Chapter Text
John Watson awoke abruptly, eyes wide with fear, gasping for air and clutching his shoulder.
Pain shuddered through his body, concentrating on his shoulder as if a glowing hot poker was being trailed gently against his skin leaving behind a sizzling line of red-black agony. Sweat slicked his forehead and made the cotton nightshirt cling unpleasantly. He clenched his teeth, and controlled his breathing until the pain lessened to a tolerable level. Watson shuddered then closed his eyes and lowered himself back against the down pillows of his bed.
It was the nightmare again. The nightmare that still had full power over him even after all these years because it was no ordinary dream. It was a nightmare of events that had actually occurred. It was a blurred memory, full of fangs, fur, pain and the sound of men screaming in terror. The feel of hot breath against his neck, of teeth that tore into his shoulder like dull blades and the certain knowledge that he would die just as so many other men had died under the jaws of that monster was what gave the memories a vividness that made the nightmare all the more powerful.
He slid his hand under his nightshirt and touched the scarred tissue the dug into his deltoid muscle and even into his biceps brachii. He traced the lines where fangs had sunk. They were practically hidden by the surrounding scars where the surgeon had pieced together his axillary artery to save his arm but he could feel them against his finger tips. Those scars felt hotter than the surrounding skin. Unable to stand staying still for a moment longer, Watson climbed out of his bed and walked slowly to his window. He flung apart the heavy linen curtains and stared up at the sky. Even through the heavy polluted air of London the moon hung heavy, a particularly malignant shade of orange-yellow, and nearly full.
Watson closed his eyes against the sight of it. He had two more days, and only one more night before… before his nightmare became a reality.
Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep now as the lingering nightmare still lurked in the dark corners of his mind too ready to attack again, Watson turned on the gas lamp of his room. He found the notebook where he’d been writing his memories of the last case he’d assisted Holmes. He might as well use his time efficiently. He hadn’t had a chance to put pen to paper about his memories though it had been weeks since that frantic incident that had ended to abruptly and spectacularly on the London Bridge.
Watson had a sharp longing for his room at Baker Street that caught the very breath in his throat with its intensity. Once, he would have been able to leave his room and seek the company of Holmes with certainty that the man would be awake. If anything else, Sherlock Holmes was a most excellent distraction to his troubles. He had been so nearly from the first day they had met and through all the years of their friendship.
He wished that Holmes was here.
Watson shook his head at his own maudlin thoughts and settled back against the pillows. He wrote carefully with his fountain pen as to not spill ink onto his coverlets and ignored the ache in his shoulder as it pulsed in time to his heartbeat.
*-*-*-*-*
In the morning, after a passable breakfast from his housekeeper - who didn’t really hold a candle to Mrs. Hudson’s culinary skills though he was careful never to express this sentiment - Watson set off to see Mary off at the train station. His lovely fiancée was leaving London to see to a wedding of a friend and he was determined to enjoy the last sight of her that he would have for over a week.
He kissed her gently goodbye, and she touched his cheek in such a tender gesture that his breath caught before she entered the train. He stood at the station until he could no longer see her before heading to his medical practice to meet the last of his patients. He always made it a point of seeing the most urgent cases before he left, in case he needed to pass on their care to another doctor. Often it wasn’t necessary. The people that came to him were of sufficiently high rank that his patronage was more for health benefits than for urgent care.
His own fame, garnered along with the rise in Holmes’ own reputation, provided him with clients who enjoyed being able to refer to him as their doctor. This habit had risen sharply after the events surrounding Blackwood’s attempt to destroy Parliament. Watson, though he normally found it somewhat tiresome to have to deal with imagined ailments, was rather relieved that he would be able to disappear without it being detrimental to one of his patients.
It was shortly before lunch that he closed his office with a notice that he would be out of town for the next few days and headed back to his apartment to pick up his luggage.
It was then, walking without paying much attention to his surroundings, as he was unpardonably distracted by his own thoughts, that he was ambushed. Watson tried to shout but the hand clamping a cloth soaked with the distinct scent of diethyl ether over his nose refused to move.
He managed to land a punch on a nose that crunched under his fist before the darkness overwhelmed him.
*-*-*-*-*
“Should ‘e be sleepin‘ for so long?” asked a gravely male voice thick with a Scottish brogue.
