, I reached out blindly for his shoulder, but my searching fingers closed on empty air and I stumbled sideways, bracing myself against the wall to keep from falling. The harsh sound of my own breathing echoed loudly in the stillness as awareness came flooding back, and I had never in my life felt more alone.
The cruel intrusion of reality pained me as deeply as the knife wound, and I brushed a hand across my eyes, trembling with the effort it took to resist the siren call of the gathering darkness. It would be so easy - such a relief, in so many ways - to give in and allow my legs to fold beneath me, to sink down softly onto the filthy cobblestones and not get up again.
Blessedly, the morphine soon did its work, deadening my thoughts along with my senses. I surrendered without protest to the forced, artificial sense of calm induced by the drug, as it was infinitely preferable to the alternative.
******
I cannot say how long I stood in the alley, slumped against the wall in a muddled fog, but at length, I found that the worst had receded, and my legs were able to move again. Having long since reached the limits of my endurance, I lost no further time in seeking out lodgings for the night. The room was small and cheap, and not overly clean, but I was in no position to quibble over trifles. Weary as I was, the narrow bed with its firm, unyielding mattress struck me as the most appealing sight I had laid eyes on in quite some time.
Shivering a bit in the draught from a single, dusty window, I undressed slowly, and with a certain amount of difficulty. My limbs felt sluggish and heavy, like moving through water, and my fingers had lost their usual grace as I struggled to work the buttons of my shirt and trousers.
The task accomplished at last, I collapsed into bed and lay still, utterly spent. There were things that I needed to do - plans to make, at the very least - but I was far too tired to focus, too tired to move, or think, or breathe, and the inescapable, gnawing pain still lurked ominously just beneath the surface of the narcotic haze.
To hell with it, I decided drowsily. The game was already lost, in every way that mattered; no amount of brilliant strategizing could undo what was done, and everything else could wait. The irresistible allure of unconsciousness beckoned from somewhere far away, and I lacked the will to resist any longer.
Fleetingly, as my eyes drifted closed, it occurred to me that it would be wonderfully fortunate to simply never wake up.
Chapter 7