Chapter Text
I could tell the moment when Watson spied the mess through the sitting room door. His footsteps faltered, and he sucked in a sharp breath before continuing on through the doorway to stop dead at the sight of me being held at gunpoint, flanked by my two unwelcome companions.
"What's going on here?" he exclaimed. "Holmes, you're bleeding!"
He took a step toward me before Grimes called out to him, "Stop right where you are, or Mr Holmes gets a bullet through his brain!"
Watson froze in place, anguish and frustration clearly marked on his face. The tide had very much turned against me. It was one thing to risk my own life over Mycroft's mysterious letter. It was quite another to put Watson's life in jeopardy.
"Are you all right, Holmes?" Watson asked, his sharp gaze looked me over from head to toe, clearly assessing the wound on my face and taking note of my dishevelled state while he searched for other injuries.
"I'm fine," I exclaimed tersely, though it was certainly not the truth. I was very far from fine. Now that he was here, plunged into danger alongside me, I was terrified. Somehow I had to find a way to bring this confrontation to a swift end without Watson coming to any harm. Unfortunately, at the moment I hadn't any clear idea how to accomplish that goal, and time was rapidly running out.
Grimes smirked at the doctor. "You must be Dr Watson. I'd been told you might be here. I must say you've arrived just at the right time. Mr Holmes is being very difficult. You see, he has something I want, and he simply refuses to give it to me. I've just about run out of patience with him, but perhaps, now that you're here, we can persuade him together."
He motioned with his gun for Watson to move away from the settee toward the desk. Watson complied willingly enough, no doubt thinking he might get a chance to get at his own gun which usually lay ready and waiting in the centre drawer. While this was an excellent thought, it was also, regrettably, a useless one as his gun currently resided in Grimes's left hand jacket pocket, courtesy of Jamie's search of the flat. I had no opportunity to apprise him of that fact, however.
"I was just about to reluctantly make use of your landlady as a point of persuasion for Mr Holmes," said Grimes amiably as Watson reached the desk. "I really don't enjoy harming women, although I do what I must to achieve my aims. You, on the other hand, I have fewer qualms about using, though I am sorry that it had to come to this. Regardless, it's nothing personal, you understand." He shrugged carelessly.
As I watched the expression harden on Grimes's face, I suddenly knew without a doubt what he intended, but before I could make a move to stop him, he raised his gun and fired it at Watson. My heart froze in my chest as I watched the only person who truly mattered to me fall back against the desk and take its contents with him as he crashed to the floor in a heap.
"John!" I screamed his name and sprang forward, but Grimes's cold, sharp voice stopped me in my tracks.
"If you touch him, Mr Holmes, I'll shoot him again, and the next shot will be sure to hit something vital."
Watson lay sprawled amid the detritus from the desk; his left hand was pressed to the wound in his thigh as blood began to seep through his fingers, staining his trouser leg and the carpet beneath him. His eyes were closed, his brow was deeply furrowed, and his breath came in shallow rasps as he tried to control his pain, but at least he was still breathing.
I hovered in place on the balls of my feet, wanting desperately to fly to his side, but not daring to take a single step that might cause him further pain. How could I have allowed this to happen? I knew the sort of brutal, ruthless creature I was dealing with. If Grimes had finally reached the point where he was ready to shoot me, obviously he wouldn't hesitate to shoot anyone else if it would get him what he wanted. As soon as Watson walked through the door, I should have given in. No letter was worth this. Nothing was worth this! If John should die because of me... No, the very thought turned my heart to ice. I could not let that happen, no matter what I had to do to prevent it.
"John? Please..." His name escaped my lips in a horrified whisper as I gave voice to a plea for reassurance. At the sound of my voice, Watson's eyes opened and his gaze sought mine. He stared intently at me for a moment before his expression softened and he attempted a smile.
"I'm all right, Holmes," he replied through stiff lips as he shifted himself up and slightly back to rest against the leg of the desk while keeping his hand tightly pressed against his blood-soaked thigh. His face had gone as white as one of Mrs Hudson's carefully laundered tablecloths.
"There, you see, the doctor says he's all right," said Grimes bluntly, as he tried to shoo me back toward the settee. "I didn't shoot to kill this time, but he won't remain all right for long if you don't cooperate."
"At least let me fetch something to staunch the bleeding!" I exclaimed, shooting a quick, venomous glare at Grimes.
"Oh, no." Grimes shook his head. "The doctor gets assistance when I get my letter and not before. Once I have what I came for, you can get help for your friend, but not until then. Your choice is a simple one, Mr Holmes. Do you and I simply stand here and see how long it takes for a man to bleed to death or do you cooperate at last and tell me where the letter is? Now step back."
