The Moor Path
Jun. 30th, 2012 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capt_facepalmTitle: The Moor Path
Author: capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H Watson, Sir Henry Baskerville, others
Summary: Sherlock Holmes contrives a plan. Dr Watson thinks he has found a better alternative.
Warnings: (none)
Word Count: 2850 (According to Microsoft)
Author's Notes:
.oOOo.
One of Sherlock Holmes's defects—if, indeed, one may call it a defect—was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; The Hound of the Baskervilles, 1902.
.oOOo.
The light of a gibbous moon illuminated the bleak landscape of the Grimpen Mire and the cold autumn air threatened to raise a fog from the moisture of recent rains. The old stonework fence that surrounded the close of Merripit House had fallen into disrepair in several places but it provided better cover than the shrubbery now shed of their summer foliage. Behind this crumbling wall three men lay in wait. Despite their dark dress and their skulking behaviour, their intentions were of the finest kind. These men were Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective of some repute, his trusted colleague, Dr John Watson, and Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, and they were out to catch a criminal in his attempt to commit the murder of Sir Henry Baskerville.
Sherlock Holmes had uncovered Jack Stapleton’s cunning plot against the Baskerville family and had engineered the situation such that an attempt on Sir Henry’s life must be made that very night. Since there was not enough evidence linking the suspicious lepidopterist to the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, Stapleton must be caught in flagrante delicto. Even Holmes had to admit that murder-by-canine was most ingenious.
The wait had been a long one and by ten o’clock, Lestrade was becoming fidgety. Holmes scowled impatiently and shushed the inspector with a hiss. Dr Watson, an experienced campaigner in Holmes’ nocturnal surveillance operations, adjusted his muffler against the night’s chill.
‘Holmes,’ Watson inquired, ‘How long have you known about the hound?’
‘I had my suspicions immediately upon hearing of the curious circumstances of the missing boots. How better to train a dog to attack a specific man than to torment it using the scent of the intended victim?’
‘You mean to say that Stapleton intends to have Sir Henry attacked outright, and not just frightened to death like his uncle?’
‘Of course, Watson! My involvement has raised the stakes. Stapleton can no longer afford such subtlety.’
‘You cannot put Sir Henry in such danger. He has taken the old legend very much to heart, and there is no telling how he will react.’
‘It’s too late to switch horses in midstream, Doctor. I’ve had this plan in place since the start.’
‘If you had let me know your plan, perhaps I could have helped to formulate a better one: one which would not imperil the life of your client!’
‘The foolish youth will be perfectly safe as long as he follows my instructions.’
‘I don’t trust that he will. I’ll go in his place. I’m armed and I know what to expect.’
‘No! It’s too dangerous!’
‘If it’s too dangerous for me, then it is certainly too dangerous for him!’
‘The Doctor is right, Mr Holmes. His way is better.’
‘Lestrade, this is none of your-- ‘
‘Quiet! There’s movement at the house. It might be Stapleton... ‘
Someone had crossed to the other side of the close and had entered one of the small outbuildings. The figure shortly returned to the house by the same path. By the moonlight, they could make out the distinct features of Jack Stapleton. Moments later, Sir Henry Baskerville could be seen at the door, giving his thanks and salutations to his host. Stapleton waved him goodnight and closed the door.
Henry Baskerville set off at a brisk march, his head darting at each little sound. Fog was forming in the low-lying areas.
‘Here he comes. Sir Henry, over here!’
‘Confound it, Watson, you will ruin everything!’
Baskerville tried to mask his alarm and let out a deep sigh of relief when he recognised the speaker and his companions.
‘Thank goodness, it’s you, Dr Watson!’
The three observers noted the tremor in the young man’s voice and the shivering which was only in part due to the night’s chill.
‘Sir Henry, Mr Holmes has changed the plan. We’ll exchange hats and coats. You’ll stay here, where it’s safe. I’ll take the path to Baskerville Hall. It’s dark enough that someone would have to be right on top of me to realise it was not you.’
A look of complete relief transformed Henry’s features. He turned to Sherlock Holmes and clasped his hand.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes! That eases my mind greatly. Agreeing to cross the moor tonight seemed like a good idea when you proposed it, but it is another thing entirely at this time of night.’
Sherlock Holmes gave Sir Henry a weak smile before turning to his flatmate and sending him his darkest look of disapproval. The doctor responded by tipping his borrowed hat in mock salute. He adjusted the coat’s collar, squared his shoulders, and reached for Baskerville’s walking stick. Without another word or a glance back he took to the path, descending into the thickening fog.