That sentence was the first sound that Watson was able to hear as he struggled against the lingering drowsiness. His chin was resting against his chest as his head slumped forward and the struggle to raise it was more than it should have been. He tried to move his arms and found that he couldn’t.
He confusedly tried again. It took several seconds for the awareness that he couldn’t move to sink into his full conscious. The realization that he was tied up made his eyes widen and finally jerk his head up in alarm.
Nausea made his stomach roll in protest and he groaned but he was muffled by a cloth gag in his mouth. Watson made an indignant protest and tried to spit it out only to realize it had been tied securely at the back of his head.
“See, e‘s awake. Nuh that I‘d ‘are. Bastard broke ma dose,” said another male voice. It wasn’t anymore familiar to Watson than the first. Though the high nasal sound distorting the voice didn’t help in identification. It did make Watson smirk in satisfaction.
“It is fortunate for you that he isn‘t dead,” said yet another man.
Watson shifted his eyes to the speaker. It took an effort to get his aching eyes to focus. The location he had been taken to was surprisingly dark. High windows were bleared with soot and the light that streamed in came more from cracks in the wooden roof than through glass. Once he was able to see his surroundings clearly, it nearly wasn’t worth the effort. He was in some sort of abandoned building, most likely a warehouse, considering its size. The lack of visible machinery ruled out a factory. Watson could also see empty barrels and broken crates littering the surroundings and even in the space between him and the men.
His captors, who had caught his movements, were the sort of ruffians that he was used to seeing as hired dockworkers or even in fighting rings. One of them had a bulbous red nose, no doubt the one that Watson had broken. The other was a larger man, who reminded Watson rather strongly of Dredger, if the man had a smaller brother who had a strong Scottish accent. It was thickness of chest and a stoic manner than any physical feature that brought the Frenchman to Watson’s mind.
The best dressed of the men was wearing a frayed gray frock coat, and had Watson’s cane in his hand. He also had on Watson’s hat which really irritated Watson. He had thought he had gotten away from having another man steal his clothing once he’d left Baker Street. The fact that he hadn’t made him fume and his hands clench into fists.
As soon as he saw that Watson was looking at him, the hat thief smirked at him. He said, “We need him alive. After all a trap works better with live bait.”
Watson stared for a second before he glared back with a mix of anger and exasperation.
Of course this was Holmes’ fault. Why did he even bother to feel surprised? Watson asked himself. Then he wondered how long it would take Holmes to track him down.
With any luck, he’d be out of this mess by nightfall.
The better dressed man walked closer to Watson. Watson glared up at him, contempt in his eyes. He struggled against the thick rope that held him so securely to the chair. He was disgusted to note that he couldn’t even kick. The hat thief stared at him until Watson was forced to stop struggling because it made his shoulder and leg start aching fiercely. The lingering effects of the ether didn’t contribute any benefits to his health.
“It wasn‘t easy to get the information about the detective‘s weakness,” said Hat Thief idly. “You don‘t want to know how much money I had to pay in order to find out that you were it. The only thing that could draw Sherlock Holmes off the chase.”
Watson was so startled that he stopped glaring, blinked, and couldn’t hold in a snort of wry amusement. The very idea that anything would stop Holmes from solving a case was so laughable. So unlikely that Watson would have chuckled in dark delight, that this man thought that kidnapping him was enough, if he hadn’t been gagged. There was absolutely nothing under the sun that Watson could think of that would stop a determined Holmes from solving a mystery. And the idea that Watson himself could have such power…
Well if that had been true then Watson would made use of that talent a long time ago.
No, all these men had succeeded was in was guaranteeing that Holmes wouldn’t stop until they were in irons or dead.
“Are yo shure dis Professor M is right?” asked Broken Nose, cautiously. “I heard that the doctor hasn‘t even visited Holmes in over a week. ‘re they really dat close?”
Watson felt a deep pang of guilt and regret at this stranger‘s expression of doubt in Holmes and his friendship.
But it was true that it had been several days since he had stopped by Baker Street to pay visit to Holmes. He’d been so distracted in the last several days that he hadn’t had to time to see his friend. Watson hadn’t meant to ignore him but between his practice, Mary and meeting various members of Mary’s relations and close acquaintances, he simply hadn’t had time to so much as think about stopping by let along actually doing so. Since Mary had accepted his proposal, it seemed all he had been doing was meeting her family. He already had several dinners with her parents and had a numerous more to go before they even began organizing the wedding. Watson hadn‘t dared to get distracted by Holmes. This had been one of his reasons for avoiding Baker Street.
