Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 17

"It is in my nature to be kind, gentle, and loving. But know this:When it comes to matters of protecting my friends, my family, and my heart, do not trifle with me. For I am the most powerful and relentless creature you will ever know." ~Harriet Morgan

He could feel the cold, wet snow seeping through the material of his trousers, making his leg ache even more terribly than it had been that morning. But one look at his daughter as he knelt in the wintery slush, helping her to build a snowman, was nearly enough to make him forget all but her delightful giggle. Irene had gone inside to ask Mrs. Hudson for a carrot and also to gather some coal so they could give their snowman a proper face.

Watson paused his snowman making task to flex his glove covered hands. They were stiff and clumsy as he tried to put the snowman's stick arms in place. Before he had much time to ponder this though, a snowball hit him square in the back of the head. Watson cringed as the freezing slush trickled down the back of his neck. From behind him, he could hear his friend's hysterical laughter. "Holmes!" he roared, grabbing his cane and hauling himself to his feet. He turned on the detective, both anger and amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. He scooped a handful of snow off the stoop of 221B and began to form it into a tightly packed ball. Holmes began to back slowly away from him, his hands up in surrender.

"Now, now, Watson. Let's not do anything rash. After all, you have no real evidence it was in fact I who..."

But Watson hit him in the jaw with one well aimed throw and Holmes found himself silenced by a mouthful of snow. Irene, who had come out of the house just in time to see him get what he well deserved, began to laugh.

"Oh. You think that's funny, do you, my dear?"

Irene tightly pinched her lips together in a failed attempt to stifle her laughter. Holmes began to advance on her with an ornery gleam in his eye, and quicker than a flash, he was by her side, crashing his frozen lips into hers and pressing his cold, wet body close.

Watson was quite suddenly taken by a cough, grateful the couple was otherwise occupied so as not to have them both worrying over him again. He had only just gotten to the point where he could simply go about his day without them eyeing him carefully for any signs of a relapse. But upon pulling away his handkerchief, he once again found it stained with blood. Watson frowned. There was no reason for it. No irritation in his throat or congestion in his chest. He quickly tucked it into his breast pocket before anyone took notice, making note to analyze the reason for such a symptom later. He looked back to his daughter who was currently admiring the single white rose she held in her small hands. "Mary, darling," he asked, "where did you get that?"

"Pretty flower, Papa," she said, holding it out for him to see.

"Yes, my love, it is very pretty," he nodded, panic beginning to worm it's way into his mind, "but where did you get it?"

Mary simply pointed down the street. Heart in his throat, Watson followed her gaze until it landed on the figure of a man watching them from the end of the block. Mind racing, Watson shouted for Holmes and lifted his daughter up into the safety of his arms.

The frantic tone of the doctor's voice did not escape Holmes, and he and Irene were quickly at his side.

"Irene," Watson said urgently, "take Mary back upstairs. Lock the door and don't open it until we return. Tell Mrs. Hudson to do the same."

Irene's eyes landed on the mysterious figure and she nodded, holding her niece close and hurrying back inside. Once the door was closed, their girls safe for the time being, Watson and Holmes began advancing on the figure. Their gait was calm and steady, but frightfully determined. The only sound for miles was the click of Watson's cane and the crunching of the melting snow beneath their boots. They'd made it but a few feet before the man took off running. Without a moment's hesitation, Holmes and Watson gave chase, hot on the intruder's heels. They followed him down Baker Street, dodging through the back alleyways and jumping fences. Any other given day and Holmes would have complimented Watson on his impressive athletic ability, considering he knew his leg had been bothering him more than usual recently. But Holmes knew a force far more powerful than pain was driving his friend. Finally, they had the man cornered, the person of interest having made a wrong turn and running straight into a dead end. "Right," Holmes fumed, his breath forming white puffs of smoke in the air, "who are you and what do you want from us?"

A sickening smile crept over the man's face, making Holmes' flesh crawl. "Just wanted to make the little girl smile."

Before the man could even blink, Watson had drawn the sword from his cane, shoving the man up against the wall with the glinting weapon pressed to his throat.

"Remember now," Holmes said, despite quite enjoying the look of fear that flashed in the stranger's eyes, "you're a doctor."

"I'm also a father," Watson growled, his murderous gaze fixed on the man beneath his blade, "and, at this moment, that takes precedence."

Holmes smirked, taking a step back to provide his friend with all the room he might need. "Truer words have never passed your lips, John."

With that, Watson swiftly removed his sword, leaving a thin trail of ruby red blood in its wake. Bringing his fist back, it connected with the man's cheekbone, sending him crashing to the ground. Pinning him to the icy street, Watson continued the beating, delivering blow after blow to the man's face. All else faded from his mind until he realized the man wore a smug smile. Giving pause to his attack, Watson grabbed a fistful of the man's tawny brown hair and yanked his head up. "And just what is so bloody amusing?"

"Dr. Watson," the man chuckled, blood staining his teeth, "it ain't me you should be worried about."

The ice crystals clinging to his clothes entered his veins, and Watson's face grew alarmingly pale. "Mary."

Never taking his eyes off Watson, the man addressed the detective next. "How's your wife, Mr. Holmes? She's quite lovely, ain't she? I wouldn't get in the habit of leaving her alone if I was you. Professor Moriarty sends his congratulations to you an' the missus."

"Moriarty?" Watson echoed. He looked to his friend, rage, shock, and confusion all warring for dominance as his body trembled. "Holmes, what..."

"Watson," Holmes said urgently, fighting the surge of panic in his chest, "we must go. There isn't a moment to spare."

Watson shoved his questions to the far corners of his mind, knowing Holmes was right. They had to get back. Dropping the man back to the ground, letting his head crash onto the ice, Watson spat, "You will never threaten my family again." With that, he drew his sword across the henchman's throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood. Watson and Holmes then took off running back toward Baker Street and the girls they loved more than life itself.

~*~*~

Mrs. Hudson, bound and gagged, was the sight that greeted them upon bursting into 221B. Holmes untied the gag while Watson set to work cutting the ropes wrapped around her wrists. Using his handkerchief, Holmes wiped a bit of blood from her split lip. "Dear, sweet Nanny," he whispered, tenderly brushing a tear from her eye, "what have they done to you?"

"Blast," Watson muttered, his hands trembling far too much to safely cut the binding. "Holmes, come cut these bloody ropes!"

Holmes pressed a reassuring kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek and did as he was told without question. Watson came around to face Mrs. Hudson. "Are you alright?"

She nodded tearfully.

"Where are the girls, Mrs. Hudson? Who did this to you?"

Before she could say a word, two gunshots rang out from up the stairs. Air rushed from Watson's lungs and it felt as though the bullet had sailed through his own heart.

He shared a brief look with Holmes, the same panic mirrored in both their eyes. Mrs. Hudson's voice shook them from their paralyzing fear. "Go! Both of you, go! Hurry!"

Racing up the stairs, they found the door to the flat wide open. "Irene!" Holmes shouted, Watson by his side with his sword drawn. "Irene!" he shouted again, his voice verging on frantic.

He felt as he'd shed ten years when she answered, "In here!"

Following her voice to the bedroom, they found Irene with two smoking pistols crossed over her chest and two lifeless bodies on either side of her.

With a sigh, Irene gave them a victorious smile. "Well. It's about time, gentlemen."

It was then Mary poked her head out from behind Irene's skirts. She grinned when she saw her father, "Hi Papa!"