‘Come along, Sir Henry,’ said Lestrade. ‘You will be safe at Dr Mortimer’s house. I’ll take you there and rejoin Mr Holmes on the hunt.’
‘No Lestrade,’ Holmes corrected. ‘After you take Sir Henry to Dr Moritmer’s, you must find Mrs Stapleton. If she hasn’t been harmed already, she will be in great danger when her husband returns. She must also be taken to safety.’
John Watson was glad to be on the move. Crouching in shadows stiffened his joints, and the cold dug knives into his old injuries. The path was leading into the lowest and boggiest region of the Mire and the way was almost obscured by the gathering fog. Watson found it surprising to be able to look up and see the moon. He could even make out some of the more familiar constellations, but to look ahead along the path was nearly impossible.
An unearthly howl permeated the night and the mist.
It’s just a dog, Watson reminded himself. Soon his ears were picking up the sound of something moving through the wetland. With such poor visibility, he had to choose: either stay blind on the path, or move to higher ground.
A smaller footpath led to a rocky outcrop that Watson recalled from his daylight peregrinations. Another howl pierced the night. This time it seemed much closer. The doctor decided, then and there: the tor is where he would make his stand. Once he gained the summit, he stood and surveyed his surroundings. It was as if he were on an island in a sea of mists.
With a terrible snarl, the beast materialised out of the fog, cold white flames illuminating its form in the moonlight. Watson’s heart froze. The ancient curse was real. Before him prowled a spectral hound; one not of this earth. It had been summoned from the very pits of hell to wreak havoc upon the Baskerville line.
Within an instant the thing attacked. Watson swung his walking stick to no avail. The beast had his forearm, its jaws closed like a vice and it shook its fearsome head, ripping cloth and flesh indiscriminately. Roaring in pain, the doctor brought his revolver to bear and shot two bullets deep into the hellhound’s chest. The dog relinquished the savaged arm with a yelp. Watson struggled to remain standing as his foe paced back and forth. Before he could get another shot off, the beast launched itself again, the impact carried both over the steeper edge to the uneven ground below.
The fall of nearly fifteen feet left the doctor lying winded on his back. Pain shot through him when he tried to rise. He could tell that the enraged hound was near by the sounds it was making. Watson heard the low growl and raised his head as the demonic silhouette blocked out the moon.
The beast renewed its attack. It frantically clawed the doctor’s chest and shoulder; the thin fabric of Sir Henry’s stylish coat provided little resistance as the beast worried Watson’s throat. The doctor was too weak to defend against the snarling jaws. He cried out in pain and horror, sickened by the foul stench of rotting flesh on the brute’s breath. Through his own feeble cries and the beast’s frantic snarling, Watson thought he could hear a voice calling his name.
“Hang on, Watson! I’m coming!’
Holmes, gun in hand, scrambled down the slope. He raised the revolver and with one shot, blew the brute’s brains out. Blood and brain matter sprayed the doctor’s face and the beast collapsed on top of him with a final dying shudder. It took all of Holmes’s strength to haul the dog’s carcass aside. He lifted the shade of his dark lantern anxious to see how his friend had fared.
‘Watson, your injuries-- how bad are they?’
‘My back... it hurts to move... cannot feel my right arm.’
‘We must be on our way. That beast is not the only danger on the moor tonight. Let me help you up.’
‘Noooo!’ Watson screamed in agony. Holmes, forced to leave the doctor lying in situ, knelt by his side.
‘I was afraid something like this might happen. Why didn’t you stay on the path?’
‘The fog was too thick... the hound had my scent... I needed to improve my chances... ‘
‘Yes, Watson, I quite understand. A revolver is of no use if you couldn’t make out the target.’
‘Quite... It was upon me before I could-- ‘
‘I know. The hound was much larger than I had anticipated; and fiercer too. In its frenzy, it attacked you even after you dealt it two fatal wounds. Sir Henry’s nerve wouldn’t have stood against it.’
‘Holmes... I take no joy in being right... ‘ Watson said, ‘Especially in this instance.’
‘Don’t you dare try to make light of your circumstance, Doctor. Not until I figure a way out of our current predicament.’
The distinct sound of revolver being cocked could be heard. A voice spoke from the top of the tor. It was Jack Stapleton.