Watson had planned on paying a visit to Holmes shortly after the full moon. He promised himself that he would not wait so long next time. He would indulge his desire to see Holmes more often, even if it meant that he had to fight off invitations to join the man on his cases. Staying away from Holmes clearly was of no benefit when danger sought him out regardless of his efforts.
“Oh, I have no doubt that the information is accurate,” said Hat Thief, moving the tip of Watson’s walking stick right to Watson’s chest.
Watson narrowed his eyes on him, and considered that the man had no inkling that there was a blade in that cane. He held it with entirely too much careless regard to have the knowledge that a blade was within the hollow of the wood. He did not treat it with the care given to a weapon as he should have had he known the truth.
Watson considered this a benefit to keep in mind should he escape his bonds.
The hat thief leaned his weight against the cane and the tip dug painfully into Watson’s chest. Watson stifled a grunt.
“He will come for his friend, and when he gets here…” the hat thief’s voice trailed off and he grinned nastily. “Boom.”
Watson stared at him, and then he looked around the room with greater care. He hadn’t seen them before, having his attention caught by his captors, but high up in the shadows of the building were cylindrical bundles.
Dynamite.
He followed the cords with horror stricken eyes and saw that they ran down to vanish under the wooden flooring. Watson had no doubt that there would be more explosives under the floor boards. He had noted how he was placed directly in the center of the room of the warehouse. Now, he wondered exactly how much dynamite had been placed directly below him. Watson rather suspected it was a large amount of the sort that he did not want to truly know considering his situation
He had already proven that he could survive one explosion. Watson wondered if another one was also possible. Yet the very idea that Holmes would walk into such a trap made him desperate with fear that had nothing to do with himself. Holmes wasn’t gifted with the accelerated healing that Watson had been granted by his particular condition.
If Holmes entered the warehouse seeking to rescue Watson then Holmes would die.
Just the thought was more than he could take and he strained against the restraints with renewed fervor. The coarse rope bit sharply into his wrists, into his legs and thighs even with his clothes providing protection but he didn’t care.
Following the explosion set by Blackwood, Watson had various nightmares about seeing Holmes caught in that inferno. He dreamt about not being able to stop his friend in time and woke up nearly weeping from the grief of finding his blackened body among the debris. Watson would not tolerate seeing his friend endangered. But even his valiant struggles proved no match against the thick rope that bound him. The high-backed chair that held in him place was made of solid oak. And unlike the rest of his surroundings it was not an old piece of furniture. It did not even creak from his efforts.
Yet Watson kept trying until he exhausted himself to a point in which he could no longer move.
His captors had thoroughly enjoyed laughing and mocking his efforts until he ceased to be entertaining and had wandered away to other business leaving the biggest man, the one that Watson had mentally labeled Dredger’s Distant Cousin to watch over him.
Other than their jeers, they left Watson alone, tied to the chair and anxiously keeping his eyes open for Holmes.
This vigilance meant that he was aware when night approached. Watson couldn’t see the moon when it rose but he could feel it in the painful throb of his shoulder. The scars there felt hot and tender. The moon was nearly completely full.
And Holmes had not found him.
It struck him then, as he stared up at the sliver of yellow moon that he could see through the cracks of the ceiling, that Holmes could possibly not have any notion that he was missing.
No one would.
Mary was out of town. Watson had informed his patients and housekeeper of his intention to leave for the countryside and that he would be out of contact for a couple of days. Holmes was fully aware that he left at the end of each month for a full day, at the very least, every month. Watson had long ago set the pattern of leaving London the day before the full moon having given his excuses of a patient that insisted on seeing him every thirty days like clockwork. No one, not even Holmes, would find anything suspicious about the situation. The horror that he had at the idea that Holmes would walk into a trap was now eclipsed by the knowledge of what would happen should he be here, in London, full of people instead at his country refuge when the moon rose tomorrow.
The nausea that had so swamped him after waking from the ether returned.
Whatever damage the dynamite would inflict… as soon as he became the wolf… the beast would outstrip such damage by a hundred fold. He had seen the sort of carnage the monster could cause to a platoon of armed soldiers in the space of one night. What it could do to a city full of innocents would be nothing short of catastrophic.
