Fic for fictionforlife: All The Makings Of A Great Romance, Part 1 of 2; NC-17

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Title: All The Makings Of A Great Romance
Recipient: fictionforlife
Author: fleetwood_mouse
Rating: Explicit
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, OMCs
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, sexual content
Summary: Sherlock Holmes lays down his account of the events of The Adventure Of The Empty House, the years leading up to it, and the night that followed.
Notes: This draws heavily on EMPT, though there are a few bits where I play fast and loose with canon. But Watson is widely known to be a somewhat unreliable narrator, and I hope that fictionforlife will forgive me and enjoy this story!


(Note: John, I have so often berated you for your seemingly incurable tendency to begin your stories in the middle of things, but after this, I fear I might have to reconsider my position. After hours of contemplation, of rubbing away ill-chosen words, of crumpling paper and starting anew, I have come to the conclusion that there is no truly suitable place to begin. This tale, especially, seems to require so much context, so much of the history between us, so much explanation of the many careless decisions I have made, and I find myself quite at a loss to determine the most suitable starting point. And so here you have it—this story begins in the middle of things, with one trying day in the middle of the three years of pain I caused you. You are right in this, as in all things, and I hope it makes you happy.)

From across the street, I watch as the madame leads Wildy inside. My vantage point is not ideal—they have little patience for beggars loitering around the doors of their establishment, frightening their girls or their clients, and so I have had to settle for a spot a few dozen yards away. My view is obstructed by the figures of passersby, a slow trickle now, but gradually growing thicker as darkness falls. Despite this I can still see well enough to make out Wildy’s natty jacket, the slope of his shoulders, the sideburns of his thick, distinctive beard.

The madame places a hand upon his shoulders and the door swings shut behind them. I breathe a heavy sigh and settle back against the building, bones creaking. It will not be long now, but I have already been waiting for hours and the day is very cold. My shabby coat is gathered tightly around me, for what little good it can do, and my hands are thrust deep into its pockets. From time to time, I knead at the pads of my fingers to keep them warm, to stimulate blood flow. The grease-paint streaks on my cheeks have some effect at soothing the bite of the wind, but it is more distraction than help, with its sharp, oily tang that lingers in my nostrils and swirls in fumes around my mouth so I can almost taste it.

It occurs to me that if I can perceive the smell of the paint so distinctly, then my own smell must be nowhere near bad enough for this disguise to be convincing. And I thought I had been so thorough…

A quick survey of my surroundings reveals that there is nothing that will remedy the situation, no foul substance I could roll in like a dog to mask my scent. And I can ill afford to leave my post anyway, not now that I’ve managed to track Wildy here, not now that I will have the opportunity to catch him sated and dull with drink and unaware. I have no option but to stay where I can watch for him, to sit and wait and hope that my efforts at disguise will be sufficient.

I am tired, but I do not allow myself to sleep. The cold brick would make a poor substitute for a pillow anyway, but I have been awake for days in dogged pursuit, and my body does not care. I bite my tongue to keep alert, and I force my eyes open against the burn of wind and fatigue; they water and my vision blurs. An intermittent snow begins to fall.

Twilight has begun to set in when I see Wildy emerge. He is wrapping a scarf around his neck; his jacket is already buttoned. His checkbook, I notice, is tucked neatly into his left front pocket. He dons his hat and turns his face down against the cold of the night. He rubs his hands together as he turns left and sets out—as I’d expected!—in the direction of the old town.

I am almost certain where he is headed (a drinking establishment he is known to favour), and I have been watching these streets for days—I know how to get there before he does. When I am out of his field of vision, I rise carefully to my feet and begin to shuffle down the alley, walking toward a street parallel to his path. And then, when I can be sure that no eyes are upon me, I turn and I begin to run, seeking out the back streets that will serve as a shortcut. My numb muscles protest the movement at first, but gradually, my blood begins to flow again, rushing hot to the surface of my skin, sending sharp tendrils of life prickling into my fingers and toes.

