Leverage, 9/10
Title: Leverage, 9/10
Author: jenlee1
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, eventually
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5518 (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 :)
-Watson-
In retrospect, I should have noticed immediately that something was amiss.
The house was dark and silent as we entered - unusually so, given the hour - but with Holmes wavering precariously at my side, leaning into me with such force that I might just as well have carried him up the stairs to our rooms, my attention was otherwise occupied. As I had feared, the long journey from Manchester had only served to exacerbate the effects of his illness; the fever had worsened during the lengthy train ride, despite his stubborn assertions to the contrary, leaving him alarmingly unsteady on his feet and somewhat lacking in his usual sharp awareness.
Undoubtedly, I should have given more thought to the possibility that our enemies would choose to strike sooner rather than later, but such considerations have always come much more naturally to Holmes than to me; with his ability to think so severely compromised, I was finding it difficult to adjust.
And so, as I steered him carefully into our quarters to collapse, relieved, onto the settee, my thoughts were fixed almost exclusively on how best to counter the most recent damage he had done to himself. Leaving him to catch his breath for a moment, I turned to put aside my hat and jacket, too busy compiling a mental list of needed supplies to fully register Holmes’ mumbled words in the background.
A basin of cool water, certainly; some clean towels - “Watson.” - fresh bandages, most likely, because the damned wound’s probably bleeding again - “Watson!”
The urgency in his tone caught my attention at last, but before I could process what he was telling me, the door fell shut behind us with a sharp, ominous click; other concerns were all but forgotten, swept away in a shivering thrill of fear as the grave nature of our situation announced itself with chilling clarity.
Well, Holmes, I mused bitterly, you were right, as usual. Although, I suspect, not quite in the way you had hoped.
The voice that rang out in the ensuing silence - smooth and arrogant, instantly recognizable - was very much at odds with the pleasant, comforting familiarity of our sitting room. It seemed strangely impossible that he had found us here, of all places, and the sensation was akin to being plunged into the Thames in the dead of winter; black and oily, and cold as ice.
“An apt deduction, Mr. Holmes,” the man sneered in response to my friend’s belated warning, his eyes glinting as they had in the shadows of that godforsaken cellar. “And I must say, I’m very pleased that you and the doctor could join us - we have some rather pressing matters to discuss.” He was flanked, not surprisingly, by the other henchman I had seen during my captivity, and my revolver still gleamed dangerously in his hand.
Outgunned, then; the thug’s probably armed as well. I tried to assess our predicament logically, to form some sort of strategy, but my mind stumbled over the rush of troubling thoughts. My temperament has always been more suited to quick, reflexive action than to long periods of intense contemplation, and for a foolish instant, I toyed with the idea of launching myself at the gun in an immediate bid for escape. A glance at my friend, however, brought me crashing back to reality before my feet had left the ground.
In addition to being unarmed, we were also, essentially, outnumbered, as Holmes was in no condition to fight. I very much doubted his ability to hold a coherent conversation at the moment, much less hold his own in a brawl, and my chances of subduing both men without his help were slim indeed.
Particularly without someone being injured - or worse - in the process.
The risk was simply too great. As much as it pained me, every muscle tensed and ready, there was nothing to do for now but watch and wait; sooner or later, an opportunity was bound to present itself. With an effort, I willed my restless instincts into submission and refocused my attention on the events unfolding in front of me.
Holmes was clearly startled at the grey-haired man’s sudden appearance, although a casual observer would not have been able to see it. His eyes widened slightly in recognition at the first sound of his voice, and I caught a flicker of apprehension, quickly controlled, as he risked a glance in my direction. The danger could not have presented itself at a worse time, and he knew it as well as I did.
I watched as he drew a breath, visibly gathering his wits and whatever remained of his strength, and turned to address our captor more directly. In an instant, the all-too-human anxiety had vanished; his expression when he spoke was calm, confident, betraying nothing but polite interest in the conversation.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Mr. Brighton,” he answered agreeably, infusing the name with a light, ironic emphasis. The man’s thin lips curved upward in a tight smile, as Holmes gestured toward the still-smoldering fireplace. “It appears that you’ve found what you were looking for.”
The man moved closer, his steps slow and measured, the odd, malicious smile still firmly in place. He halted across from the settee, gazing down at Holmes with an air of indulgent superiority.
