Work Text:
a/n: Boscastle is a real place, of course, but I've played very fast and loose with local geography—no offense meant to anybody who knows the area well.
a/n: set after the movie 'verse. I apologize in advance for any injuries to book canon.
a/n: thanks, as always, to calamitycrow for scrupulous beta'ing and generous hand-holding throughout!
Nothing Between Us and the New World
I.
No ordinary man could sleep like that, Watson thought, bemused by the manner in which his companion had folded himself into the hard, narrow seat of the railway carriage, knees drawn up to his chest, head pressed into the corner of the car, pipe dangling precariously from his lips.
The carriage had been full at the beginning of the long ride to Cornwall, and Holmes had seated himself across from Watson with dignified propriety, legs crossed, feet on the floor, eyes focused on a monograph about the varieties of Australasian soil. But the number of occupants had dwindled as they journeyed west, and, as it had, Holmes had let his grip on the book slacken, gradually drawing himself into one of the twisted shapes he seemed to find most comfortable. He might not even be asleep, Watson realized—he might just as easily be composing a treatise of his own, or solving the case before them. It was impossible to tell.
Unconsciously, Watson smiled. His bad leg, which age had done nothing to improve, had stiffened during the long ride, and he cautiously stretched it out in front of him. He had long ago finished the newspaper lying in his lap. Holmes's face was turned away from him, and the late afternoon April sunlight slanting through the window illuminated the pale strip of skin between collar and ear. Watson found himself gazing at his old friend for longer than he meant to, obscurely fascinated by the way the clear light threw the short curls at the nape of Holmes's neck into relief. He wondered idly how many grey hairs there were now amongst the black.
With a start, he wrenched his eyes away, knowing Holmes would not appreciate the scrutiny, and sternly brought his mind back to the purpose of their trip.
:::
It was his fault, he supposed, if not exactly his doing. Thanks to his published accounts of their adventures, his association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes was well-known. So it was only reasonable that his erstwhile friend, Robert Mallick, would turn to him when faced with difficulties of a criminal nature, despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other since their service together in the east. Unable to resist the old bonds of military camaraderie—Mallick had always been a good egg, if somewhat unimaginative—Watson had offered to introduce him to the world's only consulting detective.
Holmes had agreed to hear Mallick's story—less out of curiosity, the doctor suspected, than as a kindness to Watson. It had been ten months since Mary died, and nine since he'd move back into his former rooms at Baker Street. For the most part, he and Holmes had fallen back into the old patterns of their relationship—the detective arrogant and acerbic, the doctor patient and accepting; indeed, there had been a good deal of comfort simply in rediscovering the familiar give and take. Every now and then, however, Holmes would acquiesce to something Watson knew he never would have done in the old days, giving Watson a long cool look that he was sure masked a well of pity. The acts were well-meant, Watson knew, but they irked as much as they comforted him. He was bereaved, yes, he was grieving—but now, more than ever, he felt he needed Holmes to be himself: rational, imperturbable, uninterested in the agony of romantic feelings.
This was surely one of those times, he had thought, as he'd watched Holmes listen to Mallick's sad, if mundane tale. No ancient family curses here, no hounds let loose from hell—just an ordinary story of a business venture gone wrong. After leaving the army, Mallick, a confirmed bachelor, had drifted for a while before deciding to invest in an old inn on the north coast of Cornwall—beautiful country, and popular with tourists and family holiday makers. All had gone well for a number of years, but the past few months had brought a spate of robberies to his establishment. No manner of guards or locks or hidden safety deposit boxes had managed to foil the thieves. The inn was developing a reputation and business had begun to suffer—he was within a month or two of closing down altogether.
Mallick, a strong man whom age had made more portly and more ruddy, had twisted his large hands together and looked a Holmes beseechingly. "Will you come down and look into it, Mr. Holmes? The local constabulary have thrown up their hands, the local wags talk only of brownies and tommyknockers. I have nowhere else to turn."
Holmes had sighed—as much in boredom as in sympathy, Watson intuited. "I am very sorry for your troubles, my good sir," he said, "but I think my best advice to you would be to simply replace your staff. You are dealing with nothing more complicated than a light-fingered servant, and my arriving on the scene would be like hiring a lion-tamer to house-train your poodle."
"Ah, but there's the rub, Mr. Holmes," Mallick had nearly wailed, traces of his cockney accent suddenly more audible, "all of my staff have been with me for years, some at the inn for longer than I, and I've never had any trouble before. What's more, they're all local people, and Boscastle's a pretty close-knit place. They still see me as an outsider, for all I've lived among them for over ten years. If I fired even one of the staff without good reason, they'd make sure the inn never prospered again—" He broke off, even redder in the face than before, pulled out a large cotton handkerchief and mopped his brow. "Won't you reconsider?"
Holmes had regarded him dispassionately, seemingly a breath or two from sending him on his way.
Watson was fairly certain he'd been to Boscastle. His family had gone there, or somewhere nearby, when he was a boy, one summer holiday one year. He remembered a quaint town following steep streets down to a picturesque harbor, curved bays of emerald water, long evenings of splashing in the waves. Without meaning to, he'd murmured, "beautiful place, wouldn't mind seeing it again myself."
Holmes's eyes had darted towards him at this, sharpening, and Watson had wished the words back in his mouth. "On second thought," Holmes had said, turning back to Mallick, "perhaps your case does present some points of interest. We would be glad to come investigate, though I'll need a day or two to set my affairs in order."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you," Mallick had said wetly, pumping the detective's hand between both of his own. He'd thumped Watson's shoulder and looked so ready to embrace him that Watson backed discreetly away. They'd made arrangements to meet at the station at Bodmin Parkway four days hence.
"Really, Holmes," Watson had said awkwardly, as they listened to Mallick's heavy tread descending the stairs, "there was no need to agree to this foolish jaunt for my sake. I'm sure you're right—it's just a case of a good servant gone bad, something even Mallick could resolve on his own."