‘What have we here, creeping about in the night? Why, it’s Mr Sherlock Holmes! I see now that your return to London was a ruse. My goodness, were you not warned “to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted?” ‘
‘The supernatural has nothing to do with the evil on the moor tonight, Stapleton.’
‘Ha! Be that as it may, I have you well in my sights, sir, so do throw me your pistol, and step away from Sir Henry.’
Holmes threw his revolver aside but did not relinquish his hold on his stricken companion.
‘You cannot expect to get away with this! Our murders will only confirm your intentions against the rest of the Baskerville family.’
‘Your murders, Mr Holmes? Dear me, no! I’m afraid that poor Sir Henry was savaged by some dreadful beast in the night. I just have to finish with my knife what my hound had started with his fangs. And you, Mr Holmes, desperate to find your client, will have foolishly walked out upon the unfamiliar moor-- very likely consumed by one of the deadly bogs. Your body will never be found and Baskerville Hall will be mine yet!’
‘Your plan has several fatal flaws, Stapleton. The first of many is that Sir Henry is safe in Grimpen. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has taken him to Dr Mortimer’s house. Your scheme is in ruins.’
‘Henry is safe; how can that be! Then who lies here-- Is that Dr Watson?’
‘Surrender now and the law may deal leniently with you.’
‘No, Mr Holmes. I think I’d rather not take that chance. Not when I have you at my mercy. It’s a pity you had to involve your friend. Poor devil; see how he suffers?’
In unmistakable distress, Watson thrashed about in Holmes grip, ineffective in relieving the pain his awkward position imposed.
‘Can’t breathe... Please help me sit up...’
An agonised groan escaped him as Holmes did his best to gently raise him. Watson took a laboured breath and with tremendous effort raised his bloodied and mauled arm. With a trembling hand he grasped Holmes collar, and pulled the detective close. He was too winded from his exertion to speak.
‘Watson, I’m so sorry. Please do not strain yourself any further.’
‘Enough of this, Mr Holmes. Say your fond farewells and step away,’ said Stapleton.
But Watson would not let go. Holmes could see the pain etched in his colleague’s features. The ragged breathing; the tearing eyes. The doctor shook his head, pulled his friend closer still and murmured:
‘My right hand... Is my gun still there?’
Realisation struck. Holmes felt for his friend’s hand and nodded imperceptibly.
‘One shot... your finger over mine... and fire.’ Watson whispered.
Holmes felt the unnatural angle of the radius and ulna as he worked his hand around the gun. As careful as he was, his delicate touch still caused Watson much distress.
‘Oh, Watson... ‘ Holmes apologised.
‘Make it count-- ‘ Watson begged.
In one fluid motion, Holmes drew Watson’s arm and revolver into position, and fired. Stapleton realised it too late and his corresponding shot passed wide of its mark. The guns’ reports were almost drowned out by Watson’s scream as misaligned bones were wrenched into service. Stapleton crumpled to the ground, making horrible gurgling sounds. Holmes eased his friend to the ground.
‘Never mind me... check Stapleton!’ Watson gasped.
The evil lepidopterist lay dead. Holmes’ shot had taken him through the throat. The detective retrieved Stapleton’s weapon and fired two more shots into the air to signal his position. He then returned to his friend’s side and bade him to rest easy. Watson was on the verge of losing consciousness but managed to speak.
‘You must think me a fool...’
‘Foolhardy, on occasion; but never a fool. Rest now. There will be plenty of time for recriminations once you recover.’
Holmes could hear someone calling his name from atop the tor. The light from a lantern shone down upon their miserable tableau, and Dr Mortimer’s eager face appeared.
‘We heard your shots and came as soon as we could.’ Mortimer said.
‘Who is that with you, Mortimer?’
‘It is Barrymore. I rode to Baskerville Hall for help. We came back together along the Grimpen Mire path.’
‘Stapleton is dead, but Watson’s been hurt. The hound got at him and he’s had a fall.’
‘The hound? Is it-- ‘
‘Fear not. It’s quite dead. Have you brought your medical supplies?’
‘Indeed I have!’
The arduous undertaking of moving Dr Watson from the location of his attack to Baskerville Hall involved all three rescuers, took nearly two hours, and required several doses of laudanum. By dawn the next morning, his injuries which seemed more grave by moonlight, had been treated and he lay peaceably, if not comfortably, in his room.