“Yes, you’ve managed to discover my name - most impressive.” His tone suggested otherwise, but Holmes refused to rise to the bait, regarding him impassively as he continued. “It’s a pity, really, that you chose to waste time collecting useless information rather than doing as I asked. Such a simple task, for a man of your talents, and it would have saved us all a great deal of trouble.”
Holmes twitched at that - the barest hint of a flinch, scarcely detectable and almost immediately stifled beneath the mask of calm regard. He knew all too well what his decision had nearly cost him, but he pressed on with the conversation without missing a beat; whatever misplaced guilt he still harbored over his failure to act, it was buried far beneath the surface.
“I have found, in my line of work, that information is very rarely useless. In your case, for example,” he inclined his head graciously toward Brighton, as though speaking to a client, “I’ve gathered more than enough evidence to have you arrested - which, to my mind, would be quite useful indeed. Really, it all depends on one’s point of view.”
He affected a careless shrug, laced with the maddening insouciance that infuriated enemies and colleagues alike, but his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his adversary’s face; perceptive as ever, and deadly serious. The challenge was clear, and Brighton’s eyes narrowed at the implication.
“You think you know so much about me?” His voice had dropped dangerously; the words crept out, soft and silken, heavy with unspoken threats. “I find that difficult to believe.”
Holmes stared back evenly, a tiny, triumphant smile playing about the corners of his mouth despite the gravity of the situation. There was little he enjoyed more than demonstrating the extent of his own cleverness, and he clearly relished the opportunity to discomfit the man who had caused us so much grief.
“Besides your name, of course - which was absurdly simple to discover - I am quite familiar with your… rather pivotal role in the original blackmail plot against Lady Carlisle, as your nephew can attest.”
Brighton’s eyes flashed, but Holmes pressed on before he could interrupt.
“In addition, it seems that the vacant house where Watson was held belonged to your late sister - a startling coincidence, as I’m sure you’ll agree. In fact, I suspect that it may be of some interest to Scotland Yard, given their current investigation into the arson and murder that recently occurred there.”
He paused, allowing the implications to sink in. Brighton’s displeasure was obvious. “I see.” His eyes glinted sharply, color rising in his cheeks. “And how is it, exactly, that you came by this… wealth of information?”
Holmes waved a hand dismissively, voice growing stronger as he warmed to his subject. “With very little difficulty, in fact. It is a simple matter to gather data, if one only knows where to look. As you may be aware, I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours making some highly useful inquiries in Manchester - your family estate there is charming, by the way; I quite enjoyed my visit.”
The remark had the desired effect, as one elegant hand curled into a silent fist at Brighton’s side, but he continued on as though he hadn’t noticed.
“At any rate, I expected you to return there, after you had - ” He faltered suddenly, stumbling over memories still too raw for words. “After the fire.”
Shadowed eyes flickered sideways, meeting mine for the briefest of instants.
“But of course,” he added smoothly, returning his attention to Brighton, “it all makes sense now. You’ve been otherwise occupied - searching for Watson, ever since his escape. He left the hospital too quickly for you to find him there, and he returned here, to our rooms, for only one night. You lost track of him when he left the city and decided, instead, to come here with the intention of destroying whatever evidence of your crimes I had managed to uncover.”
“Our subsequent arrival,” he finished, a bit breathlessly, “was merely a fortunate coincidence.”
Silence reigned for a long moment, as Brighton absorbed the impact of his words. His voice, when he spoke at last, trembled with barely restrained fury.
“Full marks for accuracy, Mr. Holmes, but I’m afraid it makes no difference, because you will never have the opportunity to share those conclusions with anyone outside this room. Which brings me back to my original point.”
Holmes’ little speech, though it had cost him dearly, appeared to have succeeded in unnerving his adversary; the facade of icy calm was beginning to crumble in earnest. He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, movements increasingly sharp and agitated, before halting to gesture at the side table.
“You were careless enough, in your haste, to leave some of your notes lying here for anyone to see. We have disposed of them, of course, but there are undoubtedly more.” He stared hard at Holmes, as if attempting to discern the answer from his face. “Among the papers in your study, perhaps?”
Holmes shrugged, carefully noncommittal.
The revolver flashed, suddenly, in the lamp light, as Brighton leveled it at Holmes’ head without another word; clearly, the discussion was at an end.
“Get up,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are going to show me where.”
Holmes had gone very still, his gaze flicking from the gun to Brighton’s face. As I watched, he seemed to come to a decision, of some sort; he glanced once again in my direction, expression inscrutable, before sinking back against the cushions, eyes sliding closed with an air of weary finality. Whether he meant it as a gesture of defiance, or was simply too ill and exhausted to pretend otherwise any longer, was impossible to say. Regardless, his refusal to cooperate was abundantly clear.