"Nonsense, old chap," Holmes had replied, "I gave no thought to your frivolous nostalgic attachment when I made my decision: a guarded house, a trusted staff, the possibility of tommyknocker involvement? There is certainly enough there to to keep us interested, whatever the local scenery."
And that had been that. Holmes had raced around London for a few days on mysterious errands connected to a variety of cases, and Saturday had found them in Paddington station, boarding the train for Bristol and points beyond.
::::
The train slowed in front of a tiny country station, a white wooden fence separating the single platform from the scrubby trees. Holmes blinked once, instantly awake, and smiled his mercurial smile at Watson, who blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring. They had arrived.
II.
The tiny station at which they alighted was on the edge of Bodmin Moor, still seventeen miles from Boscastle, but Mallick himself was there to meet them in a sturdy wagon. He tried to amuse them during the long, if scenic, ride with testimonials to the beauty and interest of local attractions—he may not have been a native, but he had a convert's zeal about his adoptive home. Holmes did little to hide his boredom, peering into the gathering dusk, and going through at least three bowls of tobacco. Watson, always stirred by tales of Arthur and his knights, felt it would be a fine thing to visit nearby Tintagel—he wondered if he could convince Holmes to see it before they left. Maybe Holmes had been right to indulge him in this venture, his leg ached, but he was already feeling more cheerful than he had for a long time. He let his gaze stray towards his friend again, amused by the way he had to hold his hat against the rising sea wind.
They came into the narrow streets of Boscastle just before dark. For some reason, Watson had expected Mallick's establishment to be a country inn, but the Island Prince was more like the town pub, located close to the harbor amid a tangle of winding streets, enclosed on both sides by taller, newer buildings.
"I thought you said it was a smuggler's inn," Watson teased.
"It was," Mallick replied good-naturedly, "they didn't just frequent the lonely moors, you know? Had to come into town for supplies sometimes, like the rest of us." Watson laughed, and let the probably spurious legend be.
The inn itself was clearly very old, painted white except for the broad oak beams bisecting its front. A battered, salt-stained sign featuring a Caribbean prince dressed in feathers swung over the door. Mallick led the horses around to back, handed them off to a groom, and led Holmes and Watson through a low door into the sparsely populated public bar.
"You can see what I mean about business falling off," he said morosely, signaling to the barman for drinks and leading them to a table in a corner of the pleasant, low-ceilinged room.
"When was the last robbery?" Holmes asked abruptly, sinking into a chair, almost the first words he'd spoken since they left the train.
Sighing at the thought of rehearsing his misfortunes again, Mallick gave Holmes a date roughly two weeks previous. Watson sympathized—the Mallick he had known in Afghanistan had always preferred to speak of happy things. He took a pull of the decent local brew and tried to concentrate on Holmes's thorough questioning of the innkeeper.
He was hard put to do so, especially after their supper, a hearty mutton stew and fresh bread, arrived. But Holmes was both diligent and persistent, taking Mallick through the dates of the crimes, the persons affected, the items stolen and the rooms involved. The veteran, to his credit, kept up with him, providing all the information without hesitation, even as his ruddy flush faded to a grim pallor.
Watson found his attention wandering—he sometimes wondered whether the shock of Mary's death hadn't permanently blunted his powers of concentration, though it might've as easily been the fatigue of the journey. His mind kept snagging on random things—the age of the worn wood of the bar, the unfamiliar Cornish accents of its patrons. His leg twinged, crooked at a painful angle under the low table. He stretched it out, but found his foot brushing against Holmes's ankle; the detective shot him a glance, and Watson quickly bent it again.
Finally, Holmes seemed to be satisfied, and Mallick offered to show them to their rooms.
"Certainly, my good man," Holmes said, "as soon as we have met the staff."
"I thought—But wouldn't it be better done in the morning—" Mallick spluttered.
"No time like the present," Holmes replied, clapping him on the back. Mallick sighed again.
:::::
"Well, Watson, did any of them strike you as criminal?" Holmes asked later, as they settled into their suite. Mallick's lack of business had been their gain in this regard; he had ushered them into the best rooms in the house—two bedrooms with a well-appointed sitting room between them, complete with a roaring fire in the grate. Even more generously, he had left a decanter of whiskey on the table.
"I thought the barman might be suspicious," Watson ventured, "his clothes looked too new and expensive to have been bought on his salary."
"Well-observed, my dear," Holmes said approvingly, "but I don't think robbery is his vice—just a good day at the horses."
"And how did you discern that?"
"Really, Watson, did you fail to notice the smudges of ink on his right index finger from filling out race cards when he served us our food? I am surprised at you." Holmes chuckled in his self-satisfied way, filling a pipe
"And you?" Watson asked defensively, "Who did you pick for the criminal mastermind in that unprepossessing lot?" For truly, Watson had never seen such a collection of earnest and reputable souls as the staff of the Island Prince—in appearance, at any rate.
Holmes poured them both a generous measure of whiskey, and smiled his cat-with-the-canary smile. "Ah," he said, "I rather fancy our culprit might be the youngest chambermaid, Miss Pascoe."
"You're joking, surely," Watson couldn't help exclaiming. "Youngest" in this instance meant not a day under thirty-five. The lady in question had been, to his eyes, the most demure and timid spinster imaginable. "I'm afraid I missed the light of criminal genius in her eyes."
"Ah," said Holmes cryptically, "it is not her intelligence that concerns us."
Before Watson could press for more information, there was a knock on the door, and Holmes sprang up to answer it.
"Thank you," he said to the boy who handed him a box piled high with papers. "Now we shall get someplace, Watson," he continued, placing the box on the table and digging in. "Here, as I requested of our host, we have a list of the current guests, and here a set of plans for the inn, and records of work that has been done to the building going back fifteen years." He gave a satisfied little grunt.
"But Miss Pascoe--" Watson asked.
"Shhh," Holmes said peremptorily, "I need to concentrate now."