I took one, then two, halting steps back toward the settee, never taking my eyes from John Watson as he lay bleeding on the floor. Grimes glanced at his partner and jerked his head toward the door. "Jamie, get downstairs and guard the front door. We don't want anyone else wandering in to disturb us."
As Jamie left the room and I heard his steps descending the staircase, I admitted defeat, tore my gaze from Watson and settled it coldly on Grimes. "All right, Grimes. You win," I said.
"Ah, so you know me after all, do you? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've been lying to me all evening." Grimes turned all his attention from Watson to me in a heartbeat, shifting the aim of the gun from Watson's head to my chest. I found the change in targets allowed me to breathe a bit easier.
Mycroft and the government would simply have to understand. I would not be responsible for John Watson's death, and that would undoubtedly be the result if I persisted in thwarting this man. I had no qualms about risking my own life, but I could not cause any more pain to my dearest friend. Associating with me had already brought him much more pain than he ever deserved.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Watson stretch out his free hand and pick something up from the floor. Recognising it, I understood his intent in an instant and marvelled at his presence of mind under such horrendous circumstances.
Determined to keep Grimes's focus on me, I took another step back and stopped, saying, "You did appear familiar to me, but I thought it prudent not to lay all my cards on the table too quickly. However, it's now clear that you have the stronger hand. So it seems time to admit defeat. I'll give you the letter."
"That's more like it," Grimes said with a triumphant smile. "There's nothing like a little personal persuasion to make a man see reason, I always say." He lifted the gun a touch and frowned as I stood my ground. "Well, what are you waiting for? I want that letter now, Holmes!"
As soon as Grimes said my name, Watson threw the leaded glass paperweight he'd picked up off the carpet. Despite his awkward position and what must have been great pain in his leg, his aim was as flawless as always. The heavy glass ball knocked the gun right out of Grimes's hand. The man gasped and cried out at the unexpected assault, but before he could do anything, I was there with a right cross to the jaw, and he crumpled to the floor unconscious. I'd been looking forward to taking a swing at Grimes for some time, so the fact that it only took one punch to down him was a bit of a disappointment, but I didn't have time to regret it for long.
Grimes's gun had discharged a second bullet as it spun out of his hand. Although the bullet did nothing more than embed itself in the wall by my bedroom door, the sound of the gunshot alerted the odious Jamie that something was amiss. As I heard his heavy tread pounding up the staircase, I spun on my heel and headed for my bedroom, grabbing up the discarded fireplace poker as I went.
I slipped into my room, snatched two towels from my washstand, and positioned myself behind the door that led out into the hall. Jamie charged past and stopped in the sitting room doorway to gape at his partner lying unconscious on the floor. While he was so distracted, I simply came up behind him and, with a single swing of the poker, laid him out quite neatly.
Tossing the poker aside, I jumped over Jamie's inert body as if he was nothing but a pile of refuse and ran to kneel at Watson's side.
He smiled at me and nodded to the bodies behind me. "You should probably tie them up. We wouldn't want them waking up too soon."
He was right, of course, but securing the criminals simply wasn't my first priority. Did he really think I'd waste time seeing to such riffraff while he was lying there bleeding? "They'll keep for the moment. We need to see about your leg first!"
Taking the towels from my hands, he said gently, "The towels will help, but I really am all right, Holmes. The wound isn't serious. This man Grimes wouldn't have wanted me to die too quickly. That would have greatly lessened the persuasive force of his argument. Who is he, by the way?"
"Nobody important. A petty thug for hire. A more interesting question is who hired him, but I'm afraid I don't have the answer to that, only speculation." I spared a glance for the unconscious Grimes, but turned back immediately as Watson spoke once more.
"What were they after?" asked Watson as he glanced around at the mess.
"A letter that Mycroft gave me to deliver. It's in the mantelpiece mirror."
"Ah, the job you didn't want to discuss before dinner." Watson nodded thoughtfully, and then winced as he shifted his position slightly.
"I'm sorry, my dear Watson. Perhaps I should have told you more, but..."
Watson shook his head. "No, Holmes. It's all right. I don't imagine it was your story to tell if the job was a delicate one. I do think you should get something to secure them with, however. I can take care of this."
Reluctantly, I got to my feet, allowing myself to be convinced by the steadiness of his hands as he folded and pressed the towels against his wounded leg. In truth, his hands were far steadier than mine were.
"Then I trust that you won't expire before I return," I said trying to elicit a smile. The fact that it worked did much to set my heart at ease. Despite signs of strain in the muscles of his neck and the sweat that dotted his brow, the smile he bestowed on me seemed very natural, even happy, though I certainly couldn't understand why it should be.
