Chapter Three

[capt_facepalm]

Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, assorted baddies
Summary:  Inspector Lestrade is frustrated with a case and turns to Sherlock Holmes, and his friend, Dr. Watson, for assistance.  And then things go wrong. In this chapter, the plot thickens. (Plot? Really?)
Warnings:  Rambling plot development; no slash
Word Count:  1355
Author's Notes:   

• First attempt at a multi-chaptered story ~ this is Chapter Three
• Thanks again to long-suffering, and gracious med_cat  who braves my atrocious grammar and inconsistent spelling to provide beta support. 

.oOOo.

Chapter Three

The driver of the hansom looked dubiously at the man who hailed him. He looked like a gentleman, but his hands, shirt, and trousers were stained with what could only be blood. This could mean trouble.

“Has there been an accident, sir?” he asked with cautious concern. “Are you injured?”

“I beg your pardon? Oh.”  John Watson realised the state of his appearance. “An accident? Oh yes. Someone was hurt, but they're on their way to the hospital.  I am fine. Please take me to Baker Street, 221. And hurry!”

The distance to Baker Street was considerably farther than that travelled by Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade to the hospital but the cabbie made good time. During the trip, Watson made a discovery which caused him to groan in exasperation: his revolver and wallet were still in the coat they had used as Lestrade's makeshift stretcher. Watson would need both of those items before the day was out. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He berated himself.

Upon his arrival at Baker Street, Watson paid the cabbie with pocket money and rapped on the door. His house key was also in his coat. Fortunately Mrs. Hudson had, herself, recently returned from errands and let him in. She was appalled at the sight his bloody clothes, and, fearful that something awful had befallen her two lodgers, demanded to know what had happened. Watson assured her that he and Holmes were well, but that they were in the embroiled in quickly evolving circumstances. He then asked her to locate any money she could spare, and promised to write her a cheque for the balance. Leaving the bewildered woman behind with more than a few unanswered questions, he climbed the stairs to the apartment he shared with Holmes.

Once inside, Watson’s first action was to place a pale blue handkerchief in front of the curtain in the main sitting room window. Next, he went upstairs to the small water closet off his bedroom. He peeled off his bloody garments and washed away all traces of the afternoon’s incident, paying close attention to his hands. By the time he finished his ablutions, changed into respectable clothing, and returned to the sitting room, his expected company had arrived. Not one, but two members of Holmes’ own Baker Street Irregulars, lounged around the room. Wiggins inspected the murky contents of a jar at the chemistry bench, while the younger one, Freddie, sat cross-legged in Holmes’ armchair.

“We spotted your signal, Doctor,” said Wiggins, waving the retrieved handkerchief with a smile, “What can we do for you?”

“I need someone to go to St. Thomas’s Hospital, find Holmes, and bring me my coat.”

“Come on, Doctor, you got plenty of coats now. Wear one of them others,” Wiggins laughed.

“Sorry, Wiggins, this really is no joking matter. Inspector Lestrade has been shot. Holmes is with him at the hospital. He has my coat, and my wallet, and my revolver. There is something I have to do and I cannot spare the time to get these items back, yet I fear I shall have need of them.”

“Are you in trouble?” asked Freddie, his eyes widening with concern. Wiggins closely scrutinised the doctor’s response.

“Truly, boys, I’m not sure,” Watson said with resignation, “Inspector Lestrade is a good man and a good friend. This afternoon, someone did their level best to kill him. He was lucky Holmes and I were there. It all happened so fast. He was so badly off. He's my friend... I should have stayed... ”

“Doctor Watson! Are you all right?” interrupted Wiggins, noticing the doctor's voice beginning to waver.

“Pardon me? Oh, yes. After he was shot, the inspector realised something and all but accused someone within Scotland Yard of arranging his ambush. If Lestrade still lives, Holmes is with him at the hospital, but if the police cannot be trusted… I fear for both their lives,” Watson continued in earnest.

“Freddie will stay with you. I’m off to Saint Tommy’s to get yer gear. I’ll be back, quick as a wink, don’t you fret,” Wiggins promised. Freddie nodded in serious agreement.

“Don’t bring it here. It might not be safe. I’ll be near the clock in Paddington Station by six o’clock. There is money in my wallet if you need a cab or the underground. Look for me, but if I am not there, go home and lay low. Don’t search for me or draw any undue attention to yourself. Please be careful.”

“Aw, don’t worry. You know what a careful feller I am!” Wiggins said with a grin and a cheery wave as he descended the stairs, heading for the back door.

“Freddie, where does Mister Holmes keep the key to his desk drawer?” asked Watson.

“Look underneath the ledge,” the little boy replied with a giggle.

Watson bent down to look underneath the desk and could not but smile. There, affixed to the bottom, with one of his own sticking plasters, was the small brass key. He fetched it up and opened the drawer to retrieve his chequebook, then hurried downstairs to Mrs. Hudson; he needed to warn her to take precautions as well.

Once he returned to the sitting room, he appraised the state of Freddie’s clothes. They were typical for a child of the street: worn in places and dirty in others.

“Freddie, if you still have the travelling clothes, go home and change. Meet Wiggins and me at Paddington at six as well. I’m not promising you anything, but you might need to come with me. Please take this seriously; it is not a game,” said Watson, giving him enough change for cab fare.

The little boy beamed with delight at the thought of a train journey. Doctor Watson had not needed his assistance as much as in earlier days so his opportunities for travel had been somewhat curtailed. Even if it meant wearing the uncomfortable scratchy clothes, he would play the role of a respectable child, he thought as he ran all the way home.

Now that the flat was deserted, Watson returned to his room and packed a small valise with essential clothes, toiletries, his medical kit, and the two boxes of bullets he had on hand. Five minutes later, he too exited through the back door, and made his way through the mews to the next street beyond; the heavy cane, christened “the Shillelagh” in hand. There he hailed the first available four-seater and asked to be taken to a location in the heart of a respectable working class neighbourhood. Despite hubs of heavy afternoon traffic, the cab was soon pulling up in front of a nondescript rowhouse. Confirming the address in his mind, Watson asked the cabbie to wait, then approached the house and knocked on the door.

There were sounds of children being hushed, and a moment later the door opened a fraction.  A woman in her mid thirties gazed with suspicion upon the stranger at her door.

“You're not from “the Yard”, are you?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her mistrust.

Watson smiled and introduced himself.

“Mrs. Lestrade?  My name is John Watson and I sometimes work with your husband.  He has sent me with a message, do you mind if I step inside?”

Elizabeth Lestrade paused as if deciding her next course of action and then opened the door fully to admit the doctor into the narrow entryway. She observed his movements with great attention.

“Please latch the door behind you, Mister Watson, if you don't mind,” she requested.

He did as she asked. As he turned back to face her, she delivered a two-handed blow with a fireplace poker, striking his shoulder with enough force to knock him to the floor.

“Bloody hell, woman!” Watson exclaimed reaching up to fend off the next strike, as she raised the poker to land another blow, “What the devil did you do that for?”

“You cuss like a common ruffian. My husband told me that the real John Watson is a gentleman with a limp and a bad shoulder,” she accused, brandishing her weapon with intent to strike, “Unlike yourself, sir!”

.oOOo.

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Link to Chapter Four 

Comments

[capt-facepalm.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I try to find good ways to end the chapters; hopefully to keep readers wanting more, yet remaining consistent with the story as a whole!