For a single, terrible instant, I thought that Brighton would shoot him where he sat. His mouth had tightened into a razor-thin line, the revolver shaking slightly with the force of his indignation; he was a man unaccustomed to refusals of any sort, and the sight of Holmes’ utter indifference in the face of his threats clearly incensed him beyond anything else that had yet occurred.
I scarcely dared to breathe as he strode forward, his body fairly humming with the simmering anger beneath the surface of his words, and seized Holmes roughly by his shirt collar. Before anyone could react, he had hauled the injured man from his place on the settee with surprising force, eliciting a choked cry of pain as he dragged him to his feet.
Holmes recoiled from the grasping hands at his throat, twisting instinctively to free himself, but it seemed that the sudden movement had been too much for his overtaxed body, as his waning strength appeared to desert him completely. He stumbled sideways as Brighton released him, one arm pressed tightly to his wounded side, and I could only watch in horror as his eyes fluttered closed, face ashen; he crumpled to the floor with an anguished groan and lay still, chest rising and falling in a quick, halting rhythm.
“Holmes!” The startled cry escaped before I could stifle it, and I started forward at once, blind to all else. Such was my preoccupation with the drama unfolding in front of me that I had entirely forgotten the presence of Brighton’s henchman, lurking silently nearby. I had scarcely begun to move when, abruptly, I found myself pinned hard against the wall at my back; a meaty arm slung across my chest made it nearly impossible to move, and the knife blade hovering just below the angle of my jaw convinced me that it would be most unwise to try.
I watched with growing alarm as Brighton stared down at my friend’s motionless form, radiating cold fury in the unnatural stiffness of his bearing. A polished boot shot out to nudge Holmes sharply in the ribs, but the only response was another strangled groan. Brighton’s face tightened, eyes flashing with inarticulate rage, and he drew his foot back for another, more forceful kick as I began to struggle in earnest, scarcely aware of the knife at my throat.
“For God’s sake, can’t you see that he’s ill?” My left elbow found the thug’s ribs and drove back, earning me a satisfying grunt of pain, but the restraining arm refused to budge. “He can’t help you - he can hardly walk.”
I flailed against the relentless grip in something approaching blind panic, panting with exertion and protective fury, desperate to tear Brighton’s attention away from his defenseless target. He turned to me at last, regarding my display of anger with cool indifference even as he registered the truth of my words. Behind him, Holmes muttered something incoherent, head lolling helplessly on the floor.
“Very well, then.” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in reluctant interest as he considered the point. “You, Doctor, will accompany me to the study - I trust that you can show me where your colleague keeps his things. And you,” he nodded to the man whose arm was nearly cutting off my air supply, “will remain with Mr. Holmes while the doctor and I conduct our search.” His eyes flashed to the knife in his henchman’s hand, gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Perhaps you can persuade him to be more helpful, when he awakens.”
Every instinct rebelled at the idea of leaving Holmes, alone and unconscious, at the mercy of Brighton’s thug. A vehement refusal was already at my lips as I tore my gaze from the steely eyes in front of me to glance once more at Holmes, still sprawled beside the settee where he had fallen. Rational thought jolted to a halt at the instant I caught sight of his face, and in fact, it was all I could do to stifle an exclamation of surprise.
His eyes were wide open, locked urgently on mine in a fair approximation of his usual clear, perceptive gaze.
I recovered in time to keep my expression from giving anything away, marveling inwardly at his daring. Holmes was an excellent actor, when the situation called for it; as usual, he was a step ahead of all of us, and I could only scramble to catch up. His stare burned into mine with a sharp, feverish intensity that left no doubt as to his intentions and at last, in a confused tangle of relief and apprehension, I understood his plan. Divide and conquer.
With Brighton and myself out of the room, the remaining henchman would be left to stand guard, alone, over his apparently unconscious prisoner. It would only take an instant - a brief lapse in vigilance, a moment of distraction - for the situation to shift in our favor; with a little luck, it was just possible that Holmes might have an opportunity to make a move against him.
It was a risky strategy, to be sure. Even if the swoon had been feigned, the fever and dizziness were all too real; the idea of Holmes attempting to overpower anyone in his current state - let along a hulking, well-muscled thug with a knife - was faintly ridiculous. Still, it was the only viable option that had yet presented itself, and under the circumstances, I could hardly deny him the chance to try.