So Watson nursed his drink and let the warmth of the fire ease the ache in his leg, while Holmes plowed through the stack of papers at a prodigious rate, feet tucked up in his chair again, pipe hanging from his lips.
Watson imagined he could smell the salt air, even in the enclosed room, and he couldn't help thinking of the seaside town he and Mary had visited on their honeymoon—Devon in that case, not Cornwall. He was pleased to find that the memory caused him very little pain now, casting instead a dull glow of lost happiness, and he let himself sort through the moments of their time together, savoring the images.
After a while, he pulled himself out of his reverie, and was surprised to find Holmes watching him, with that same unreadable look that Watson always took as pity. He had evidently finished with the papers—had sorted them into untidy piles on the table.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Watson manufactured a yawn. "Well," he said, stretching, "if you've finished, we should probably call it a night—it's growing late."
"On the contrary, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, so wide-awake he looked positively gleeful, "my research indicates that this is precisely the hour we should investigate the nefarious happenings at this establishment. I believe there are evil deeds afoot as we speak."
He unfolded himself from the chair and began digging in his valise, eventually unearthing a covered lantern. Watson must have looked doubtful, because Holmes turned to him and said, "provided your leg will hold up, that is."
"Yes, yes, of course it will," Watson reassured him.
"Good," Holmes answered, "then let's away—I trust you have brought your service revolver?"
III
Holmes's energy was as bracing as a tonic, chasing the cobwebs from Watson's head. During those first, grief-laden months, it had been all he could do to pull himself through the necessary motions of the day, never mind the intricacies and dangers of detective work. Holmes had been patient with him, never pushing him beyond his capacity. But now, with a sensation very like relief, Watson felt the old joy in the chase surge through him, the hunger for adventure.
He exchanged his sword-cane for his holstered revolver, donned his jacket, and joined Holmes at the door, all aches of body and cares of the soul forgotten. Holmes placed a melodramatic finger to his lips and smiled; Watson felt an answering grin spreading across his own face.
Holmes did not light the lantern, just stepped out into the silent, shadowy hall, Watson in his wake. The detective seemed to have memorized the floor plan of the inn, because he did not pause to listen or peer into the darkness, but led them straight to a room three doors down from their own suite. Holmes pushed cautiously at the door; it was unlocked, and swung open easily.
They entered a bedroom indistinguishable from any other at a typical country inn. A large bed took up most of the space; a hulking wardrobe stood in one corner, a chintz-covered armchair in the other, near the empty fireplace. The room was obviously unoccupied, only illuminated by the pale moonlight coming in through generous windows.
Watson opened his mouth to ask why they were there, but Holmes held up the same imperious finger, and gestured to the doctor to move behind the wardrobe. Puzzled, he obeyed, and watched as Holmes, with the weird grace that age had hardly dented, slid himself under the bed.
Thus hidden, they waited. And then, just as Watson was about to give up hope of ever finding out what they were waiting for, the door cracked open again, and someone with a light came into the room.
It was Miss Pascoe, as demure as ever, still hunched and slightly faltering, though she must have believed herself alone. She swept her lantern over the room, as if to make doubly sure, and moved not to the bed or to the window, but to a patch of wall two or three feet to the right of the hearth. Astonished, he watched as she slipped her fingers under a large knot in the wood paneling, uncovered a hidden keyhole, and turned the lock with a large key hanging from a ribbon around her neck. A section of the paneling swung inward: a hidden door.
Miss Pascoe eased herself through it, closed it behind her, and was gone.
Not ten seconds later, Holmes emerged from under the bed, and beckoned for Watson to join him. The detective thrust the now lit lantern into his hands, and swiftly picked the lock before extinguishing it again.
"But how--?" Watson whispered, just before they passed through the door.
"Mallick did say it was a smugglers' inn, Watson," Holmes jibed, equally sotto voce, "were you not paying attention?"
::::::
At first, they found themselves descending a very narrow, very steep set of stairs, compressed between the walls of the inn. The light of Miss Pascoe's lantern was barely visible below them. Down and down they went, following the line of the chimney, until Watson was sure they must be below the lowest basement of the Island Prince.
Finally, the steps ended in a packed-earth tunnel, so low that both men had to stoop. The air was dank and chill, smelling of mold and rotting sea wrack. It was completely dark, except for the bobbing point of Miss Pascoe's light ahead. They followed her, as silently as they knew how, conscious that the slightest sound would give them away.
It soon became evident that the passage through which the young lady was leading them was part of an extensive network of crisscrossing and branching tunnels: a secret concourse that must have allowed smugglers access to all points in the town for generations. Miss Pascoe moved through it unerringly, while Watson tried and failed to spot any signs or landmarks that might help them retrace their steps. He forced himself to at least to calculate the time and distance they had traveled—and fervently hoped that Holmes was doing a better job of leaving metaphorical breadcrumbs than he was.
:::::
After what seemed endless minutes of hunched walking, the light ahead of them stopped abruptly, illuminating a broader than usual space where two tunnels intersected. There were no natural hiding places, of course, and Holmes and Watson had no choice except to flatten themselves against the wall of the tunnel a few paces back, hardly daring to breathe.
From their vantage point, Watson had only a partial view of the scene at the crossroads, and he heard the approach of another party before he could see anything.
"Well, m'dear," said the rough voice, an edge of menace to the endearment, "what have you brought for us tonight?"
Now Watson could see the speaker: a short, burly man in early middle-age, his broad face creased and grizzled. He was flanked by two younger men—one six feet of solid muscle, the other so short and slight he looked like a stiff wind could knock him over.
The leader stepped closer to Miss Pascoe, cupping her cheek with a gnarled hand. "C'mon, Molly," he said unctuously, "don't you have a kiss for your old Da?"
"Don't, dad" she whined, wrenching her face away and rubbing at her cheek.
The man laughed, and his henchmen followed suit, leering at the chambermaid. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it," he said mockingly, "at least give us what we've come for."
