"I thought about how there are two types of secrets: the kind you want to keep in, and the kind you don't dare to let out." ~Ally Carter
Taking the pipe from between his teeth, Watson let the smoke escape through his nose as he sighed deeply, running his fingers through his hair as he had multiple times in the last twenty-four hours. His hands had since steadied, only to be replaced by a fierce pounding in his head, for which laudanum had done nothing. He was not entirely sure it was an improvement over the shaking. "First those men threaten Mary and Irene, and now Simza..." he trailed off with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you make of it, Holmes?"
Holmes shoved his hands deep in his pockets and continued staring out the window at the quiet street below. "I'm sure I don't know."
Watson was properly shocked by the confession, uttered so softly the doctor nearly missed it, but before he had the chance to form a reply, Holmes turned to face him with a tight smile. "At least, not yet. But I have a hunch we are on the verge of something far greater than either you or I ever anticipated."
Providing no further explanation for his grim proclamation, Holmes departed, leaving Watson alone with his patient and the thoughts rattling around in his aching head.
~*~*~
It was later that evening that Simza finally began to stir. Watson had hoped that when she did wake, she'd do so peacefully. It seemed though, as Simza's features contorted into a frown, that that was not to be. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she began to thrash, struggling against the unseen force haunting her subconscious. The doctor was quick to move to her side, sitting at the edge of the bed. "Madame Simza," he called softly, not wanting to startle her. "Can you hear me?" She only struggled harder, tangling herself up in the bedclothes in the process. Afraid she may somehow inflict further injury upon herself, Watson braced her by wrapping his large hands around her upper arms. "Simza," he called again, desperate now, as tears began cascading down her cheeks, to bring her around to full consciousness. "Sim, wake up! Simza!"
With a tremendous gasp, she jolted awake, charcoal eyes flitting about the room in confusion as the last remnants of her dream faded.
"You're alright," Watson soothed, still holding her arms, though much more gently now. "You're safe. It's alright."
Her eyes flashed and widened when they landed on him. Chapped lips parted as she worked to form the words. "Y-you're alive!" she choked, fresh tears filling her eyes.
Watson frowned. "Yes, of course. Why would..."
His reply was abruptly cut off by Simza launching herself into his arms and wrapping her own around his neck. "He told me you were dead," she sobbed, her breath hot against his neck. "He said... He said they'd killed you!"
"Who did?" he asked, but Simza only clung to him tighter, her fingers clutching at his waistcoat. Watson sighed. Now was not the time to be pressing her for information. Likely, it was simply the result of a trauma induced dream. Nevertheless, simple as the prognosis seemed, a trauma had undoubtedly occurred, and Watson was determined to see whomever had brought her so much pain be properly judged for his crimes. His mind whirled with questions, and anger coiled in his gut, but he forced it down and silenced his racing mind when he felt his dear friend trembling against him. Watson brought his arms up more fully around Simza, curling one about her waist while the other came up around her shoulders, stroking her raven tresses as he whispered gently, "Hush now. It's alright. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. Hush. It's alright."
They were silent for a moment as Watson did his best to give her the comfort she sought, rocking her back and forth and starting to lose track of just what exactly he was telling her. After a while, Simza composed herself and pulled away from the embrace. "There," he said, doing his best to offer a small smile of encouragement as he tucked an errant curl behind her ear, "better now?" But the gypsy woman would not meet his gaze, instead fiddling with a tear in her skirts. "Simza?"
"Moran."
Watson blinked. "Sorry, what was that?"
At last drawing her head up, she met Watson's eyes with a fire burning in her own. "It was Moran. He told me you were dead."
The doctor visibly paled. "When? When did he tell you this?" he demanded in a sudden fury. "Where did you see him?" It was only when Simza flinched that he realized how tightly he'd been gripping her wrists. He released her immediately, the red marks already beginning to fade along with his temper, and stood abruptly from the bed. "I-I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me."
Simza simply shook her head, all but ignoring the incident entirely. She was too deeply immersed in the haunting memory that came to life each time she closed her eyes. "He was waiting for me. He and some other men. My camp, my people... burning. They made me watch. Until the last flame had gone out. That's when he told me he'd killed you and your wife. He said they were coming after Holmes next. I had to warn him."
Watson frowned as he once again observed the gash on her cheek, her black eye, and recalled the multiple bruises along her ribs and back. "You escaped, but not without consequence."
Simza shrugged, attempting not to wince at the soreness it caused. "It's no matter."
He sat down beside her again, though not as close as before, wary of keeping his temper in check as he looked upon her scarred, yet enchanting face. "It is. What happened to you was terrible, Sim. You were brave to come here, and I'm glad for it. We can help you. Did he tell you anything else?"
Simza spoke so softly, Watson had to strain to hear her, but what she said made his blood run cold. "Only that Professor Moriarty sends his regards. What does that mean? I thought he was dead."
"As did I," he growled, attempting to stay calm, though he felt positively ill. Just the day before, the man who'd threatened Mary had said the exact same thing. "Oh God," he groaned, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples as the room began to spin. He vaguely heard Simza asking if he was alright. "Fine. I'll need to... to relay this to Holmes. Rest. Just rest for now, Sim. I'll be back to... to check on you in a few hours." He didn't wait for her reply before hurrying out of the room and to the parlor where the detective was bent over an assortment of parchment.