I didn’t dare nod, but he read the decision in my eyes as soon as it was made; dark lashes fluttered closed in silent acknowledgement, and I steeled myself for whatever was to come.
My gaze shifted back to Brighton’s face, dangerously close to my own, and I grimaced in disgust. “Fine,” I spat reluctantly, with all the venom I could muster. “Tell your man to unhand me, then, and I’ll show you whatever you like.”
He gave a brusque nod, and the crushing pressure of the arm across my chest yielded at last. I made as if to kneel beside Holmes - to reassure myself, if no-one else, that he was more or less unharmed - but Brighton shook his head warningly, gesturing toward me with the revolver in an unspoken threat.
“I think not, Doctor. We have business to attend to.” His eyes flashed, betraying his impatience, and I was left with no choice but to follow him at once. I chanced a quick look at Holmes, still motionless on the floor, as we passed. The guise was disturbingly convincing, and it required all the willpower I possessed to leave him lying there; pale and still, and very much alone. I allowed my eyes to fall closed for a moment in a silent, useless entreaty - have a care, Holmes; don’t do anything foolish - before turning away.
At first glance, Holmes’ private study appeared very much as I had left it earlier in the week; dim and cluttered, as always, with a fine, overlying layer of dust. As we stepped into the room, however, picking our way through the usual detritus of abandoned chemistry experiments, faded newspapers, and discarded articles of clothing, it became evident that a search, of sorts, had already been made.
Here and there, items had been shifted haphazardly, overturned and left in unusual places; Holmes saw no need to keep his things in order - at least, not in any conventional sense - but he was unfailingly systematic in his way, and he could locate any object he chose with unerring accuracy. In short, there are messes, and then there are messes; a subtle distinction, perhaps, but it was clear that other hands had been at work here.
“I see that you’ve had some difficulties.” I registered Brighton’s answering scowl without looking at him, allowing myself a tiny thrill of satisfaction at the idea that Holmes’ infuriating clutter had so stubbornly resisted their attempts to make sense of it. Like so many things in life, as my friend would say, it was a simple matter of knowing where to look. In this, my years of familiarity with his peculiar habits gave me a distinct advantage over a stranger. In all likelihood, the papers he sought were among those piled in a careless heap just to the right of Holmes’ desk; or, failing that, stuffed beneath the threadbare armchair in the corner, for reasons known only to himself.
I turned, therefore, to the opposite side of the room, rummaging innocently through a stack of unopened correspondence on a table by the window. Behind me, Brighton cleared his throat, signaling his growing impatience. I glanced back, hands still busy with their imaginary task.
“It may take a few minutes, I’m afraid - as you can see, my colleague’s filing system leaves a great deal to be desired.” He frowned his disapproval at my back, but given the sheer, impenetrable enormity of the mess, he could hardly argue the point.
When I had exhausted all the possibilities that the little table had to offer, I moved on to a disordered pile of half-finished monographs on various subjects, scattered harmlessly across the floor in front of the hearth. In truth, Holmes’ belongings were in such a state of disarray that the search could be drawn out as long as necessary, but the growing knot of apprehension in my chest was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Thoughts of what might be happening in the adjoining room forced their way, unbidden, to the forefront of my mind; the unbearable tension increased with each passing minute, until it required all my concentration to keep my hands steady as I worked, scrutinizing each useless piece of paper with exaggerated care before putting it aside.
I had made it more than halfway through the stack, every nerve on edge as Brighton glowered behind me, when at last, mercifully, something happened.
A sound issued from the sitting room, somewhat muffled by the ancient wooden door but unmistakable nonetheless - a faint crash, as if something had broken, and a heavy, solid thump. A body falling to the floor, my mind supplied with chilling certainty. It was a sound I had heard often enough, regrettably, to be quite sure of its origin, and it never failed to raise an uncomfortable flicker of anxiety.
Particularly when Holmes was out of my sight.
I whirled at once, fairly trembling with the desire to leap into action at last, but Brighton was ready; he had started at the sound, as I had, but recovered his wits just as quickly. No sooner had I turned to face him than I found myself staring down the barrel of his revolver - my revolver - hovering just inches from my forehead. He was not a fool, whatever else he might be, and the glint of renewed fury in his stare told me in no uncertain terms that he knew, or suspected, what we were up to.