By the time I arrive, my cheeks are flushed with exertion and warmth, the grease and dirt have begun to smudge and run, and sweat has begun to stain my underarms (adding, I hope, to the authenticity of my costume). This bit of exercise has improved both my mood and my disguise—even the red cheeks lend an authenticity of windburn and sun and liquor, some of the hallmarks of a hard life that have yet to leave their indelible tracks on me.

So I am heartened when I meet Wildy, heartened and confident as I step into his path and demand that he give me his money. My command of the local language is not insubstantial, but I cannot risk him hearing my accent; he must never guess that I too am an Englishman. Therefore I speak to him in French, the language of my grandmother, and he seems to understand me well enough, or at least he understands the knife in my shaking hands.

A cleverer man might have surrendered, might have given up his valuables to me then and there, but Wildy has not made his way in the world on the merits of his intellect; his is a path of bravado and machismo and brute strength. And tonight, he has been drinking while he indulged his other vices. He is drunk and boastful and confident, especially when he lays eye on my inexpert fighting stance, my skeletal frame, the way the blade shivers in the air between us.

So he does not step back or raise his arms or do any of the thousand things a sensible man might; he simply grins and knocks the weapon from my hand, then comes at me swinging with a right hook that sends me staggering. And then—just as I had hoped—he comes after me in hot pursuit, following me down a dark alley.

What is important, I remind myself, is that he believes himself to be in control. I do fight him, of course—I lash out, I struggle in his grip, I even manage to land a few solid blows upon his torso and head, but never so well, of course, as to betray that the upper hand is entirely mine.

Eventually, with the ease of long practise, I slip—I let him see me beginning to lose. I make mistakes, obvious ones. I take a few calculated blows; to the stomach, to the chest, a glancing knock to the head which I let send me reeling, off-balance and stunned. My reflexes accordingly grow slower, my own strikes weaker, more imprecise and infrequent. I stagger and lurch and retreat, losing ground until he has me backed against the wall of this dark, stinking alley.

The brick is cold and hard and damp against my back, gritty even through my jacket. All around us, the stink of the old city rises up from the cobblestones, a miasma of human and animal waste, of old garbage and lamp oil and tanning scraps, of poverty, of desperation and fear. Surrounded by these sights and smells, with my blood pumping hot in my veins, an image rises up before my eyes: London, its faraway skylines suddenly immediate, bright and hard and clear. A sense of home envelops me, a mirage of my old life, the unfamiliar foreign architecture shimmering away as easily as a rising curtain.

I see Wildy looming over me, his face smeared with blood and a dark, crooked smile, but my heart leaps within my chest and my spirit soars, a buoyant crescendo, and I know that if I so desired, I could rise up and dispatch him with little effort. Though it is important, of course, that I do not do so quite yet.

Upon his next strike, I purposefully lose my balance and stumble forward, clutching wildly at his clothing. He places the heels of his hands on my chest and shoves me away. My back hits the wall with such force as to steal my breath, but I do not mind; I have what I want. My blind grab at his scarf has rewarded me with a flash of gold—the chain he wears around his neck—and I know that I have got not only my man, but the very opportunity that I need.

When he steps into my space, I grab him firmly by the lapels and thrust my head forward, crashing my forehead against the lower half of his face. He staggers backward, stunned, and I pursue him. Blood trickles from his nose, from between his lips, and I see that he is fumbling at his waist, groping for some weapon, and I know that I must reach him, must act first

I make as if to grab for his wallet and when he ducks his shoulder, I bring my elbow against his chin with a crack of bone. I snatch at the chain and pull—it tugs him forward before it snaps in my fingers and I feel a rush of triumph.

Wildy makes some last-ditch, abortive thrust at my ribs and I feel a little scratch of pain, but it is not enough to deter me. I bring a knee up to his groin and he doubles over, falling to the ground, dropping his knife. His breathing is harsh and loud and his fingers scrabble across the cobblestones. I crush his hand beneath my boot and he cries out.

