A Matter of Conscience, 2/?
Title: A Matter of Conscience, 2/?
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes, with appearances by Lestrade and Mary
Summary: When an investigation goes awry, Watson is forced to consider the consequences of his absence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
I pulled my overcoat tighter around me, shivering in the drizzle as Lestrade and I stepped out of the carriage in front of the abandoned factory building. The inspector looked skeptically at me.
“You’re sure this is the place?” he asked. “None of the burglaries have been in this area.”
I shrugged, distracted. My eyes were already scanning the empty street, hoping to pick up some trace of my friend’s presence. “If I recall correctly, he was basing his conclusion on a distinctive bit of soil he found at one of the crime scenes.” It was conceivable, I thought, that a group of thieves might be using this place as a hideout, or a storage facility. The area appeared to be quite deserted, save for Lestrade and myself.
In any case, we were wasting valuable time. I motioned to the empty building. “Start from the front. I’m going to circle around back and check for a rear entrance. Shout if you find anything.” Unlike Holmes, I was unaccustomed to barking orders at Scotland Yard officials, but these were unusual circumstances. Lestrade, to his credit, did not object to my instructions or my manner of giving them. He gave a brisk little nod, and strode off in the direction of the building’s front entrance.
Moving to the side of the building, I stepped into the alleyway between the old factory and the equally dilapidated warehouse adjacent to it. I had not advanced more than five or six steps into the alley when, ahead of me in the distance, I caught sight of a crumpled figure lying on the ground near the back corner of the building.
For an instant, I forgot to breathe. Forcing my feet to move, I covered the remaining distance in seconds. As I approached, I could see that my friend lay on his side, curled protectively around his midsection. He was alarmingly still, and he did not stir as I dropped to my knees beside him and pressed my fingers to his neck. Almost immediately, I breathed a sigh of relief-his pulse beneath my fingertips was weak and thready, but it was there.
My most pressing fear alleviated, I turned my attention to the rest of his body. Gently, I brushed my fingers over a mass of congealed blood in the hairline just above his right temple. His skin was cold to the touch, and I wondered anxiously how long he had been lying here. Exposure, combined with a concussion, would certainly account for his unconscious state; however, his curled position suggested other injuries as well.
Carefully, I placed a hand on his shoulder and began to ease him onto his back. Despite my gentleness, the movement elicited a strangled groan as Holmes was wrenched painfully back to consciousness. He blinked up at me, dazed and uncomprehending.
“Holmes, it’s all right,” I said softly. “It’s me. Just lie still.” At last, his unfocused gaze met mine and I saw a flicker of recognition, and something like relief. He closed his eyes again, but his left hand reached out to grasp the edge of my overcoat as I knelt beside him, his trembling fingers tightening on the rough wool. My throat constricted painfully, and I rested my hand on his forehead, careful to avoid the laceration above his temple.
“I take it you found your jewelry thieves?” I inquired softly.
A faint smile quirked the edges of his lips, although his eyes remained closed. “Indeed,” he murmured. “The encounter did not unfold entirely the way I had hoped, as you may have guessed.”
He stiffened as my hands returned to their careful examination, pressing gently on his abdomen. As my probing fingers moved to his ribs, he cried out in pain, twisting away from me. “All right, all right,” I whispered, my hands moving to his shoulders in an attempt to calm him. Clearly, then, there was some damage-he was breathing in ragged gasps, his face contorted in pain. In addition, now that he was conscious, I could see that he was holding his right arm protectively against his body.
My train of thought was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps in the alley behind me. “Doctor!” Lestrade’s voice was breathless from running. “You found him, then?” He stopped, worried eyes fixed on my friend, and swore softly. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered, hating the tremor in my voice. “Bring the carriage around. We need to get him someplace warm and dry, where I can examine him properly.”
He turned immediately and rushed back up the alley; I could hear him calling for the carriage driver before he reached the front corner of the building. Returning my attention to Holmes, I touched his shoulder again, but his eyes were closed. His clothing was wet from the rain, and I could feel his body trembling under my hand. Silently urging Lestrade to hurry, I slipped off my overcoat and draped it over him. Then, settling myself once more beside him on the cobblestones, I tucked my legs beneath me and eased his head into my lap, pressing my fingertips again to the pulse point on his neck.
“You’re going to be fine, old boy,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure if it was a reassurance or a command, but in any case, Holmes gave no sign that he heard.
Chapter 3