“Move,” he hissed, gesturing sharply with the gun for emphasis. I needed no encouragement; I was as anxious as he to see what had transpired in the next room, albeit for entirely different reasons, and my feet were already in motion before the sound of his voice had died away. He followed close behind, and a hand closed firmly on my shoulder as I reached the door. I froze at the sickeningly familiar caress of a gun barrel against the back of my head, fingers hovering over the doorknob. The warning was clear.
“Open it,” growled the steely voice, a hairsbreadth from my ear. “Slowly.”
The creaking groan of the hinges echoed like a gunshot in the unnatural stillness, and a tiny sliver of light split the gloom of the study. I peered out, heart thumping wildly behind my ribcage, straining to see what had happened.
Nothing - Holmes and his captor were nowhere to be seen. I eased the door open still further, acutely aware of Brighton’s lurking presence at my back; inch by inch, the remainder of the room crept into view. There was no obvious sign of a disturbance, but the deafening silence weighed heavily on my ears, somehow more ominous than the sound of a violent struggle. Something wasn’t right.
Behind me, it appeared that Brighton had drawn the same conclusion. His hand tightened on my shoulder, effectively forestalling any attempt to break away, and the gun nuzzled insistently at the back of my neck. “I warn you, Doctor, I will not hesitate to shoot.” His breath fluttered over my ear, uncomfortably close, and I fought the urge to lean away. “Now step forward.”
The commanding tone, backed by the ever-present threat of cold steel against my head, left no room for argument. We stepped as one into the sitting room, his iron grip never wavering from my shoulder; we had scarcely cleared the doorway, giving us both our first proper view of the entire room, when a great many things began to happen at once.
Being in front, as I was, gave me the single, precarious advantage of grasping the situation an instant before he did. It was immediately apparent that there had been a struggle, of sorts; sprawled on the floor near the far corner of the room, in a place invisible from inside the study, was a body - not Holmes, thank God - lying amidst the remains of one of Mrs. Hudson’s best table lamps. Which explained the crash, at any rate, but not the current whereabouts of my injured friend.
There was no time to speculate, however, as I registered a sudden movement in my peripheral vision; a darting figure off to the left, emerging from behind the door we had just come through. Brighton tensed behind me, forgetting himself for a split second in reaction to the unexpected threat, and instinct took over completely. Mind curiously blank, all rational thought burned away in a white-hot rush of adrenaline, I seized the opportunity without a moment’s hesitation.
Twisting my body hard to the side, I pulled free of his grasp and ducked my head in a single, fluid motion; there was a cry of rage, and a gunshot - I fancied that I could feel the rush of air as the bullet passed, mere inches from my hairline, to bury itself harmlessly in the far wall - and I stumbled, momentarily caught off balance. Ears ringing, I was dimly aware of dark hair and a familiar, breathless grunt of pain as Brighton was all but knocked off his feet before he could fire again.
The force of the impact sent the revolver flying, and I scrambled to recover it as Holmes struggled, behind me, with our adversary. The gun, my mind chanted, awash in instinct and half-buried military training. Get the gun. Crossing the room in two quick strides, I snatched it from the floor and whirled around with a cry of triumph, only to discover that my assistance was largely unneeded.
Holmes, it seemed, had somehow gained the upper hand in the seconds it had taken for me to recover the weapon. Brighton was backed against the wall, hands empty and useless at his sides, Holmes bearing down him with fierce, commanding determination. It took me a moment to realize how he had managed it, but Brighton shifted slightly, in discomfort or barely-masked anxiety, and a sudden gleam in the lamp light drew my eye; I registered the knife blade with a strange, inexplicable thrill of horror, pressing with deadly purpose against the hollow of his throat.
“Holmes, I have him.” I moved closer, revolver trained unwaveringly on our adversary. The blissful rush of relief still lingered, but it had begun to mingle with a growing sense of disquiet that I was hard pressed to explain. “I have him,” I repeated, more softly. “It’s all right, now. Just step away.”
He gave no sign that he heard, or indeed, that he was even aware of my presence. All things considered, he was a frankly alarming sight; breathing hard and paler than I had ever seen him, save for the deep flush across his cheekbones. In truth, I couldn’t fathom how his body was still managing to function, but it was frighteningly clear that he was not in full possession of his faculties. His face hovered mere inches from Brighton’s, piercing eyes over-bright with fever, his features utterly transformed with a strange, animalistic fury that I had never before seen in his expression.