Sullenly, she thrust a crumpled scrap of paper at him. The men gathered around it, their leader reading in a halting voice: "Mrs. Georgiana Faversham, widow, of Bayswater Road, Hyde Park, London." He gave a gurgling, greedy little laugh. "Ripe for the taking, my dears," he gloated, "ripe for the taking. Did she have anything for the safety deposit box?" he asked his daughter.
She nodded, nervous fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt.
"And where's that fool Mallick got it hidden now?" Miss Pascoe looked momentarily mulish. "You might as well give it up—I know that old bag of a housekeeper tells you everything."
"In the breakfront in the downstairs sitting room," she admitted, grudgingly.
"Stupid, stupid man," her father practically crowed, "That'll be your bailiwick, then, Nick," he said to the weedy man, "limber up those famous fingers of yours. Let's get a move on, boys!"
And with that the whole crew, Miss Pascoe included, headed down the tunnel on a course that would take them directly in front of Holmes and Watson.
There was nothing for it but to will themselves deeper into the shadows and remain as still as possible. For a few short moments, Watson actually thought it would work. First the ringleader, then his two companions, moved passed them. But when Molly Pascoe followed, dragging her feet and looking miserable, some perturbation in the air caught her attention; she looked up, straight into Watson's eyes, and her breath hitched in an audible gasp. Her father heard the small noise, and that was all it took: the thugs were upon them in an instant.
:::::
It could have been worse, Watson told himself, almost welcoming the fight. He had always known how to handle himself in a tight place—and this was quite literally a tight place. He might move a little more slowly now, but in a situation like this his reflexes were as good as ever. He drew his revolver—he didn't dare fire in the enclosed space—but that didn't mean it was useless—and cracked the butt of the gun across the face of the strapping young man who came towards him, even though he had to reach up to do so. The impact sent the robber crashing to the ground.
He was acutely aware of Holmes at his back, going hand-to-hand with a hulking opponent, probably Pascoe himself. The situation felt so familiar, so right, that it pulled a sharp, joyful laugh from his lips.
Then the shorter henchman—Nick—launched himself on Watson, a surprisingly strong and wiry ball of fury for such a slight man. He got a few sharp punches around Watson's defenses before the doctor was able to knock his legs out from under him with a well-placed kick. The man sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily; Watson quickly rendered him unconscious with a precisely placed blow to the skull with his gun.
And with that, all three criminals lay insensible at their feet. Miss Pascoe had long since scampered off—back to bed to pretend none of this had happened, Watson hoped, rather than off to alert more of the gang. Panting and grinning, Holmes and Watson faced each other across the bodies, and this too felt so right that Watson reached out and clapped Holmes on the back.
But their elation faded quickly as they tried to think of their next move.
"We'll have to tie them up somehow," Holmes said, "or they'll be away before we send the law for them." They wrestled a shirt off one of them, tore it into strips, and bound them as securely as they could. It wouldn't hold long, Watson could tell.
And then another question occurred to them both at the same time, and they stooped simultaneously to rifle through the men's pockets, looking for a map. To no avail.
"Probably born and bred to this confounded warren," Holmes said with a sigh, "we will just have to make do with our innate sense of direction." And he set off confidently down the passage through which they had come.
At least it seemed like the direction from which they had come—the chaos of the fistfight had jumbled Watson's sense of direction somewhat. After a while he wasn't so sure. Holmes lit his thankfully undamaged lantern, but its flickering light didn't make anything more familiar.
They went on and on, each new branching or intersection as unfamiliar as the last, until it seemed to Watson that they had already been walking for longer than it had taken them to come. That might have been an effect of fatigue, however. The excitement of the pursuit and the fisticuffs was beginning to wear off, and his leg ached.
Watson was about to voice his growing concern when Holmes, no more than a half step in front of him, simply dropped out of sight, like a stone sinking in a pond, a terrifying rattle of loose rock accompanying his disappearance.
Watson tried to stop, but was unable to halt his momentum mid-step. His foot came down on a slanting pile of loose scree. As luck would have it, it was his bad leg, which had no chance of negotiating the sharp angle, and he tumbled, limbs flailing, down a steep slope that finally fell away completely, dropping him at least ten feet onto rocky ground.
IV.
For a moment he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own pulse, do nothing but struggle to draw breath into shocked lungs. Then he tried to open his eyes, and realized with horror that they were already open: they had plunged into utter darkness.
"Watson?" Holmes's voice, blessedly near. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," he managed, "just had the wind knocked out of me. You?"
"A few scrapes and bruises, but otherwise unharmed." The detective sounded as cool and collected as if he'd just strolled down the steps at Baker Street. "I cannot say the same for our poor lantern, however," a few muted taps and rattles emanated from his direction, "I'm afraid it took the brunt of the fall."
"Where are we?" Watson asked "are we—are we trapped?"
"As to the first," Holmes answered, "I suspect we hit a place where the smugglers' tunnel collapsed into an old mine. As to the second—no, I think not." Watson heard him sniffing the air like a hunting dog, "the atmosphere down here is distinctly fresher than it was in the tunnel; there must be an opening into the outside world somewhere close by." He was right—Watson could smell the difference now: less earth, more salt. "Come," Holmes said briskly, "let's see if we can locate that aperture."'
Watson tried to push himself to his feet, but let out an involuntary grunt of pain as the overtaxed muscles of his leg refused to cooperate. He collapsed, an ungainly heap, back onto the ground.
"Watson, what is it?" A note of alarm entered Holmes's voice, "are you hurt?"
"It's nothing," Watson got out, through clenched teeth, "just pushed the bloody leg past its limits, is all."
"Hmm," Holmes said, disbelievingly, and Watson heard him moving closer. In the pitch black, Holmes nearly tripped over him, then, kneeling, had to pat his hands down Watson's body until he could find the affected limb.
"I am a doctor, you know," Watson protested weakly, "I think I'd be able to tell if something were truly wrong."