I draw from my coat a bottle of strong-smelling spirits (every beggar needs his Lethe, his poison, his source of winter warmth and blessed oblivion) and bring it down solidly upon the back of his neck. He falls forward with a grunt and ceases to move entirely.

Standing above him, I watch for a moment and then take stock of my surroundings. Confident in my safety, I examine the broken chain, the ornate medallion that adorns it, and then tuck them both into my jacket pocket. I kneel down beside Wildy, who does not appear to be breathing, and I roll him over on his side. His limbs are heavy and unyielding. When I press my fingers to his neck, there is no pulse. His eyes are open, unseeing, and when I begin to rummage through his pockets, I observe that he has soiled himself. I help myself to his checkbook and money-pouch. I have little need for his money, but what robber would take the medallion yet leave behind other valuables? This is necessary to hide my trail.

His vacant eyes stare blankly up at the dark sky. The snow has begun again and little flecks of white are melting on his cheeks. It will not be long before his skin is too cold even for this. As I watch, one flake settles upon his eyelashes, another in the dull glint of his cornea. Some indefinable feeling wells in my throat and before I can question the urge, I find myself closing his eyes with something approaching tenderness. For good measure, I rearrange his jacket to cover his stained trousers, and then I get to my feet.

There is a sharp stretch of pain in my abdomen, and then I remember his knife. It is lying there on the dirty ground, glinting silver in the moonlight. It is not even stained with my blood. I am sure that it is not just the adrenaline keeping the pain away; the wound cannot be very serious, nor very deep. I stoop to pick it up, and at the mouth of the alley, I find my own weapon. I sheath one at my waist and tuck the other into the leather of my boot.

I reach into my clothing to feel the edges of the wound and find that I am right—it is not particularly serious. Still, to be certain, I keep my hand clapped firmly over the spot as I retreat through the dingy nighttime streets, and I feel little more than a trickle between my fingers. My shirt is ripped and stained, and I can see the beginnings of a small red mark on my waistcoat, but the flow has stopped almost entirely by the time I make it back to my quarters, the cramped and dilapidated room I am renting in a decidedly unsavoury neighbourhood.

There, I am able to undress and ascertain the extent of the damage. It truly is little more than a scratch, but I know that the danger lies further ahead: a dirty blade; my poor, fumbling attempts at doctoring; my ill health, neglected and compromised by this gruelling journey. I have more cause to fear these things than exsanguination or organ damage or anything else.

My efforts are clumsy, especially compared to the excellent medical care I once enjoyed at your hands, but I do the best I can under the circumstances. The motions, at least, are familiar (the many dangers of my recent lifestyle have taught me much) and soon enough, I find my mind drifting. My consciousness recedes to the tips of my fingers, the palms of my hands—and slowly, surely, my surroundings give way to memory. My spindly fingers, my trembling, inexpert touch—these things shift and blur into capable doctor’s fingers, square and blockish and confident with long years of experience. My flesh grows warmer and bronzed and filled out with muscle; my every movement is suffused with care and tenderness.

I use the basin of water to clean first my small table and my hands and wrists, and then, with a fresh cloth, the area around the wound. Then I swab it thoroughly with antiseptic, gritting my teeth against the sting and burn of the alcohol, and staunch it with clean bandages that I kept close at hand.

Even in these few short moments, I can draw from so many different memories, so many demonstrations of your affection and care and professional skill. Slowly, surely, I feel my loneliness melting away—the weary thinness of spirit, all the worries and danger of my travels—and this cramped space, these crumbling, greying walls may well be our digs at Baker Street, the din from the disreputable drinkers and brawlers below could be the homey sounds of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen…

A Christmas feast, a Scotswoman’s breakfast, or a simple supper of cold beef and bread and mustard… I spoil for just a morsel of the countless meals I have left untouched. I ache for a sight of the freckled hands that prepared them, for a note of her affectionate, scolding brogue. I yearn too to see you, my concerned doctor, to hear your fussing, your jocular bargaining and wheedling with me to stop pushing the food about the plate and eat for once, Holmes—yes, I see very well what you’re doing, you great child.