"I think you can be certain of my remaining right where you left me," he said.
With a nod, I forced myself to turn away and head to my room. After a moment's searching, I unearthed a couple of lengths of rope that would serve the purpose required. Returning to the sitting room, I made short work of securing both Grimes and Jamie, being very sure that their bonds were as tight and unpleasant as I could make them. I owed them a little pain.
Both men seemed quite deeply unconscious, but their breathing was normal, so although I made sure to remove Watson's pistol from Grimes's pocket, I did nothing further to either of them. I'd wasted enough time on them already.
Retrieving Watson's medical bag from where it had fallen from the desk, I returned to his side as swiftly as I could. Rummaging in the bag, I removed what I'd need to bandage his wound and set to work with his guidance.
"Your aim was impeccable, by the way," I remarked as I cut away a section of his trousers to get at the wound beneath.
"I'm just glad it worked." He continued to smile bravely at me while I did the best I could to bind up the wound, and although my handiwork would do for the time being, I knew I'd feel better if a doctor looked at him as soon as possible.
"We need to get you medical attention."
"Don't worry, I'll be all right. The bullet passed cleanly through the muscle without touching bone," said Watson reassuringly. Then he frowned at me in concern and asked, "What would you have done if I hadn't come home when I did?"
"I would have thought of something. Frankly I was desperately hoping that you wouldn't come home before the situation was resolved. I didn't want to put you in danger alongside me, and I was right. You don't deserve another wound because of me. It's just as well that you are leaving me in a fortnight's time. You'll be safer out of Baker Street and away from me altogether."
A tremor ran through me as I stared down at Watson's blood staining my hands and thought about how much worse the outcome of this incident could have been. My relief at the fact that his wound did not appear to be serious did nothing to mitigate the intense guilt I felt at having been the cause of its infliction. As much as I had dreaded Watson's leaving me, I was now faced with incontrovertible proof of how much safer he would be living with his new wife than he ever was living here, with me as his companion.
"But what will you do without me to watch your back? If I hadn't shown up, they would have killed you." He reached out and grasped my shoulder and I knew as I raised my eyes to his that the bleakness in my heart shown on my face, though I desperately tried to hide it. Life without him by my side would be but an empty shade of the life I'd lived the past few years, and whenever I thought about it, I felt as if I was falling into a hole too profoundly dark and deep to face even with the aid of my syringe, but trying to keep him with me would be intolerably selfish.
As I stared into his serious blue eyes, I knew he deserved an honest answer. The problem was that I really didn't know what to say. I had no idea how I was to get along without him. I started to raise my hand to his face, but I stopped myself in time, folding my fingers firmly against my palm and letting the resulting fist drop to my side. Instead I simply shook my head and murmured, "I don't know what I will do, but I will have to find a way to manage. What happens to me is unimportant, but I cannot continue to endanger you this way."
"This wasn't your fault, Holmes." His hand tightened on my shoulder.
"How can you say that?" I exclaimed in annoyance, my guilt making me short tempered. "Of course it was my fault. This odious ruffian with the gun was only here in our home because of me, because of a job I accepted, because of what I've chosen to do with my life. Yet am I the one lying on the floor with my blood soaking into the carpet? No. The sooner you leave, Watson, the safer you will be."
"But if you want me to stay..." he whispered faintly. His bright gaze bored earnestly into my own. My mouth went dry. A few hours ago I'd have clutched eagerly at the slightest hint that Watson might be willing to remain here with me, but now that I had such blatant proof of the cost, I couldn't let myself give in to such hopes.
"Want you to stay? What I want is immaterial. My dear Watson, you are in love and about to be married. There is no way on earth I would ask you to give that up to remain here with me. Look what happens to you in my company! I've put you in danger too many times. After all, you did not choose such a dangerous life as this. I dragged you into it whether you wanted to be part of it or not. Surely I have made my point by now! You will be far safer anywhere but here. I simply cannot continue to..."
"Holmes, Holmes, Holmes...," Watson whispered urgently, trying to get me to stop talking and listen to him. His hands had come up to cradle my face, and his thumb gently caressed the plane of my cheek.
"You didn't force me into anything. It has always been my choice to follow you into excitement, into adventure, even into danger; the only thing that has ever mattered to me is that I should be there with you, to support you, to help you, to watch your back. Wherever you were going, I wanted to go along. I still do. I always will. The danger is irrelevant to me. I would feel so much worse allowing you to face it alone."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "Yes, I care deeply for Mary and I had every intention of marrying her and settling down to married life, but I have to admit that the closer I get to that reality, the less I've wanted to go ahead with my plans. The truth is... I loved you first, and more deeply than I've ever loved anyone. That will never change. I wasn't going to tell you. I thought it wouldn't matter to you, but now..." He released my face and let the fingertips of his right hand gently trace a line along my cheek and jaw before settling on my shoulder. "Now I can't help but wonder if I was wrong. Was I?"
