For All Our Sakes

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Holmes

After realising that it was Watson I had knocked to the ground upon opening the door, I confess to have nearly flown into a rather embarrassing display of hysterics. One of my Irregulars had informed me that Watson had arrived safely at our shared rooms, but I hadn't dreamed that I would open the door into him!

I helped my poor friend to his feet, noting the many injuries on his person, especially his left arm, which he held rather stiffly, the blood-smeared rope burns on both wrists.

"Afternoon, Holmes," he said, terrifying me by stumbling backwards toward the wall. I lunged forward to rescue him from a very painful encounter, and helped him steady himself.

"What on earth has happened to you?" I asked incredulously, looking him up and down.

Watson gave me a shaky smile. "It's a rather long story. Would you mind terribly if I cleaned myself up a bit first? You know, in case Mrs. Hudson sees me."

I cringed. "It would probably be for the best if you did clean yourself up a little."

Fifteen minutes later, after Watson finished tending to various injuries and I informed my landlady that he was all right (that conversation is something for which the world is not yet—nor shall it never be—prepared), and had her send telegrams to Lestrade and Mycroft, my friend and I sat smoking in our respective chairs before the fire, which Mrs. Hudson had lit because of the chill that was sweeping through the city.

"So what did happen to you?" I asked Watson again.

My friend sighed, reclined gingerly in his chair, and began to recount his tale. Several times during his narrative, I questioned him about various things he said, and several more times, I nearly threw something, such was my anger at these people who had harmed my dearest friend. When my remarkable Boswell recounted to me how he had escaped from the brougham, I was struck by the resourcefulness of his utilizing the animosity between his two captors as a distraction while he freed himself. Though I have said it so many times it is practically a cliché between the two of us, I never shall get his limits.

"Now I believe it is my turn to ask you what you've been up to," said Watson when he had finished, eyeing me with curiosity.

"I must warn you that it is not nearly as interesting as what you've been through today," I said.

"I certainly hope not," said Watson dryly.

I laughed outright at his pawky sense of humor, and he chuckled as well.

"Well, what have you been doing today?" he asked after our mirth had subsided.

I proceeded to tell him what had occurred since he left the flat this morning. He was silent throughout my entire account, and when I had finished, I asked him if there was anything he needed clarified.

Watson's brows knitted, and when he answered, he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word carried a heavy weight. "Not about what you have just said, but about something Cauldwell told me."

With a sinking heart, I gestured for him to go on.

"He said that you had a sister, and that he'd—well, he'd killed her." My friend's voice was gentle and apologetic.

I nodded slowly, suddenly not sure if I trusted myself to speak.

"My dear fellow, you could have told me," said Watson softly, staring into the fire rather than at me, a fact for which I was grateful.

I sighed, struggling to find the words I was looking for. "I know, but…"

My remarkable friend smiled sadly at me. "It's all right, Holmes. I understand."