The heady smoke of your tobacco, the crackling of logs in the evening fire, the rustle of pages as you work your way through a newspaper or medical journal or some abominable adventure novel. Your steady breathing, your unconscious habit of worrying your moustache, the tap of your pipe against the ashtray. My Watson, all warmth and burnished gold and constancy, silent at my side, never more than an arm’s length away.

My hands are cold and unskilled, but beneath it, I can feel the memory of your touch, your fingers palpating, testing—a rib, a darkening bruise, a bump that should already have healed. Those endless moments you spent stitching me up, those indignities better borne with morphine or laudanum but for the disappointed tut of your breath, the steadiness of your hands when I am good enough to comply and sit, cursing and stone-cold sober, beneath your needle. Your hands on my abdomen, tracing a line of recent stitches, your smile of pleasure at its healing progress. your fingers ghosting over my ribs, brushing ever lower over bare skin, calling up gooseflesh, curling beneath the waistband of my trousers, where—

I bite my tongue and squint my eyes shut, willing these images away. They were dangerous enough before, and I find them positively lethal now. I am long accustomed to this fight, to this self-denial—but as ever, these fantasies do not depart neatly. They leave behind them a distinct ache, a yawning emptiness that hollows my ribs, leaves my chest likely to collapse on itself. I see now that my old habits of abstinence will not be enough, that I will have to indulge myself at least a little.

I can ease the ache of memory by remaking my past. And so I give in—I remember, I imagine, I pine, I yearn…

I am grimy and bruised and sore. Cold wind and spray whip bitterly against my exposed face. The skin of my hands is rubbed raw and red, the muscles my arms and shoulders and abdomen gone tight and hot and taut with desperate exhaustion, and still I fight. Still I climb.

Bits of the cliff crumble in my claw-like grip and I struggle upward, inch by torturous, glacial inch. I tamp down the threat of vertigo, the rising tide of panic in my gut. One instant of weakness is enough. One moment of inattention means death.

A haze of light beckons over the ridge of the cliff above, urging me onward against the pounding of the waters below, against the dying, echoing fall of Moriarty’s hoarse cry that tears still at my eardrums.

I work my endless, gruelling way toward that light, toward its promise of warmth and comfort and rest; I climb, inch by inch, hand over fist. I wedge my toes into crevices and adjust my awkward weight and, with burning lungs, I breathe and breathe and breathe.

My vision is blurred with sweat and grit and unfathomable fatigue, but I know I am nearing the top, I must be, I know, and I know when there is movement before my eyes, when a hand reaches down and grips me about the wrist, when you are lifting, pulling—impossibly strong, my miracle, my own heart—when you haul me over the ledge and I can at last let go, surrender to your strength and warmth and the inexorable will of the world.

Now you are drawing me into your lap, my spent and limp form pliant and unresisting beneath your hands. You are cradling me to your chest; you are stroking up and down my arms, my legs, my chest, checking for injuries.

“Your poor hands,” you are saying—yes, you have always been drawn to my hands, fixated to the point of distraction. I have seen you looking—no, I have not only seen but I have observed and I can almost be sure that you too—

“Holmes, your poor hands,” and you are bringing them to your lips, kissing each knuckle, lips soothing against aching flesh. Your breath is warm with life, your eyelashes glinting gold against your cheeks, and surrounded by your smell and heat, I let my head fall back and I surrender.

You grasp my hand in yours, holds it tight against your bare throat, dip your face to look in my eyes. My breath catches.

“I thought I had lost you,” you are saying, voice hoarse, and your forehead, your nose are bumping against mine. You draw a shaky breath; I feel the hiss of warm air across my lips. “Holmes… I thought—”

A crashing noise—and I jolt upright, head swimming. A tray has fallen to the floor downstairs. Someone is yelling, voice all blurred Slavic edges and rough with drink, and a woman is laughing.