Watson tried to turn his head, forgetting the thick bandages on his shoulder and neck. Dr Mortimer slumped at the writing desk, where he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Holmes, alert and watching, sat nearby.
‘Well, Watson. How are you this morning?’ he asked.
‘I can hardly draw breath.’
‘That’s not entirely surprising. I’ve seen Egyptian mummies with less bandaging.’
‘I feel like a patchwork quilt, but at least Mortimer’s suturing skill passed muster.’
‘Try not to move about. You managed to land on one of Dartmoor’s harder rocks. You’ve broken and bruised several ribs. I don’t suppose you remember much, but Mortimer had to bind them before you could be moved. The doctor seemed very concerned at the injury’s proximity to your spine. I do believe he would have made a tidy income in London if he had not rusticated himself.’
Watson stopped himself from nodding in agreement and raised his bandaged left arm instead.
‘That one has been sewn back together. The other one is quite broken. Mortimer reset and splinted the bones. He wants to wait for the swelling to subside before he casts you in plaster. I’m afraid that unless you wish to experiment with ambidexterity, your writing will be curtailed for at least a month.’
As was his habit since his return home at dawn, Henry Baskerville fluttered in to the convalescent’s chamber. He alternated between asking after his guest’s condition and repeatedly thanking Sherlock Holmes for saving his life. The detective implored him to rest himself and not disturb them again until the afternoon.
‘Of course, Mr Holmes! As you wish!’ Baskerville whispered as he exited once more.
Holmes looked at his colleague and shook his head in resignation.
‘That boy is a buffoon, Watson. I would rather-- ‘
‘No, Holmes, please don’t say it,’ Watson implored. ‘I knew many foolish young men who never had the opportunity to become foolish old men. Sir Henry may yet outgrow this phase and I would not begrudge him that chance.’
‘Very well, my dear fellow. I’ll not speak of it, but you know my thoughts.’
Please sign the guestbook...
One of Sherlock Holmes's defects—if, indeed, one may call it a defect—was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; The Hound of the Baskervilles, 1902.
.oOOo.
The light of a gibbous moon illuminated the bleak landscape of the Grimpen Mire and the cold autumn air threatened to raise a fog from the moisture of recent rains. The old stonework fence that surrounded the close of Merripit House had fallen into disrepair in several places but it provided better cover than the shrubbery now shed of their summer foliage. Behind this crumbling wall three men lay in wait. Despite their dark dress and their skulking behaviour, their intentions were of the finest kind. These men were Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective of some repute, his trusted colleague, Dr John Watson, and Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, and they were out to catch a criminal in his attempt to commit the murder of Sir Henry Baskerville.
Sherlock Holmes had uncovered Jack Stapleton’s cunning plot against the Baskerville family and had engineered the situation such that an attempt on Sir Henry’s life must be made that very night. Since there was not enough evidence linking the suspicious lepidopterist to the death of Sir Charles Baskerville, Stapleton must be caught in flagrante delicto. Even Holmes had to admit that murder-by-canine was most ingenious.
The wait had been a long one and by ten o’clock, Lestrade was becoming fidgety. Holmes scowled impatiently and shushed the inspector with a hiss. Dr Watson, an experienced campaigner in Holmes’ nocturnal surveillance operations, adjusted his muffler against the night’s chill.
‘Holmes,’ Watson inquired, ‘How long have you known about the hound?’
‘I had my suspicions immediately upon hearing of the curious circumstances of the missing boots. How better to train a dog to attack a specific man than to torment it using the scent of the intended victim?’
‘You mean to say that Stapleton intends to have Sir Henry attacked outright, and not just frightened to death like his uncle?’
‘Of course, Watson! My involvement has raised the stakes. Stapleton can no longer afford such subtlety.’
‘You cannot put Sir Henry in such danger. He has taken the old legend very much to heart, and there is no telling how he will react.’
‘It’s too late to switch horses in midstream, Doctor. I’ve had this plan in place since the start.’
‘If you had let me know your plan, perhaps I could have helped to formulate a better one: one which would not imperil the life of your client!’
‘The foolish youth will be perfectly safe as long as he follows my instructions.’
‘I don’t trust that he will. I’ll go in his place. I’m armed and I know what to expect.’
‘No! It’s too dangerous!’
‘If it’s too dangerous for me, then it is certainly too dangerous for him!’
‘The Doctor is right, Mr Holmes. His way is better.’