Watson moaned in despair and dropped his head. He struggled to control his breathing. He did not want to choke upon his own vomit even though such an undignified death would be preferable to the alternative should he still be captive unto the next night.
*-*-*-*
He slept fitfully that night. Unable to become comfortable upon the chair he’d been tied. Too disturbed by his old wounds and his fears to find real rest. Still he managed to drift off enough to be caught off-guard when the hat thief returned and hit him hard enough that Watson’s head slammed against the backing of the chair.
Watson glared up at the man.
“Sherlock Holmes isn‘t even looking for you,” said Hat Thief, frowning at Watson. “Are you really of no consequence to him? Should we leave a piece of your body upon his porch before he understands the depth of the danger you are in?”
The man finally pulled the gag from Watson’s mouth in a quick and brutal movement.
Watson gave him a cold look.
The man hit him again.
Watson clenched his jaw and straightened his shoulders. The blows had triggered another head ache but he refused to talk. He wouldn’t be party to endangering Holmes, no matter how much he suffered for it.
The hat thief snarled in annoyance and pulled a gun from under his coat. He pressed it against Watson’s forehead. Watson stiffened and futilely pulled on the ropes.
“Tell me. Or should we see if your corpse will serve as equal bait as you would alive?” sneered the man. Watson was close enough to the man to see his dark eyes flicker as a thought came to him. “Or should I see if your pretty little blonde fiancée would be an equal draw to Holmes.”
Finally, unable to hold up against this threat to Mary, Watson relented.
“Holmes isn‘t aware that I am captured because he does not suspect that I am missing,” he admitted, his voice low with fury. “I was set to leave town for a few days and had been returning to my residence to retrieve my luggage.”
The man slowly drew his revolver back. His expression rather blank, then he laughed.
It was an unpleasant sound that made Watson’s teeth grind.
“Such an simple problem will of course have a simple solution,” chuckled Hat Thief. He motioned Broken Nose over to him who came over though slowly due to reluctance at being so close to Watson. “Bring me paper and ink. I will write a letter to Sherlock Holmes and inform him that I have his friend.”
“Yo thin‘ that will stop ‘im?” asked Dredger’s Distant Cousin as Broken Nose left to find the necessary supplies.
“I doubt it,” said Hat Thief with a smirk. “But it will cause the detective to search out his friend and then he will find the clues that will lead him here.”
“And boom!” said Distant Cousin.
Watson didn’t protest or try to point out to his captors that when it came to Sherlock Holmes things were never so simple. Instead, he considered that he no longer wore the gag that would have stifled any shouted warnings. That was another advantage he had gained.
*-*-*-*
After Watson’s captors had sent off the letter to Holmes the time passed with such a lethargic speed that Watson could have sworn that every hour that passed was really three.
He mentally considered what actions Holmes would be taking, and tried to predict when the man would arrive. Watson knew that Holmes would verify that he’d been taken before he believed the letter was true. No doubt he would go to Watson’s home in Cavendish Place and find that luggage that Watson had never picked up.
He would know then that Watson had truly been captured and would launch his investigation as to Watson’s whereabouts. And while Watson had no doubt about the skill of his friend’s ability to find him, he was rather stuck on one point. Sherlock Holmes, before he ever read the letter would have to be awake, sober and willing to face the cold light of day.
That, more than anything, made Watson think that Holmes would not find him in time.
So as the sun moved closer to the East, John H. Watson, a sane and rational man by any standard, did something that would have labeled him mad by a diligent or even casual observer.
He asked, pleaded and eventually begged his captors to add the thickest chains they could find to his restraints. Suspicious and thinking it was trick, his captors refused and went so far as to gag him again to keep his pleas silent.
*-*-*-*
In a situation that would have surprised Watson had he known about it, Sherlock Holmes was not at Baker Street suffering from his indulgences, hiding from the sunlight or tormenting the other occupants of 221A or 222A with loud noises that very morning.
Instead, he was quietly helping a man of high standing with the mystery of a stolen gold pocket watch.
Holmes was thoroughly bored by the entire situation and would have told the man, Lord Barkley, where he could find it since it hadn‘t been stolen at all - on the table of the gentlemen club that he preferred visit on Saturday evenings where he had absentmindedly left it - if he hadn’t been promised twice his usual fee for his time and personal attendance.