I am too far gone, I know. My judgement is compromised, my control is weakened and there is nothing I can do to triumph over the workings of my traitorous, overstimulated mind. Nothing save what you would surely want me to do: sleep.

I check the flimsy locks on my door and clamber into bed. Drawing my blanket around me, I settle into the mattress, arranging my limbs around all its lumps. Finally, I close my eyes, shutting out the sharp, cold light of the world, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.

When I wake again, I judge that most of a day has passed—outside the cracked, greasy glass of my window, it is beginning to fall dark again. I find myself much improved by this long rest, my spirits greatly restored. I wash my face in the basin, rinse out my mouth, and check the dressings on my stomach before proceeding down the back stairs to investigate what sort of meal might be had in the establishment below.

There are still only a few patrons at this hour, most of them scruffy and ill-fed and ill-humoured, eyeing me suspiciously as I inhale the brown bread and cold meat that the barmaid places before me. Normally, I would behave with more restraint; normally, my mannerisms alone would suffice for a disguise and I would be able to forego my putty noses and my powders and wigs and still blend in among them, but now, I am feeling so hale and hearty, so suffused with euphoric energy that I cannot temper myself. I drain my drink in a few long swigs and it is all that I can do not to bang the glass against the counter-top to request another.

I have succeeded in my mission here; I have pursued my quarry and I have triumphed and I will be able to quit this town on the first train tomorrow. Indeed, I am even ahead of schedule—my next target will not even be in position for another two days at the earliest. I have won myself enough time to rest and eat and to take a safe journey. I have time to calculate my route, where and when to disembark and re-alight on the next train, what connections to make en route to ensure that I am not followed, that my destination is not obvious.

I ask the barmaid for another bit of bread and meat for my journey, but she affects non-comprehension, refusing my money, not meeting my eyes. I realise then that it is time for me to leave and so I do, setting out in the direction the train station. What little I have, I carry on my person at all times. I do not entirely look the part of a traveller, but I am light and refreshed and able to move quickly. It is only when I make the last turn before the train station that I see that I have not been quick enough.

They set upon me, two burly men, one tall and well-muscled, the other short and fat and reeking of liquor. Both of them have shoulders like my old chair back at Baker Street, and they wear a set of matched scowls, and long beards in the same unkempt fashion as Wildy. I realise, with a sinking darkness of spirit, that I have been too hasty, that Wildy was not alone, that I have not been unobserved.

This is nothing new; I have fought men stronger than me, I have fought two men at a time, I have fought for my life unprepared and on a moment’s notice, and so I am not conditioned to despair at the sight of them. What’s more, I am rested and fed and determined—I am strong and vital and buoyant with purpose. I have little worth stealing, nothing to defend but my life, and so it is with confidence that I draw up my shoulders, make myself taller and broader, that I meet their eyes and let teeth flash in my smile. I had thought I was done with them, but no matter. A fight might suit me very well indeed.

It is too late that I see my mistake, that I recognise the peril of my hubris. A hasty meal and a night of sleep do not make up for months of neglect—I should know this. And though I have fought groups of men, greater numbers than this, I do not have my usual advantages. These two are not caught unprepared, and I am not disguised so as to hide my relative youth and health. They are not strangers to each other, plucked randomly from the crowd in the hopes of an interesting night of boxing; no, they are accustomed to fighting together. Each knows the other’s move before he can make it; there is no need for communication between them. I can rely only on their body language, that unconscious telegraphing of the next movement, and soon enough, panic sets upon me. It constricts my thoughts, confounds my best attempts to read the atmosphere, to confirm my exit strategy, to find the route by which I should flee.

In the next moment, it happens. I read the swing of the short one’s fist and, in anticipation, step out of his way—directly into the tall one’s waiting embrace. He grips me by the wrists with vice-like hands and wrenches my arms in opposite directions until they are crossed over my throat. My shoulder joints shriek in protest, and then I am clasped to his chest, immobilised. I struggle and kick, but it is futile. I cannot reach the trustworthy blade at my belt, much less the new one concealed in my boot. He holds me still as his partner pummels me, well-aimed blows to the stomach and head—he turns my body so that his partner can hit me more squarely in the face.

