Based on the characters owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, brought to life
by Richard Roxburgh and Ian Hart on BBC1, Boxing Day, Dec 2002
A Matter Of Trust
by elfin
the house
I put my hand on his chest and see blood on his jacket.
"Oh God, Watson...."
How could he die when his trust in me is shaken? How could he leave
me without knowing how much his company means?
He groans, shifting against the wall, in pain.
I spread my fingers over his shirt.
Oh, God.
"Go." His voice is rough, clipped. "Get him."
How can I leave you? I'm torn. I can't let him get away,
yet if you die here alone I will never forgive myself.
"Go!"
I can't. John, please.
He looks at me, eyes dark with shock.
"Please, Holmes."
Will you ever call me Sherlock?"
In agony, I leave.
the moor
I've never been this close to panicking. I've never been this close
to death.
I underestimated him. It's a failing of mine.
I try not to meet Stapleton's mocking gaze. I try not to struggle
against the powerful forces pulling me down. I try not to think about
Watson.
I don't want to die without him knowing.
A bullet in the brain would, I'm thinking, be preferable to choking on
the clogging mud clinging to my clothes, sucking at my skin.
When the shot comes, it's Stapleton's brains that splatter over the cold,
damp ground. I look up, but my eyesight is fading as my body concentrates
its efforts on trying to stay above the cloying dirt.
"The problem now is how to get you out."
Watson! I blink away the lights dancing behind my eyes and see
him shrugging his jacket off. What's he doing? But however
mad his idea, he's the only chance I have. Trying not to seem desperate,
I cling to the blue arm, pulling myself out as he uses all the strength
of his one good arm to save my life.
Finally, I get purchase on the ground and claw my way out of death's
grip. I want to holler, but I can't find my voice. All I can
do is collapse on his legs and gasp for air, pulling oxygen into lungs
that have been painfully crushed.
After a few fiery breaths, I realise that underneath me he isn't moving.
I try to raise my head but my blood is like lead in my veins. Instead,
I manage to stretch my arm up and rest my hand on his chest to feel his
heartbeat under my palm. It's racing, but he's alive!
The relief is the last thing I feel for a short time.
the train
"The answer to your question is no."
I smile. He doesn't trust me. But he still has faith in me,
and that's what's important.
He has accepted my dinner invitation too.
For the rest of the journey, we travel in silence. But he glances
up almost as many times as I do, and when we catch one another, we smile.
When we reach London, we haul our bags off the train like a pair of invalids.
He with one arm in a sling, me under doctor's orders not to put myself
under undue strain.
I can't help but regard with affection when he attempts to lift both
our cases with one hand, and he sees me. I don't think he knows what
to do with me at the moment.
baker street
He may not trust me with our cases, but he trusts me with his heart.
He is the first and the only one to do so.
"You take too many risks with the lives of others, Holmes," he told me
over dinner. He's right. But I won't admit it.
"I shouldn't play with your life," I responded by way of an apology.
Very rarely were our lives so dangerous. I may play with madmen
and murders, but I don't play with mortality.
When we returned to Baker Street, we bade one another goodnight but we
didn't part company. We stood in the hall and for an instant it seemed
to me that I'd never laid eyes on him before. The dark look in his
eyes, the shape of his open mouth, these things were alien to me.
No longer.
We didn't speak. We still haven't spoken, even now he's lying next
to me. I wonder what we'll say to one another in the morning.
fin
elfin
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