Holmes spend the entire carriage ride to the club being silent, taking in all the details of his surroundings. He categorizing faces and occupations from out in the street and upon entering the private club. There he scented the air of and caught different brands of smoking tobacco - the men here had a taste for American tobacco, though one of them liked a more exotic blend of tobacco with hashish.
It was the only point of interest of the entire visit.
Holmes collected his pay and left without word. He caught a hansom cab back to Baker Street and contemplated the miserable existence that was now his life. The necessity he had to earn more money in order to pay for lodgings meant that he could not turn away such a client, even when the case at hand was no mystery at all.
Briefly, Holmes considered the idea of getting another tenant for the rooms that Watson had vacated but was so thoroughly disgusted at the idea that he shuddered. Another man using their rooms as if they were his own? It was intolerable.
He much rather preferred that Watson returned. Barring that unlikely event, Holmes was resigned to dealing with dull cases that made money as he was far less likely to be allowed to be more discriminating when rent was due at the end of the month. He pressed Mrs. Hudson’s patience enough as it was.
Holmes arrived at Baker Street in a blackening mood so when he entered it he barely acknowledged his landlady.
“You have mail,” Mrs. Hudson said primly, as she dusted the paintings in the hallway.
Holmes grunted, pulled his hat lower and headed up the stairs.
“Breakfast and the letters are waiting for you in the sitting room,” continued Mrs. Hudson, raising her voice to Holmes’ back. “Though the tea is probably cold by now. You should have said you were leaving.”
Holmes groaned, opened the door and slammed it behind him.
The tray of tea and toast was on the table just as Mrs. Hudson had promised and it was thoroughly unappetizing. The pot of tea had ceased steaming an hour and twelve minutes ago if Mrs. Hudson followed her usual routine this morning. The promised letters were neatly stacked right next to the wooden tray.
Holmes ignored them. He petulantly threw his coat off, not caring where it landed. The sounds from the street were muffled but still sharp enough that he could categorize the passing of carriages, hansoms, sellers calling out their wares, and children shrieking to each other.
Annoyed, Holmes walked to the heavy curtains that Mrs. Hudson had flung open and firmly shut them to block out the din. The room sunk back into gloom and grey.
It suited his mood perfectly.
He dropped his pay in his desk drawer. His attention was caught by the empty space where a checkbook should have been. Holmes swallowed and slammed the drawer close. His mood soured further.
Everywhere he looked, everywhere he walked, every time he thought of Watson… it was enough to drive a man completely mad.
Hoping that he could find something - anything! - to distract him, if only for the few minutes it would take to solve whatever inane puzzles the letters contained, Holmes picked up the stack and fanned them out to reveal twenty-three envelops. Two letters from solicitors went sailing through the air in the direction of the chimney. They were quickly followed by five advertising adverts. Ten requests for assistance by various policing agencies went onto the table, which included three from Scotland Yard though the rest came from outside of England. Two personal letters from associates. Four were addressed to Watson, which Holmes carefully set on the chair that Watson favored. The last letter caught Holmes’s interest. It had no return address, or even an stamp. It had to have been hand-delivered.
Interested despite himself by the little mystery, Holmes opened the letter and read it.
As soon as he finished he very calmly set it back down, stood up and picked up his coat again. The only sign that the letter had affected him, had hit him with such an impact that he barely could draw breath, was the fierce light in his eyes.
Before he left 221B, Holmes made a point of picking up his revolver, loading it bullets, dropping extra into a pocket and tucking the gun away into his coat for easy retrieval.
He estimated a ninety percent probability that he would be using it before day was over.
*-*-*-*
It took him longer than Holmes liked to find a witness who had seen two men grab Watson from the street.
First he had traveled to Cavendish Place to verify that Watson had fallen into danger. It hadn’t even been a moments work to enter the lodgings, as he’d been given key nearly from the first day that Watson had set up residence there. He found the dark leather satchel that Watson preferred to carry when making trips that only ran to a couple of days.
It was then that Holmes knew that the letter was true. Watson had been captured. Taken by someone that had wanted to control Holmes. Someone with a ruthless personality that would have no compunction about harming Watson if he thought it suited his purposes.
The emotions that had nearly welled up at that moment would have swamped him from their intensity if he hadn’t been forcing himself to remain calm and cold. Frantic worry for Watson would have brought neither of them any benefit.