"Ah," said Holmes, "but would you hide the extent of your injuries through some misguided desire not to worry me? I rather think you would." His hands moved methodically down Watson's leg, expertly prodding hip, knee, ankle, before coming to rest, steady and oddly proprietary, on the still-shaking muscles of his thigh.
As he submitted to the examination, it came to Watson, incongruously, that he would have recognized Holmes's touch anywhere. Even in the total darkness, he would have been able to distinguish his strong, narrow fingers from all others. Somehow, they were as clever as the rest of him, as incisive.
Holmes had a hand on his face now, tapping lightly. "Don't drift, old chap," he said, and told Watson what he already knew, "nothing seems to be broken or dislocated, but you should sit up, if you can. You'll get chilled lying on the damp ground."
"You missed your calling," Watson said, only half ironically, as Holmes helped him lever himself into an awkward seated position, leg straight out in front of him, "you would have made a fine medical man."
"Hmpf," Holmes snorted, "be that as it may, I think I'll leave the ladies and their vapors to you. I've always had more sympathy for the scheming than the suffering mind. Ah,' he exclaimed, "I think I've located the source of our fresh air. Look up and to your left.'
Watson did, and sure enough, too far above them to be truly comforting, but good to see nonetheless, was a patch of differently-colored black, about the span of a man's arms across. He imagined he could even see one or two stars dotting its small expanse.
"Now then," said Holmes, getting to his feet, "let's take the measure of our situation, shall we?"
And so, while Watson stewed in enforced helplessness, Holmes cautiously explored the high narrow space in which they found themselves. Watson could hear rocks skidding underfoot, and the occasional squelch of Holmes stepping in a puddle. Kindly, the detective provided a running commentary on what he found. They certainly would not be able to get back out the way they'd come: the smugglers' tunnel was too far above them, the rock face below it too sheer. There was another opening opposite, seemingly another tunnel, but Holmes decided, and Watson wholeheartedly agreed, that it would be foolhardy to set off deeper into the mine—if mine it was—without a light.
"At least," Holmes said, "the walls here are rock, not earth. Better yet, they are rock marked and cracked by miners' tools."
"I fail to see how that is an advantage," Watson said sourly, anxiety starting to gnaw at him.
"Oh, it is a great advantage," Holmes replied, "it betters the odds of my scaling them to reach that opening considerably. Still," he admitted, "we had best wait until the light's better. I don't fancy even my chances in this infernal gloom."
Watson didn't fancy his chances, full stop. But he had learned not to doubt his friend, at least not out loud. And it was better than having no plan for escape at all.
Holmes made his way back to Watson and tugged at his arm. "Come on," he said, "there's a dry patch near the wall over there. We have a few more hours 'til the sun rises—nothing to do but wait it out." He pulled Watson heavily to his feet, shouldering some of his weight, and helped him negotiate the short distance. The doctor sank down gratefully against the chilly rock face, cautiously arranging his leg in front of him again, and Holmes sat down beside him.
They rested in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Watson noticed a noise he'd missed amid the scrabble and talk of Holmes's investigation: a kind of rushing sound, but rhythmic, rather than steady, rising and falling almost like the beat of a heart.
"Do you hear that?" he asked, "what do you think it is?"
"I believe it's the sea," Holmes replied, oddly hushed. "Some of the tunnels in these old Cornish mines go right out under the water. We must be hearing the waves reverberating through them. Soothing, isn't it?"
Watson thought it more eerie than soothing, but held his tongue. As was his wont, Holmes had settled himself very close—so close their bodies were pressed against each other from shoulder to hip. Watson smiled inwardly, thinking of the many nights they been stuck in unsavory places—nights that usually ended with Holmes finding some way to use Watson as a pillow. And yet somehow this time—this night—was different. Under his weariness, under the continued ache of his old wound, he could feel the faint but unmistakable stirrings of arousal, his cock beginning to harden against the fabric of his trousers.
He pushed the feelings down, a little shocked, willed himself soft again. Maybe it was all those years with Mary, he thought, a bit desperately, all those years of companionship both mental and physical. Maybe he was still open to things—to desires, needs--he hadn't yet been able to excise, like the residual pain of a missing limb. Because in all the years he'd lived intimately with Holmes he couldn't remember feeling this before. And he was quite sure the detective didn't now, he told himself sternly, dragging his mind to safer ground.
"Tell me," he said, glad his face was obscured by darkness, "how did you know the Pascoes were to blame for the robberies?"
"Oh," Holmes replied, "there was nothing particularly ingenious to that. Before we left London, I simply went through copies of the local papers at the British Library, and made a list of all the worst criminals who had served their time and been released from Her Majesty's prisons in the past few months. Among them was one Ian Pascoe, a notorious robber, and known associate of Nimble Nick Jordan, the infamous safe-cracker. Thus, when we reviewed the servants, and found poor Molly Pascoe among them, I knew we had our culprits. When I saw in the guest registry that Mrs. Faversham had arrived today, I knew Miss Pascoe would arrange to meet her father tonight."
"So it was no more complicated than you expected," Watson said resignedly, "You might have simply sent the list to Mallick, let him see if there were any connections to his staff. It is as I suspected; you undertook this adventure only to indulge my whim."
"Not entirely," Holmes demurred, "I did not know how Pascoe and his crew were entering the inn until I studied the building plans tonight and noticed the double thickness of the wall in the third bedroom. But—" he paused, seeming to consider whether to go on, "but yes—it had been so long since I'd heard you wish for anything—anything at all—that when you said you wanted to see Boscastle—well—I won't deny that a—a certain desire to give what you wished for may have had some bearing on my decision." He fell silent, perhaps exhausted by the uncharacteristically personal speech.
Watson froze. Holmes's admission that he had thought—had acted—to promote Watson's happiness was so unexpected, so unlooked for, that it set those sparks of arousal flaring again, fiercer now and harder to ignore. He shivered.
"Are you cold?" Holmes asked, clearly glad to have something more practical to think about.
"No," Watson protested, too forcefully, perhaps, but Holmes wasn't listening, was already shrugging out of a layer of clothing.