“Holmes,” I murmured, and a shiver ran through his body, although his eyes never wavered from their target. He was, by all appearances, nearly insensate - wavering on his feet, unresponsive, like a man in the throes of a waking dream - but he blinked at the sound of his name, uncertain, and I waited. Dry, cracked lips parted at last, and a sudden tightness clutched at my chest; the voice that emerged was nearly unrecognizable, the hoarse, anguished sound of something torn beyond repair.
“He took Watson.” There was a rough, broken certainty in the words that snatched the very breath from my lungs. His fingers tightened around the knife, long and white as death. “He killed - ”
“No,” I whispered, aghast. “No, Holmes, he didn’t - I promise you, it’s me. I’m right here.”
The words hung uselessly in the air, unable to penetrate the hellish fever-haze that had taken hold of his senses. He was trapped in a prison of his own creation, surrounded once again by wood-smoke and ashes, seeing nothing but Brighton’s glacial stare and a twisted, blackened body that wasn’t mine.
Oh, Holmes. I slipped the revolver into the waistband of my trousers, drawing nearer still.
He shook his head, transfixed, glassy eyes staring ahead at nothing. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed the edge of the blade to Brighton’s throat, just above the fragile jugular vein. Something flickered in the hateful eyes as a tiny rivulet of blood appeared, coaxed from the delicate capillaries just beneath the surface of his skin, and my breath snagged on something thick and heavy in my throat. A few millimeters more, and there would be no turning back.
I closed the remaining distance between us in the space of a single, quivering breath. The spectre of Holmes’ beautiful hands, stained a deep, irrevocable crimson with something he could never take back, was too horrible to contemplate. I had fought too hard to find him; I would not, could not, lose him to this. My fingers closed around his wrist with infinite care, inches from the blade in his hand.
“It’s over now,” I whispered. He might have been deaf, utterly unaware of my voice, save for the barely perceptible tremor that fluttered through the fine muscles of his hand. The blade trembled in his grasp, drawing a stifled hiss from Brighton, but I had no consideration to spare for him.
I was near enough, now, to rest my other hand lightly on his shoulder, as I had so many times before. His entire body shivered under the touch, strung with tension and fury and misplaced grief, and God, he was burning up - heat radiating through the fabric of his clothing and suffusing his eyes with a desperate, unnatural gleam.
“Holmes,” I breathed, “let it go.” It was a quiet plea, the softest of whispers against his ear, but finally, finally, it was enough. He blinked, shuddered under my hand as the cruel illusions dissolved into nothingness, leaving only myself and the softly-lit sitting room, warm and familiar and safe.
He offered no resistance as I slipped the knife from nerveless fingers, lips parting soundlessly on my name as his eyes widened, drinking in my presence as though seeing me for the first time. I reached for his arm, but he jerked from my touch as though it had burned him, stumbling backwards to slide down the wall as his body, at last, gave up the fight.
A movement from Brighton caught my eye, and I turned to stare in undisguised revulsion as he peeled himself away from the wall, one hand rubbing at the tiny, deceptively innocuous cut on his throat. He gazed back, defeated but malevolent as ever; even as I watched, his eyes flicked appraisingly toward the revolver at my waist, scarcely an arm’s length away.
“Don’t try it,” I snarled, lost in a sudden, blinding surge of loathing for the man who had done this to us. Without further thought, I drew the gun and struck him, hard, across the temple; he crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thump, and I lingered only long enough to make certain that he was unconscious before turning my attention to more important matters. It was better than he deserved, perhaps, but he would trouble us no more.
Holmes was a pitiable sight indeed, still huddled against the wall where I had left him. His knees were drawn tightly against his chest, face hidden from view as uncontrollable tremors wracked his body. I stepped closer, careful not to spook him, and settled myself beside him on the floor. He shifted slightly in acknowledgement, a tacit acceptance of my presence, although he made no move to raise his head. We sat in silence for a time, broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing; for once in our lives, there was simply nothing to say.
“It’s all right, Holmes,” I murmured at last, infusing the words with all the certainty I could. “It’s all right, now.”
It was only partly a lie, I reflected, moving closer to his shivering form. My hand crept out, cautiously, to stroke the back of his neck. To my relief, he didn’t pull away.
No, things were far from all right, with two bodies sprawled on the sitting room floor, Mrs. Hudson’s lamp in pieces, and Holmes trembling under my hand like a leaf in the wind; but given time, there was every reason to believe that they would be.
For tonight, at least, it would simply have to be enough.
Chapter 10