So he had continued to search the room until he was satisfied that Cavendish Place had no further clues to offer as to the whereabouts of Watson’s location.
Then he followed that path that Watson had taken. It was a boon that he knew Watson’s routine as it made retracing his steps a much faster task than usual. It was then that he had found the witness.
A beggar who reeked of alcohol and slurred the entire time he talked to Holmes insisted that he couldn’t be exactly certain that it had been Watson.
“Was he neat, limping and carrying a cane?” asked Holmes, impatiently. He held up a bottle of rotgut before the man whose runny eyes gleamed with a desirous light.
“Aye, ah believe sho,” said beggar.
“Show me,” said Holmes. “And this is yours.”
“Jus’ dhish way, sah.”
The alley, Holmes noted, opened up before a street that was a shortcut from the train station to the street led to Cavendish Place and perfect place to set up an attack. The alley had a narrow opening that was nearly hidden by a stack of wooden crates. It would be child’s play to set up a lookout to see the doctor approaching. Waiting until he passed the lip of the alley before grabbing him. Unless someone was keeping an eye on him, Watson would have vanished into the alley without anyone knowing better.
Holmes gave the bottle to eagerly awaiting hands of the beggar and entered the alley. He then scanned his surrounding with focused attention.
Details cropped up, as if lit by light. Scuff marks against the mud by the brick way. Small droplets of blood, so old they were dried brown, scattered along the scuffs leading in a trail to the West. Cheap cigar butts were ground a few feet away. No older than 48 hours old.
“They were waiting for you,” said Holmes, out loud to absolutely no one. “They were watching you, Watson. Damn it, how many times have I told you to watch the pattern of your behavior? You fall into routines so easily. I blame your military training.”
He sat back on his heels. Holmes had no difficulty in knowing what Watson would say to that.
“Yes, I have no doubt that I am to blame for this,” sighed Holmes. After all, what other reason would kidnappers have to go after a respectable doctor with a proper pretty fiancée - he ignored the bitterness in his own mental voice as irrelevant - and a thriving modest practice, if not for that doctor’s acquaintance with London’s only consulting detective.
Knowing now, that Watson had been specifically targeted - the careful setup of the ambush gave that away - then Holmes had no doubt as to whom was behind the attack. There was only one man he was investigating at the moment who would react in such a manner.
Rupert Redford, smuggler, drug-dealer and professional criminal. Thirty-two years old, born of a upper middle-class family that had lost its wealth due to the father‘s weakness for the races. Had one year of higher education and thought himself much smarter than he actually was. He surrounded himself with men who only reinforced that mistaken affection.
He had been the last case that Holmes had worked with the Yard.
Most important to Holmes, with the knowledge of who was the culprit he also had the knowledge of where to find Watson. Redford, like most other smugglers, would have a place to store his merchandise around the river. Specifically around any abandoned buildings, such factories or warehouses that littered that area.
Holmes had been tracking him since he began branching out into human trafficking. Specifically young English girls to sell in faraway ports where their fair-skin would fetch higher prices. Holmes had to go in disguise for three days to find the whereabouts of a girl, named Penelope, who had been taken two days prior. Her frantic family had sought out help from the Yard who hadn’t been able to provide much assistance until Lestrade had the good sense to advice them to seek out Holmes.
He’d manage to rescue the girl, who’d been in good health to the relief of her parents, but had failed to apprehend Redford. To Holmes’ dissatisfaction.
It was an unpardonable mistake as now Redford had chosen to retaliate by going after Watson.
Holmes swore to himself that he would not fail in seeing Redford pay for his crimes ever again.
*-*-*-*
Watson closed his eyes as the last bit of sunlight that he could see through the ceiling faded away from bright orange to a pink-violet and then to a creeping blue-black.
The agony in his arm spiked to a near unbearable degree. He grunted and hunched in on himself.
The full moon was rising.
*-*-*-*
Holmes approached the warehouse that he was certain was the location where Watson was held captive with caution and an uncharacteristic apprehension.
He had considered stopping by Scotland Yard in order to gain assistance from Lestrade and his men, or just Clarkie - who he quite liked - but had decided that the possibility of their presence alerting Redford far outweighed any benefits that they could contribute.
It was a risk that he could not accept. Not with Watson’s life and health at stake.
Holmes stealthily crept around the sides of the warehouse. He found a open knothole and looked inside. The sight he found there nearly made him cry out in relief.