"Really, Holmes," Watson said uneasily, batting away the proffered jacket, "I'm perfectly comfortable—there's no need for gallantry"
"I assure you it has nothing to do with gallantry. You know my researches into the effects of cold on human physiognomy. I may soon publish a monograph myself on the subject." Startled, Watson recognized the Holmsian equivalent of babbling, realized he wasn't the only one discomfited by the situation. "It is a well-established fact that pain makes the body more vulnerable to cold—and you, dear boy, through not fault of your own, are in pain. Thus, reason dictates that you need this more than I do." Holmes settled the jacket over Watson's lap, and pulled close enough to him the meager fabric seemed to cover them both.
"Thank you," Watson said finally, into the dark, feeling a pang of shame for all the grief-befuddled months he'd spent at Baker Street, and for the treasons of his body now. "I don't know why you put up with me sometimes." He meant the words lightly, but they came out strained, too much like a real question.
"Don't you, my dear?" Holmes murmured, almost sadly, "don't you?"
Holmes's query, too, sounded all too real—and one to which Watson found that he had no idea how to respond. He felt as if he were drowning, losing his footing in his old life as new sensations, new possibilities sucked him under. Exhaustion fogged his brain, the pooled body heat under the jacket releasing all the weariness of their long day. And so, although it was but a very imperfect answer to Holmes's barely voiced question, he simply pressed his hip more firmly against his friend's, leaned a little more heavily into his shoulder, and allowed himself to doze.
When he blinked himself awake again, he found the detective standing in a small pool of wan light, examining the pocked stone walls that led to the scrap of pale dawn sky high in one corner of the mine shaft.
V
"Good morning," Holmes said cheerily, turning from his study of the rock face when he noticed Watson stirring, "it's promising to be a fine day. How's the leg?"
"Better, I think," Watson replied. He pulled himself up gingerly and tested the offending limb, keeping one hand on the wall for support. The short rest had done some good, and it would bear his weight, if only just—the muscles from hip to knee still felt like the local hunt had run them to ground during the night.
"Glad to hear it," Holmes said, resuming his inspection. He sounded—chipper. As if he were passing the tea and toast in their London digs, instead of sharing out cold comfort in a dank abandoned mine shaft in Cornwall. Watson peered at him The detective seemed his usual self—thrumming with energy and confidence--last night's diffidence and earnest solicitude dispersed like the fragments of a dream.
Watson himself felt farther from dreaming than he had for a long time. He could still sense the lingering warmth where Holmes's body had pressed against his in the dark, still hear the undercurrent of emotion in Holmes's voice as he'd asked his tentative questions—still trace the paths scored by those jagged, unexpected bolts of desire.
Steady on, old boy, he told himself firmly, tamping down his unruly thoughts. Now was not the time to continue that conversation—if indeed there had been any conversation worth continuing.
"Do you think you can make your way out of here?" he asked, pleased to find his voice so steady.
"Yes, I believe so" Holmes replied, "the route is clear, if somewhat—precarious." He sketched a zigzagging line up the shaft wall, taking in a few tiny outcropping and one broad fissure. The ascent looked next to impossible to Watson, but he didn't say anything—he knew better than to try to dissuade Holmes once he'd made up his mind, and he couldn't offer a better plan for escape in any case.
Holmes had already divested himself of his waistcoat, and was now removing his boots and socks. Barefoot, he stood and turned to Watson,
"Is your leg up to giving me a leg up?" he quipped, mouth crooking slightly at the frail jest, "the first handhold's a bit beyond my reach." Watson frowned at him: the word-play fell far short of Holmes's usual standard. For the first time, he wondered if Holmes, too, weren't still a little shaken by the oblique confessions of the night before.
"Yes, of course," Watson said, smoothing out his face and deliberately pushing such thoughts aside. He knelt stiffly in the spot Holmes indicated, offering his good knee as a step-ladder. Think of the task at hand, his stern inner counsel reminded him, and he obeyed, even when Holmes's bare toes dug into his thigh, seeking leverage. The contact was necessary for their escape, nothing more than what they had done a thousand times before—if it provoked any untoward response in him, it was hidden easily enough.
The detective, uncharacteristically, wavered a bit as he pushed himself up, and, without thinking, Watson put a hand around his ankle to steady him. As their flesh met, he heard a muted hiss above him, as if Holmes had let out a sharp breath. Surprised, Watson looked up, and found his companion staring down at him, eyes wide and a little startled. Watson blinked, unsure at what he was seeing—could it be that Holmes, too, was struggling to keep certain things at bay?
And then the detective abruptly turned his attention back to the wall, pushing off from Watson's knee to grip nearly invisible knobs of rock, digging his bare toes into tiny cracks for support.
Watson gathered his wits and struggled back to standing, watching as Holmes painstakingly made his way up the stony surface. There was great skill in his actions—he could see the care with which Holmes evenly distributed his weight between legs and arms, kept his center of gravity low, even with his legs canted out at impossible angles. And if some new, ungovernable part of Watson was strangely mesmerized by the play of muscle across Holmes's back and arms, by the lithe strength of his legs and feet, no one need be the wiser.
Holmes was almost to the top now, a good twenty feet above the ground. He'd gotten himself to that larger fissure in the rock, and tucked both feet and his right hand inside it. His left hand was straining towards the mouth of the shaft, at least six inches beyond his grasp. The position looked, to use his own word, precarious. Watson did not want to contemplate how Holmes would fare if he fell from such a height.
"Hold on," Watson wanted to shout up at him, "hold on." But the injunction was so blindingly obvious that he forced himself to hold his tongue.
Finally, after a pause that seemed to go on for minutes but probably lasted less than thirty seconds, Holmes drew a breath even Watson could hear, pulled his right leg more firmly beneath him, and used it to launch himself across the narrow distance towards the patch of sky.
He hung, impossibly, in space for a moment, but before Watson could fully register his horror at the risk his friend had just taken, Holmes had gotten both hands over the lip of the opening. His feet scrabbled for a moment on the rock, and then he pulled himself up and out, disappearing from Watson's view.