‘Lestrade, this is none of your-- ‘
‘Quiet! There’s movement at the house. It might be Stapleton... ‘
Someone had crossed to the other side of the close and had entered one of the small outbuildings. The figure shortly returned to the house by the same path. By the moonlight, they could make out the distinct features of Jack Stapleton. Moments later, Sir Henry Baskerville could be seen at the door, giving his thanks and salutations to his host. Stapleton waved him goodnight and closed the door.
Henry Baskerville set off at a brisk march, his head darting at each little sound. Fog was forming in the low-lying areas.
.oOOo.
‘Here he comes. Sir Henry, over here!’
‘Confound it, Watson, you will ruin everything!’
Baskerville tried to mask his alarm and let out a deep sigh of relief when he recognised the speaker and his companions.
‘Thank goodness, it’s you, Dr Watson!’
The three observers noted the tremor in the young man’s voice and the shivering which was only in part due to the night’s chill.
‘Sir Henry, Mr Holmes has changed the plan. We’ll exchange hats and coats. You’ll stay here, where it’s safe. I’ll take the path to Baskerville Hall. It’s dark enough that someone would have to be right on top of me to realise it was not you.’
A look of complete relief transformed Henry’s features. He turned to Sherlock Holmes and clasped his hand.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes! That eases my mind greatly. Agreeing to cross the moor tonight seemed like a good idea when you proposed it, but it is another thing entirely at this time of night.’
Sherlock Holmes gave Sir Henry a weak smile before turning to his flatmate and sending him his darkest look of disapproval. The doctor responded by tipping his borrowed hat in mock salute. He adjusted the coat’s collar, squared his shoulders, and reached for Baskerville’s walking stick. Without another word or a glance back he took to the path, descending into the thickening fog.
‘Come along, Sir Henry,’ said Lestrade. ‘You will be safe at Dr Mortimer’s house. I’ll take you there and rejoin Mr Holmes on the hunt.’
‘No Lestrade,’ Holmes corrected. ‘After you take Sir Henry to Dr Moritmer’s, you must find Mrs Stapleton. If she hasn’t been harmed already, she will be in great danger when her husband returns. She must also be taken to safety.’
.oOOo.
John Watson was glad to be on the move. Crouching in shadows stiffened his joints, and the cold dug knives into his old injuries. The path was leading into the lowest and boggiest region of the Mire and the way was almost obscured by the gathering fog. Watson found it surprising to be able to look up and see the moon. He could even make out some of the more familiar constellations, but to look ahead along the path was nearly impossible.
An unearthly howl permeated the night and the mist.
It’s just a dog, Watson reminded himself. Soon his ears were picking up the sound of something moving through the wetland. With such poor visibility, he had to choose: either stay blind on the path, or move to higher ground.
A smaller footpath led to a rocky outcrop that Watson recalled from his daylight peregrinations. Another howl pierced the night. This time it seemed much closer. The doctor decided, then and there: the tor is where he would make his stand. Once he gained the summit, he stood and surveyed his surroundings. It was as if he were on an island in a sea of mists.
With a terrible snarl, the beast materialised out of the fog, cold white flames illuminating its form in the moonlight. Watson’s heart froze. The ancient curse was real. Before him prowled a spectral hound; one not of this earth. It had been summoned from the very pits of hell to wreak havoc upon the Baskerville line.
Within an instant the thing attacked. Watson swung his walking stick to no avail. The beast had his forearm, its jaws closed like a vice and it shook its fearsome head, ripping cloth and flesh indiscriminately. Roaring in pain, the doctor brought his revolver to bear and shot two bullets deep into the hellhound’s chest. The dog relinquished the savaged arm with a yelp. Watson struggled to remain standing as his foe paced back and forth. Before he could get another shot off, the beast launched itself again, the impact carried both over the steeper edge to the uneven ground below.
The fall of nearly fifteen feet left the doctor lying winded on his back. Pain shot through him when he tried to rise. He could tell that the enraged hound was near by the sounds it was making. Watson heard the low growl and raised his head as the demonic silhouette blocked out the moon.
The beast renewed its attack. It frantically clawed the doctor’s chest and shoulder; the thin fabric of Sir Henry’s stylish coat provided little resistance as the beast worried Watson’s throat. The doctor was too weak to defend against the snarling jaws. He cried out in pain and horror, sickened by the foul stench of rotting flesh on the brute’s breath. Through his own feeble cries and the beast’s frantic snarling, Watson thought he could hear a voice calling his name.