As I stared at him, my breath caught in my chest and I was momentarily at a loss for words. He loved me? All this time I'd worked so hard to hold my own feelings at bay, to never let him know how much I felt for him because I never dreamed that he could possibly share my feelings, and through all that time he loved me? Once more my powers of observation had failed me miserably when they really mattered. Perhaps it was time to find a new profession, surely if my clients knew I was so fallible I'd never get another commission.
"You love me?" I spoke the words softly.
He nodded and the smile he conferred on me rivalled the sun for its warmth. "More than anything."
I truly don't know which of us moved first, but suddenly I found myself kissing him with a passion I'd never thought myself capable of and being met with an intensity of feeling every bit as deep as my own. And I knew in that moment that everything would change. My brother had been right again, and I'd never been so glad of it.
A Few Weeks Later...
On a bright autumn morning, I sat at the breakfast table and took a sip of my coffee as I listened to Watson's footsteps descending the stairs outside the sitting room door. It had taken some time, but he'd finally regained some spring in his step, and I was very glad of it.
"Good morning, Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, who was on her way downstairs after delivering our breakfast.
"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," answered Watson cheerfully. "And a very fine morning it is."
"Yes, indeed. Your breakfast is on the table. Better eat it while it's hot. Oh, and here's the morning post. I almost forgot to leave it."
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."
I smiled to myself as I listened to my dear Watson exchange greetings with our landlady. It had taken some time for Mrs Hudson to completely forgive me for being tied up and locked in her pantry, for which I could hardly blame her. Such an experience was an appalling thing to have happen to you in your own home, and the fault for the whole horrible affair was entirely mine. I do think the doctor's decision to remain at Baker Street with us helped to move her forgiveness along more quickly though. The dear lady has always been rather partial to his charms and, since I have always felt much the same, I could hardly blame her for that either.
Of course she might feel a bit differently if she realized, as she was exchanging morning pleasantries with Watson, that he'd only crept up those stairs to dress a short time earlier, after having spent the entirety of last night in my bed. Our nights together were wondrous experiences that I think I shall never tire of, but I doubt that Mrs Hudson would look on the matter in quite the same way.
From time to time, I've wondered what Watson said to Miss Morstan when he broke off their engagement, but knowing him as I do, I'm sure he softened the blow as much as possible, while keeping the truth about us to himself.
I gave Mycroft back his letter. After being wounded because of me, I certainly wasn't going to leave Watson to recuperate on his own while I went off to foreign lands delivering mail, no matter how vital that delivery was supposed to be. I believe Mycroft found someone else to convey it to its proper recipient, but I really don't care whether the damned thing ever got into the hands it was intended for or not. It was certainly more trouble than it was worth to me. Although the outcome of that evening has been wonderful beyond measure, I would have refused the commission outright if I'd had even an inkling of the cost to Watson.
Watson and I did make a trip to the continent sometime later, once he was back on his feet again, but it was a trip made purely for pleasure. France is, after all, a far more congenial country in which to celebrate the beginning of a relationship such as ours has become.
Since we've been back, things have returned to a blissful normalcy that I never would have dared dream of having a few scant weeks ago. Clients have been plentiful, their puzzles challenging, our days have been wonderfully busy and our nights sublime. In fact, life has settled into a pattern that I would be happy repeating for the rest of my days.
As I sat musing over my coffee, Watson came in, seated himself at the table and began dishing up his breakfast. A smile of the sort that he kept only for me graced his handsome face as he reached for the coffee pot.
"Good morning, Holmes."
"Good morning, my dear boy, did you sleep well?" I asked with a smirk since I already knew the answer.
The twinkle in his eye became more pronounced as he replied, "I did indeed. There's nothing like good healthy exercise to make one more receptive to a good night's sleep." He tossed the morning post onto the table before applying himself to his eggs. "Mrs Hudson gave me the post."
I reached forward and scooped up the few items Watson had dropped on the table. Once I'd sifted through them, I opened the most promising of the lot and began to read.
After a moment, I lifted my head from the letter and said, "Watson, do you think you could spare me some time this afternoon?"
"Of course, if I can be of assistance, you know I'm always at your disposal," he said with a smile.
"Splendid!" I flashed him a brief smile and returned my attention to the letter. Yes, most promising indeed.