The doctor released a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then he shouted his friend's name as loudly as he could.
For a long moment, he heard nothing, then, Holmes's voice saying, oddly, "Well, I'll be damned." There was something unfamiliar in his tone. If Watson hadn't known better, he would have called it wonder.
"What is it, Holmes?" he called up, alarmed, "Where are we? What have you found?"
Holmes's face appeared again at the opening, backlit by the brighter sky behind it, so that his expression was unreadable.
"Nothing of note, old chap," he said, voice perfectly calm again, "it's just that we seem to have ended up in one of Mallick's local beauty spots." He gave a short, dry laugh, but did not explain further. "I must make haste. I'll send back help as quickly as I can, but I should go on myself, alert the local law to Pascoe and his troop—if they haven't escaped already. You'll be alright here for a bit, won't you?"
"Yes, yes of course," Watson hastily assured him. But he felt, obscurely, that there should be more to say—that some profound change had occurred last night—something that should be acknowledged. But he remained unsure as to exactly what that change was, and whether it had affected both of them. And so he held his peace.
Holmes nodded once, and disappeared.
::::::
Left alone, Watson finally allowed his unsettled thoughts free rein.
If someone had asked him yesterday morning what he wanted most from his present life, he would have replied, without hesitation, that he wanted to ease himself back into the supportive confines of his old relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes: equal parts exhilaration and exasperation, to be sure, but comfortable and thoroughly chaste. He had had enough of romance, its mysteries and frustrations, its pleasures and its pains.
He wasn't sure how he would answer that question now.
The idea of acting on the desires the night had revealed felt a little like the lunge Holmes had made across the top of the mine shaft: leaping over the abyss towards the impossible hope of light and freedom, with every possibility of plummeting to the rocky ground below. With something very like sorrow, Watson acknowledged that he didn't know whether he could sustain the kind of injuries such a fall would inflict.
Shakily, he set about stretching out the still-aching muscles in his leg, putting them through the series of simple exercises he had developed over the years. The routine soothed his mind even as it undid the corporeal kinks and knots, and by the time he'd finished, he felt prepared to face whatever the day might bring.
Sooner than he'd dared hope he heard a young, masculine voice, and looked up to see a friendly, wind-roughened face.
"You alright down there?" the youth shouted, louder than necessary, "We met a gentleman told us you was hurt, wanted us to hurry."
"My friend exaggerates," Watson called up, strangely touched by Holmes's protectiveness, "but I'm glad to see you nonetheless."
The boy and his two compatriots—none of them much older than sixteen—had come prepared. They let down a length of knotted rope, and the first one, who introduced himself as Tim, shimmied nimbly down it. He seemed impressed by Watson's predicament.
"Reckon everyone's forgotten this old shaft was here," he said, peering around, "got half a mind to come back and explore once we've brought you out. Might be hidden treasure or summat lying about."
"You never know," Watson agreed.
Tim looked as if he were already spending the loot in imagination, but he brought himself back to reality. "If I hold the rope steady, can you climb out on your own?" he asked, "or would you rather the boys pulled you up?"
Watson assured him he could ascend under his own power, and, though it cost him more effort than he would have liked, he reached the top without incident.
Strong arms pulled him over the edge, and as he found his feet again he saw what had made Holmes's voice go queer.
He stood on a high bluff, overlooking a small curved bay. The green sweep of scrubby grass ended abruptly at the edge of sheer cliffs, guarding a pristine beach below. It had turned into a glorious morning, and the sun glinted off the breakers as they crashed against a weird array of rock formations jutting out of the water. Beyond them, the sea seemed to go on forever, the horizon a thin line of misty green.
"Where are we?" he breathed.
"Where are we?" Tim laughed, coming up behind him, "Only on the most beautiful beach in North Cornwall, that's where!"
VI
Late in the afternoon, Holmes and Watson picked their way down the narrow path that led to what Watson thought of as "Tim's beach." A long nap and a lunch heavily lubricated with Mallick's best sherry had gotten Watson's leg more or less in working order again, and it only took him slightly longer to get down the steep path than it would have ordinarily. He had his cane back, which helped. Occasionally, Holmes would put out a hand to steady him, and Watson found that, for once, he didn't mind.
Tim and his friends had been as eager to see the hullabaloo at the Island Prince as Watson himself, and they'd hoisted him aboard their farm wagon, left their work behind, and driven into Boscastle as fast as their old dray horse would allow.
Unfortunately, by the time they'd arrived, the fuss was already dying down. The local constable was standing outside the inn shaking Holmes's hand while Mallick beamed mightily in the background. Pascoe and his friends—happily apprehended while still unconscious—had already been led away to justice. Molly Pascoe, for better or worse, had departed for points unknown.
Holmes had given Watson a brilliant smile when he saw him alight from the wagon, clapped him on the back, and said "Glad you could join us, m'dear, sorry you've missed all the excitement."
The beach was deserted, this early in the season, although the day had grown hot, and the water stretched out in front of them, blue-green and endless. Looking at it, Watson remembered something he'd heard people say about the west coast of Ireland: the next county is America. He supposed that the same thing must be true here, here at the utmost edge of England.
Nothing between us and the new world, he thought, rolling the idea over his mind.
The late afternoon sun was warm on his back, recalling childhood seaside holidays, if not at this beach, then at others like it. He remembered chasing through the waves with his brother, running for the sheer joy of running, kicking up water with their heels. It had always ended with them deliberately crashing into each other—falling down was half the fun—and wrestling like puppies in the sand.
An echo of that giddy joy pulsed through him, and he found himself kneeling to take off his boots and socks, ignoring Holmes's quizzical eye. Footgear removed, he dug his feet into the sand, felt it slide cool and rough between his toes. He rolled up his trousers, and headed towards the water.
"Taking the salt water cure, old chap?" Holmes called after him, gently mocking. But Watson only shrugged, already at the line where dry land met the slick wet left by the tide.