“Hang on, Watson! I’m coming!’
Holmes, gun in hand, scrambled down the slope. He raised the revolver and with one shot, blew the brute’s brains out. Blood and brain matter sprayed the doctor’s face and the beast collapsed on top of him with a final dying shudder. It took all of Holmes’s strength to haul the dog’s carcass aside. He lifted the shade of his dark lantern anxious to see how his friend had fared.
‘Watson, your injuries-- how bad are they?’
‘My back... it hurts to move... cannot feel my right arm.’
‘We must be on our way. That beast is not the only danger on the moor tonight. Let me help you up.’
‘Noooo!’ Watson screamed in agony. Holmes, forced to leave the doctor lying in situ, knelt by his side.
‘I was afraid something like this might happen. Why didn’t you stay on the path?’
‘The fog was too thick... the hound had my scent... I needed to improve my chances... ‘
‘Yes, Watson, I quite understand. A revolver is of no use if you couldn’t make out the target.’
‘Quite... It was upon me before I could-- ‘
‘I know. The hound was much larger than I had anticipated; and fiercer too. In its frenzy, it attacked you even after you dealt it two fatal wounds. Sir Henry’s nerve wouldn’t have stood against it.’
‘Holmes... I take no joy in being right... ‘ Watson said, ‘Especially in this instance.’
‘Don’t you dare try to make light of your circumstance, Doctor. Not until I figure a way out of our current predicament.’
.oOOo.
The distinct sound of revolver being cocked could be heard. A voice spoke from the top of the tor. It was Jack Stapleton.
‘What have we here, creeping about in the night? Why, it’s Mr Sherlock Holmes! I see now that your return to London was a ruse. My goodness, were you not warned “to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted?” ‘
‘The supernatural has nothing to do with the evil on the moor tonight, Stapleton.’
‘Ha! Be that as it may, I have you well in my sights, sir, so do throw me your pistol, and step away from Sir Henry.’
Holmes threw his revolver aside but did not relinquish his hold on his stricken companion.
‘You cannot expect to get away with this! Our murders will only confirm your intentions against the rest of the Baskerville family.’
‘Your murders, Mr Holmes? Dear me, no! I’m afraid that poor Sir Henry was savaged by some dreadful beast in the night. I just have to finish with my knife what my hound had started with his fangs. And you, Mr Holmes, desperate to find your client, will have foolishly walked out upon the unfamiliar moor-- very likely consumed by one of the deadly bogs. Your body will never be found and Baskerville Hall will be mine yet!’
‘Your plan has several fatal flaws, Stapleton. The first of many is that Sir Henry is safe in Grimpen. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has taken him to Dr Mortimer’s house. Your scheme is in ruins.’
‘Henry is safe; how can that be! Then who lies here-- Is that Dr Watson?’
‘Surrender now and the law may deal leniently with you.’
‘No, Mr Holmes. I think I’d rather not take that chance. Not when I have you at my mercy. It’s a pity you had to involve your friend. Poor devil; see how he suffers?’
In unmistakable distress, Watson thrashed about in Holmes grip, ineffective in relieving the pain his awkward position imposed.
‘Can’t breathe... Please help me sit up...’
An agonised groan escaped him as Holmes did his best to gently raise him. Watson took a laboured breath and with tremendous effort raised his bloodied and mauled arm. With a trembling hand he grasped Holmes collar, and pulled the detective close. He was too winded from his exertion to speak.
‘Watson, I’m so sorry. Please do not strain yourself any further.’
‘Enough of this, Mr Holmes. Say your fond farewells and step away,’ said Stapleton.
But Watson would not let go. Holmes could see the pain etched in his colleague’s features. The ragged breathing; the tearing eyes. The doctor shook his head, pulled his friend closer still and murmured:
‘My right hand... Is my gun still there?’
Realisation struck. Holmes felt for his friend’s hand and nodded imperceptibly.
‘One shot... your finger over mine... and fire.’ Watson whispered.
Holmes felt the unnatural angle of the radius and ulna as he worked his hand around the gun. As careful as he was, his delicate touch still caused Watson much distress.
‘Oh, Watson... ‘ Holmes apologised.
‘Make it count-- ‘ Watson begged.