Tied to a chair of oak - the grain caught by the dim light of an oil lamp revealed it as Pedunculate Oak - was Watson. He had no discernable injury. His head was bowed, gray cloth was tied around his mouth and thick coarse ropes tied in various binding knots - with Gunner’s knots around the chair legs - secured him firmly to the chair. Redford hadn’t taken any chances that Watson would have been able to loosen them to escape.
Two men stood at the far side of the warehouse. One, 6 feet 2 inches, with calloused hands of a sailor, clearly northern Scottish from the brogue that Holmes caught. The other was nearly a foot less in height, London born and bred. With a broken nose that was Watson’s work, Holmes would recognize it anywhere.
Holmes didn’t see Redford to his disgust. Then he caught a faint sweet and oily scent that didn’t fit the musty smell of wood rot surrounding the old building.
Nitroglycerine. Specifically dynamite.
Holmes narrowed his eyes. He flattened his body against the dirt ground and peeked in through the rotting boards under the foundations. It was too dark, especially with the fading light as the sun sunk into the horizon. He found an opening wide enough that he was able to wiggle through.
He ignored the squeaking rats and the rotting debris. Nearly at once he saw an electrical cord that trailed in from above. He followed it and he found ten sticks of dynamite tied right in the center of the warehouse.
Holmes’ eyes narrowed as he oriented its location to his mental map of the warehouse. The dynamite was directly below Watson.
Controlling his fury, Holmes found the electrical cord that led outside again. He couldn’t see the detonator from here but Holmes oriented the direction that it led and was certain that Redford had it set up to be just far enough way to avoid getting caught in the blast but still close enough to enjoy the carnage. There was another warehouse just a few buildings down that was situated at an optimal distance.
Holmes cut the electrical cord leading to the detonator with a quick sharp pull of one of his hidden knives.
Once satisfied to have put a damper on those plans, Holmes slithered out of the foundations, pulled out his revolver and was determined to find a way in to Watson. Even if he had to use every bullet that he had.
*-*-*-*
Watson tightened his hands into such tight fists that his neatly trimmed nails cut into the skin of his palms. He shuddered in place as the pain from his shoulder spread across his chest, down into his abdomen and to his legs. Sweat beaded on his brow though his skin was cold.
Then the scars at his shoulder flared hot.
He lowered his head and bit hard at the gag to hold back a scream as the skin at the shoulder split apart. The pain grew and grew in intensity until Watson threw back his head in agony and stared up at the moon with helpless wide eyes. The silver moonlight fell against his face. It felt like a red-hot brand.
His two captors looked towards him in confusion as Watson let loose such a low animalistic growl that it made the hairs on the back of their heads stand up.
*-*-*-*
Holmes paused behind an old splintered barrel at the sound of the growl. He checked his memory but could remember seeing any canine, and he couldn‘t categorize the breed from that sound. Puzzled he leaned over the barrel.
He froze in place at the sight before him.
“Watson,” Holmes whispered as his eyes widened.
Watson was convulsing. The skin of his cheeks seemed to tear open to reveal brown fur that dripped clear fluid. He was grimacing, with lips pulled back and Holmes could see his teeth grow into long ivory fangs. His entire body shook and broke apart the thick wood of the chair with loud cracks. The thick rope that had been restraining Watson snapped as if it had been nothing more than a thread as Watson’s body doubled in mass. His clothes ripped as fur covered muscles burst them apart at the seams.
A human scream emerged from Watson’s throat before abruptly turning into an inhuman howl of rage.
In mere moments, in the midst of shattered wood, broken rope and the tattered remains of Watson’s clothes stood a large wolf, bigger than any wolf could ever exist in nature.
The two men who had been guarding Watson were still. Even with the poor light Holmes could see their eyes were wide with fear.
Holmes felt unable to move as he was too taken aback by the clearly impossible thing he’d just seen before his very eyes.
Then the wolf raised his head towards the men and snarled.
The Scottish man pulled out his gun while the other man turned around to run. Both actions were futile.
The wolf lept forward, crossing the long space between him and his prey in a heartbeat. Jaws snapped out and bit the gun out - taking the hand with it - of the tall Scottish sailor.
Recovery: Unlikely, Holmes thought, taking in all the details with detachment.