The sea was shockingly cold, even against the unseasonable heat of the afternoon, and he shivered a little as he entered it. But after a moment it felt good—felt as if it were going to burn the doubt and equivocation out of him, excise all the leftover mourning and new longing, scour him as clean as the tiny pebbles shifting in the waves.
"Hmm," someone said, and Watson found that Holmes had joined him, feet and calves as bare as his own. "You might be onto something here."
Watson smiled.
They stood there for a long time in companionable silence, letting the fresh ocean breeze wash over them, feeling the gentle waves eddy in and out, pulling the sand around their ankles, then washing it away again.
After a bit, something nudged Watson's toe. He thought for a moment that it was a fish, but when he looked down, he saw that Holmes had edged nearer, near enough that their hips and shoulders brushed against each other and their feet touched. Transfixed, he watched through the crystalline water as Holmes slowly moved his foot closer still, until it covered Watson's completely. Deliberately, Holmes tangled their toes together, gently driving them deeper into the yielding sand. Watson's breath caught in his throat, but he made no move to get away, the subtle contact generating a heat within him that the water's chill did nothing to abate.
He breathed into that heat for a moment, letting it course through his body, before he lifted his eyes to Holmes's face. The detective was gazing at him intently, dark eyes lambent and filled with open invitation.
All doubts forgotten, Watson answered the unspoken question with a smile, turned and moved back up the beach. A muted splashing told him Holmes was following. Excitement coiling low in his stomach, Watson passed their abandoned shoes and socks, not stopping until he entered the sheltering shadow of the cliff.
By the time he'd reached the rock face, Holmes had caught up with him. He felt a hand tugging at his shoulder, turning him around and pushing him against the stony surface with almost violent urgency. The rock was icy against Watson's skin, but he didn't mind, relished the clash of sensations. So awash in desire he could barely tell up from down, he surrendered to the string of bruising kisses Holmes laid along his collarbone, the hard grip on his waist.
He slipped his own hands under Holmes's shirt, glorying in the warm skin, tracing the tensile muscles he had been yearning to touch for longer than he dared admit. His fingers tangled a little in the dark hair in Holmes's chest, and, without thinking, he followed the line of it down his torso, to the waistband of his trousers, until he could feel the hard jut of Holmes's prick rising under his hand
So different, he thought unbidden, so different from the soft curve of Mary's belly, the way her beautiful, pliant flesh had cushioned every bone, enclosed the hidden sources of her pleasure.
For a moment the contrast jolted him, pulled him out of the tumult of desire with a stab of guilt. How could he have forgotten? How could he ever hope to replicate their private joys with someone else? He pulled his hand back, put some distance between his body and his friend's, drew in a ragged gasp of air.
Holmes looked at him, breathing a little heavily, concern and sympathy momentarily replacing passion in his eyes.
"John," he said, suddenly sober, "I know you loved her. I—" He seemed prepared to say more, to offer further reassurance, or even to end the moment, if Watson truly desired it.
But for Watson, the simple acknowledgement of the past was enough, somehow, to allow him, finally, to move beyond the pain and loss. He closed the distance between them again, until their lips met for the first time. He was able to welcome the difference now, even to revel in it. Holmes's lips weren't soft—they were rough, and little chapped. He could feel the strong muscles under them, the faint rasp of stubble. When he licked inside Holmes's mouth, he could taste tobacco, and the sour remains of their lunchtime sherry. But when Holmes deftly undid the fastenings of his trousers, and laced those strong, clever fingers around Watson's aching cock, he was sure he had never been as hard.
It didn't take much after that. Watson fumbled with Holmes's trousers, his clumsy fingers infinitely slower than his hunger, until he held Holmes's cock, the unfamiliarity of its hard, heavy weight almost stopping him again. He felt as if he had taken that step off the cliff after all—walked right out into empty space. But instead of falling, he was buffeted by a storm of sensations, tossed hither and yon, but still buoyed far, far above the ground.
Losing whatever scraps of self-control he had left, Watson groaned with pleasure as Holmes brought their pricks together, hand moving confidently along their joined lengths. Watson felt as if each stroke were stripping away another layer of his defenses, another set of his old ideas about the way the world should be, until he lay bare and new-born under Holmes's touch. Desperately trying to not to give way completely, he dug his hands into Holmes's hips hard to enough to leave marks. But then Holmes twisted, dragging his thumb over the head of Watson's prick, and Watson was finished, the white heat of his climax momentarily blocking out the sun. He was dimly aware of Holmes following him, of the detective leaning more heavily against him, so that it was only mutual support that kept them upright.
Afterwards, they sank down against the rock face, limbs tangled together in sated lassitude. They couldn't stay there for long, Watson knew, couldn't risk anyone seeing them thus compromised; but he was reluctant to move. It seemed miraculous that the all the confusion, all the longing and trepidation, of the past two days should have led to this—this perfect peace. He did not dare to break the moment, lest he should find it fleeting. He let the gale from the sea push against them, molding them into the cliff, molding them into each other.
"Why is the wind so fierce here?" Holmes murmured, his head pillowed on Watson's shoulder. His eyes were almost closed, the contours of his face relaxed in pleasure. For the second time that day Watson heard a rare note of wonder in his friend's voice.
He brushed a gentle finger across the fragile skin of Holmes's eyelids, the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes. "Because, dear heart," he answered, the unguarded happiness in Holmes's voice freeing springs of tenderness he thought had long since run dry, "because it comes straight from Newfoundland. And there is nothing to stand in its way."
fin
For gabsy's winning bid at the help_haiti auction. She told me she liked we-suddenly-discover-we-are-in-love stories. Or UST where each of them are obviously into each other but since this is 19th century London, they don't say it until the end. Maybe there was a misunderstanding at first and they both think the other isn't interested, and OHH how wrong are they. So I tried to get a little bit of all of those in there. With much appreciation for her patience, and apologies for the lack of porn.