In one fluid motion, Holmes drew Watson’s arm and revolver into position, and fired. Stapleton realised it too late and his corresponding shot passed wide of its mark. The guns’ reports were almost drowned out by Watson’s scream as misaligned bones were wrenched into service. Stapleton crumpled to the ground, making horrible gurgling sounds. Holmes eased his friend to the ground.
‘Never mind me... check Stapleton!’ Watson gasped.
.oOOo.
The evil lepidopterist lay dead. Holmes’ shot had taken him through the throat. The detective retrieved Stapleton’s weapon and fired two more shots into the air to signal his position. He then returned to his friend’s side and bade him to rest easy. Watson was on the verge of losing consciousness but managed to speak.
‘You must think me a fool...’
‘Foolhardy, on occasion; but never a fool. Rest now. There will be plenty of time for recriminations once you recover.’
.oOOo.
Holmes could hear someone calling his name from atop the tor. The light from a lantern shone down upon their miserable tableau, and Dr Mortimer’s eager face appeared.
‘We heard your shots and came as soon as we could.’ Mortimer said.
‘Who is that with you, Mortimer?’
‘It is Barrymore. I rode to Baskerville Hall for help. We came back together along the Grimpen Mire path.’
‘Stapleton is dead, but Watson’s been hurt. The hound got at him and he’s had a fall.’
‘The hound? Is it-- ‘
‘Fear not. It’s quite dead. Have you brought your medical supplies?’
‘Indeed I have!’
.oOOo.
The arduous undertaking of moving Dr Watson from the location of his attack to Baskerville Hall involved all three rescuers, took nearly two hours, and required several doses of laudanum. By dawn the next morning, his injuries which seemed more grave by moonlight, had been treated and he lay peaceably, if not comfortably, in his room.
Watson tried to turn his head, forgetting the thick bandages on his shoulder and neck. Dr Mortimer slumped at the writing desk, where he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Holmes, alert and watching, sat nearby.
‘Well, Watson. How are you this morning?’ he asked.
‘I can hardly draw breath.’
‘That’s not entirely surprising. I’ve seen Egyptian mummies with less bandaging.’
‘I feel like a patchwork quilt, but at least Mortimer’s suturing skill passed muster.’
‘Try not to move about. You managed to land on one of Dartmoor’s harder rocks. You’ve broken and bruised several ribs. I don’t suppose you remember much, but Mortimer had to bind them before you could be moved. The doctor seemed very concerned at the injury’s proximity to your spine. I do believe he would have made a tidy income in London if he had not rusticated himself.’
Watson stopped himself from nodding in agreement and raised his bandaged left arm instead.
‘That one has been sewn back together. The other one is quite broken. Mortimer reset and splinted the bones. He wants to wait for the swelling to subside before he casts you in plaster. I’m afraid that unless you wish to experiment with ambidexterity, your writing will be curtailed for at least a month.’
As was his habit since his return home at dawn, Henry Baskerville fluttered in to the convalescent’s chamber. He alternated between asking after his guest’s condition and repeatedly thanking Sherlock Holmes for saving his life. The detective implored him to rest himself and not disturb them again until the afternoon.
‘Of course, Mr Holmes! As you wish!’ Baskerville whispered as he exited once more.
Holmes looked at his colleague and shook his head in resignation.
‘That boy is a buffoon, Watson. I would rather-- ‘
‘No, Holmes, please don’t say it,’ Watson implored. ‘I knew many foolish young men who never had the opportunity to become foolish old men. Sir Henry may yet outgrow this phase and I would not begrudge him that chance.’
‘Very well, my dear fellow. I’ll not speak of it, but you know my thoughts.’
.oOOo.
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no subject
Date: 2012-07-01 04:32 am (UTC)Although having the hound attack Watson made it that much more tense and dramatic, at least for me!
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Date: 2012-07-01 12:39 pm (UTC)MOAR soon pleaae! ;)
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Date: 2012-07-01 12:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-01 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-03 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-03 01:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-06 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 03:34 pm (UTC)Still, I can imagine Watson and Lestrade discussing the case like Mr. Incredible and Frozone:
"So Stapleton has us dead to rights. My arm's broken, the other's numb, Holmes is unarmed - and what does the guy do?"
"He starts monologuing?"
"He starts monologuing! Gave us enough time for Holmes to get my revolver and drop him."
"Crikey, if bad guys were as smart as they always think they are our job would be a LOT harder."
no subject
Date: 2020-10-16 03:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-10-18 04:48 pm (UTC)