The man barely had the chance to scream before he was bowled over by the weight of the huge beast. On the dirty floor, he raised his undamaged arm for protection. But it was too late. Another flash of fangs and a spray of blood red fountained into the air.
Severed internal jugular vein and external carotid artery. Prognosis: Death in five seconds.
The surviving man was panicking and his fear cost him his life. He couldn’t get the door unlocked in time with badly shaking hands. Teeth caught his ankle, cutting through his Achilles’ heel and dragged him away from the exit.
That man just sobbed once, then blood sprayed the air again. Wet sounds of flesh being torn were quickly the only noise in the warehouse.
Until Holmes spoke again. “Watson.”
The soft whisper made the wolf’s ear prick up and then turn around to face Holmes. The growling creature stalked towards him with bared and bloody fangs. It was then that Holmes noted the odd gait. The wolf was favoring one of its hind legs. Specifically, the right leg, the same one that Holmes knew Watson had long ago injured.
Any remaining doubt that Holmes was harboring about this creature being his friend were wiped away no matter how impossible it seemed. This creature was Watson.
And, surprisingly enough considering that he had just seen two men fall to those long - 5.4 inches - fangs, Holmes did not feel any fear. After all this wolf was Watson. He had never had anything to fear from Watson as a man, why should he fear him as a wolf?
As Holmes had this thought the wolf stopped moving forward. He sniffed the air, and huffed a breath. The wolf stepped forward cautiously, keeping his eyes on Holmes. As he got closer, Holmes could see that out of everything that had changed in his friend, the eyes, those striking blue eyes that Holmes could paint perfectly from memory. Eyes that he knew better than his own, were entirely unchanged.
The huge wolf stopped moving about a foot away from where Holmes still leaned over the barrel. They stared at each other in complete silence for a moment.
“You could have told me you were a werewolf, Watson,” said Holmes, finally. He frowned, “though I can understand why you didn‘t. It is hardly the sort of condition that would be easy to explain. How long have you been turning furry under the light of the full moon?”
The wolf snuffed and moved forward until a cold nose nudged at Holmes’ ear.
Holmes stilled and let himself be sniffed. Too curious about the change that had come upon his friend, Holmes lifted a hand and settled it against the fur by the neck. The fur color wasn’t the shade of brown as he had first thought. It was a dark golden color, no doubt made to look darker when it had emerged wet, as it dried it had become paler. It also didn’t have the same feel as dog fur, Holmes noted as he sunk his fingers into the thick pelt. Possibly some cross of human and canine. Though he would have to inspect under a microscope it to verify his hypothesis.
Holmes inhaled sharply in surprise, as the muzzle that had been sniffing his neck now rubbed lightly against his cheek. Essentially, nuzzling him, though the streak of blood it left across his face was most unappealing. Holmes rubbed at it absently.
“Say, does your fiancée know about this little predilection of yours to turn into a wolf?” asked Holmes, unable to resist voicing the question.
That earned him another huff - in a tone that was definitely annoyed - of heated breath trailed across his neck.
“We have to get you to Baker Street,” continued Holmes, absentmindedly stroking the furred head. “But how to do so without being seen? I can hardly pass you off as Gladstone, or an exotic pet. No definitely not, you‘re practically the size of a horse.”
Whatever response Holmes would have received for this comment was never to be. For that was the moment in which Redford chose to open the door.
Instantly, the wolf pulled away from Holmes - nearly making him fall - turned around sharply and growled.
With surprisingly fast reflexes, Redford pulled out his revolver and shot at their direction. A pained yelp from the wolf made Holmes scramble for the revolver he had set down during his fascinated study of Watson‘s transformation. Yet before he could draw bead, the wolf was bounding forward.
Redford got off another shot before he slammed the door close behind him. Holmes heard the metallic click of the lock engaging and then rapid footsteps that quickly faded.
The wolf was momentarily blocked by the door but several swipes of powerful paws tore into the half-rotten wood. It took several seconds before the large wolf was able to open a sufficiently sized hole to squeeze through. Then he was off into the night.
“Watson! Wait! Watson!” shouted Holmes as jumped over the barrel. He ran to the opening and paused.
Watson as a wolf was nowhere to be seen.
As Holmes looked around for traces as to Watson’s location a long howl rent the London night air. It sounded too far away for him to catch even if he ran for all he was worth. Holmes made himself stop, turn around and go back into the warehouse.