What I would not give to have you by my side, to see you emerge from the mouth of the alley, come triumphant to my rescue. The thought plagues me as I thrash and gnash my teeth and spit blood at the short one’s eyes. I use what little leverage I have, trying to bite at the tall one, to hit him with the hard part of my head, to strike him in the teeth or the soft meat of his throat. I throw my body backwards, but I fail to knock him off balance, earning only a cuff to the temple for my pains. Ears ringing, I drop my full weight against him and whirl my feet wildly, kicking in a windmilling fury—his shins, his partner’s thighs and hands, the empty air, my own ankles. I know victory is hopeless, and so I struggle toward the only goal available to me: to make myself a nuisance, a Pyrrhic conquest—to be more trouble than I am worth.

My movements grow increasingly desperate, the effort of fighting increasingly taxing and costly, and then there is a shift of my captor’s weight and his hands are pressing hard on my windpipe. Panic bursts through my veins with a shocking immediacy, and my pulse pounds in my ears, behind my eyes, through my every muscle, driving my flailing movements. I can feel and hear and taste the spike in my heart-rate, and I know I cannot possibly hold out long. My eyes are bulging, dry and hot in their sockets, and through my blurring vision, I perceive that the short one seems to be smiling. His lips move and he is laughing, taunting me in some tongue I cannot comprehend, and his voice stretches and warps, growing thin and faraway. His gleeful face swirls before me like oil and I know no more.

When I awake, it is to such a symphony of pain that I am not entirely sure I am still among the living. I do not know why they have left me here, why they have let me live, but I do know that I cannot afford to stay one moment longer, that I cannot stand it. The effort of getting to my feet causes pain of such intensity and variety that I cannot localise it to any one place. My head swims, but I take stock and try my luck at walking.

It is only a moment’s walk to the train station, and I will manage the feat in something less than ten. My boots are gone, and with them, the knife concealed in the left one (though, for reasons unfathomable, my attackers have left me the one at my waist). Even with my keen senses, I do not believe I was ever previously aware of how damnably uneven cobblestones are, how the smallest disparity can ricochet through one’s nerves like an electric shock. I am like a newly shod horse, clumsy and wretched and piteous.

My bare feet are a painful indignity, but at least the men have left me the rest of my clothes. It is little surprise—they are very old and many times mended, and they look every bit as inexpensive as they were. In fact, I chose them with such a scenario in mind, and the thrill of vindication I feel is a welcome comfort, if a small one—they are barely enough to keep me warm. It is with some shame that I realise that my trousers are soiled and damp. I pull my jacket closer around me, smoothing it over my thighs, and pain shoots from my fingertips up my wrist.

The steps up to the train station are fresh, unimagined hell, but I push through them with determination, and I do not stop moving until I am safely inside, leaning against the wall to catch my breath.

I do not have to check my pockets to know that they have taken my stolen medallion, which was meant to serve as my passport to infiltrate their group in my next city. I put the thought out of my mind—there is nothing to be done about it. Of course they have also taken my money-pouch with its few rattling coins, but they have left me my jacket and the bills that line its secret inner pocket. This allows me to breathe easier—I will have the train fare if I can only rip out the stitching, and one telegram to Mycroft will have more waiting for me wherever I go next.

My hands shake as I draw the knife from my belt and make a small slit in the top of the pocket, just wide enough for two fingers. I draw out a few fresh bills as subtly as I can, and they crumple as they pass through the small hole. There is a little tickle of memory, something about a rich man and the eye of a needle, but against the backdrop of my agony, its significance eludes me.

I linger over the boards and timetables at the ticket office, but I am too exhausted to even contemplate the winding route I had intended and in any case, I have lost the medallion and will need another plan. Finally, I decide to buy a ticket east, as far east as I can go, and continue travelling until a better course of action reveals itself.

Waiting on the platform, I beckon to a grubby child—older really than his small skull and scrawny body would indicate, the ravages of malnutrition. I cross his palm with silver and make my request, and as he retreats, I sag limply against the wall. Not a second later, there is a hissing noise in my ear and when I open my eyes, he stands before me again, pressing a bottle into my hands. No time at all seems to have passed and yet here he is—I recognise that my condition may be more dire than I have imagined. At the very least, I must look quite fearsome; the boy scurries away as soon as it is clear that my hands will hold the bottle themselves. I watch the dirty soles of his bare feet recede.

The bottle has lost its cork, but is nearly three-quarters full of a colourless liquid that burns before it even reaches my lips. The first swig warms me even as I shiver. I curl in on myself, savouring the heat in my stomach, and I try to doze until the train pulls in and I am able to hobble aboard.

I have a compartment entirely to myself—I do not know if this is a happy accident or a direct consequence of my frightful appearance. From a glimpse of my reflection in the window glass, I can very well believe that my would-be seat-mate might have questioned his luck and decided to spend the journey standing. I settle in and curl up on the seat to begin my inspection.

My head is cotton-thick and heavy; the stuffing between my ears throbs dreadfully, thrumming with a beehive insistence that precludes rational thought. I perceive that my right eye will soon be swollen shut, though I can still see well enough out of the left one.I taste blood, thick and hot with iron and salt, and I spit once into my handkerchief and rinse my mouth with another swig from the bottle.

I snake my tongue out and find that although most of the blood has run down from my nose, my bottom lip is split as well. My teeth do not feel loose, but the pain in my head is too great to allow more than the most cursory probing with my tongue.

The damage to my face does seem to be impermanent, and this pleases me bitterly—there will be no scars to make disguise difficult, nor to render my appearance more recognisable than it already is (since my exile, I have had a dozen occasions to curse the day I allowed that Paget fellow to do our portraits). The bruises may, in fact, afford me a better cover until they heal. In the end, however, my face will remain unchanged.

Thus assured, I move on to my abdomen and other areas of secondary importance—you damned fool, I can almost hear your voice, but I push it away, closing my ears to the sound, hardening my heart. I cannot afford the distraction, not again.

The third and fourth ribs on my left side are bruised if not broken. A quick brush of my fingers reveals that my exertions have reopened yesterday’s wound; it bleeds laconically, disinterestedly, as if even it has tired of indulging me and my foolish death-wish. My right shoulder is terribly tender. I discover that it still has most of its normal range of motion, though this will surely worsen as the swelling around the joint increases.

Sometime during this inventory, the train lurches to life and begins to bear me away from this horrid city, away from its smoke and its grime and the press of unfriendly bodies that keep me always on my guard. Away from this target and on to the next, and the next and the next…

Continued in Part 2...

Comments

[stellinia.livejournal.com]

I am definitely loving this! Such vivid descriptions and palpable misery and longing - hooray for angst! Very well written. Off to part 2!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

[monkeybard]

This is wonderful! The voice, the imagery, the pacing and tension. It all flows so beautifully. Kudos!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for commenting :)

[winryweiss.livejournal.com]

I love the concept of this.
Holmes writing a love letter story for Watson, some time after his involuntary exile ended, so we know that in the end all will be good. Yet, it certainly doesn't keep us from being afraid and anxious for Holmes safety and state of mind.
Very gripping.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

This is very much a love letter :) I'm glad you enjoyed it -- thank you for the lovely words!

[fictionforlife.livejournal.com]

I love how you started this with 'John',(because Holmes calling Watson by his Christian name uughhh my heart), and then crushed me to pieces with the rest of the story. Holmes' adventures usually sounds mysterious and exciting but he is downright lonely and miserable in this.

It's good to be reminded that Watson was most likely not the only one who 'suffered' during the great hiatus.

I'm digging this angst train, thank you and well done Anon!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Oh, I am so glad you enjoyed the angst--I was worried that it had veered too far into the 'hurt' side of hurt/comfort. And the Christian name thing crushes me too :) Thank you so much for your kind comment!