"Ah," he said, looking up from his work when Watson entered. "And how is our patient faring this evening?"
"Tell me he's dead, Holmes."
"I beg your pardon, old boy?"
Watson abruptly ceased his pacing and slammed his hands down onto the table Holmes was still seated at. "Moriarty!" he demanded. "No corpse was discovered, but I saw the two of you go over the falls, so I deduced his body had in fact been swept away by the current, as there's no possible way he could have survived such a drop, and yet, Detective, here you sit before me very much alive! So tell me Holmes... Is. Moriarty. Dead."
Had he not known him as well as he did, had he not spent nearly every waking moment in the company of the great Sherlock Holmes for going on the past decade, coming not only to understand but anticipate each idiosyncrasy and quirk that defined the detective, the man's reaction would have given away nothing. For John Watson, however, the slight stiffening of posture, the inability to make direct eye contact, and the tightening of the jaw said everything.
Watson stared at his friend in utter disbelief as the whispered betrayal fell from his lips, "You knew."
The silence that hung in the air between them was so thick, Watson nearly choked on it. "You knew," he repeated, his voice growing stronger and hands balling into fists at his sides as anger rolled deep in his chest. "This whole time, you knew he was back, and you said nothing?"
"Now, Watson, let's not..."
"How long?" Watson shouted. "How long have you known?"
"A year."
"A year? A bloody year?" Watson choked. "Oh God. Mary. He was the one that took her, wasn't he? He and Moran and their goons lay their hands on my daughter! Oh God..." He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. This was too much. Approaching the fireplace, he reached for his pipe to help calm him, but again, his hands would not obey, and he couldn't light it.
Holmes took the opportunity to rise, crossing the room to Watson in an effort to begin to explain himself as rationally as he possibly could. "Watson, I needed to isolate the facts. I did not wish to frighten anyone unnecessarily. More evidence was required before I could confidently reopen the case and..."
"More evidence to reopen the case?" he scoffed darkly. "You bloody bastard." Icy blue eyes ablaze with fury, Watson grabbed fistfuls of Holmes' shirt and shoved him against the bookshelves that ran the length of the wall behind them. "My daughter was kidnapped, Holmes!" he spat, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears as white hot rage pulsed through his veins. "She was snatched from her bed without a sound. Just yesterday she very well could have been lost to me again! And now Simza has lost everything and was very likely beaten within an inch of her life trying to get to us so she could warn you about Moriarty, but you already knew! This whole time, you knew and said nothing. Nothing, Holmes! You never went after him or alerted anyone. Not even me! As though it were some sick game, but my daughter will not be your pawn and neither will Sim. I thought you cared about Mary," he sneered, "but you truly are just a selfish bastard after all, aren't you? I was a fool to think any different!"
Holmes had the dignity to look appalled by Watson's speech before his features darkened. His mouth drew into a hard line. "How dare you insinuate such a thing," he hissed. "Unhand me. Now, John."
A scowl deeply embedded along the contours of his face, Watson loosened his grip, only to pull his arm back before connecting his fist with the detective's cheek. Holmes staggered, falling against a table containing much of his experiment work, breaking glass and sustaining a few good cuts as he groped for a way to steady himself. Before he could though, Watson had hauled him up again, this time breaking his nose with a sickening crack. Holmes groaned as blood began to pour from the appendage, staining his upper lip and trickling down his chin. His attempts to be heard were cut off by Watson's rage. "Why get her involved? She's my daughter, you bloody bastard! Why didn't you do something? Why didn't you stop him?"
Already on his knees, still reeling from the rather powerful and unexpected blows, a swift kick to the side had Holmes briefly doubled over, struggling to catch his breath. Again, it was a wasted effort. The sole of Watson's shoe collided heavily with his chest and sent him sprawling onto his back. Holmes had never seen such a look of unbridled anger, one that bordered on madness, on his friend's face before. It was when Watson grabbed him by the neck that Holmes realized this very well might be how it all truly ended. In his own home at the hands of his very best, and quite possibly only, friend. He quickly concluded there were worse ways to die. For even as Watson's hands, his gentle and healing hands, tightened and made breathing near to impossible, Holmes could not bring himself to fight back. Even though he'd only ever had the best of intentions, he could see now how much danger he'd placed them all in. Especially angelic little Mary.
Yes. This was no less than he deserved.
Thundering footsteps could suddenly be heard coming up the stairs just before the heeled boots clicked their way across the floor and to the door of the flat. Not quite having known what to expect on the other side of the door, Irene stood for a moment on the threshold, paralyzed with horror at the scene before her. John's cheeks were flushed with anger, and Sherlock... Sherlock! "John, stop!" she cried, unable to look away as her husband's face grew an alarming shade of crimson. "John!"
But her cries fell on deaf ears. He couldn't hear her over the abominably loud ringing in his head. Watson's vision was beginning to grey around the edges, but he pressed his hands firmer still against the detective's throat.
"John, stop this now! You'll kill him!" Irene demanded, though there was the added tone of desperation as she hurried toward them, making to pull them apart. "Please, John..."
The moment her hand touched his shoulder, Watson released Holmes long enough to look upon her with such revulsion it made her heart sick. And if not for the stinging sensation along her cheek, she would never have known she'd been struck, so focused was she on the hate burning in his gaze.
Watson leveled a glare her way and Holmes coughed and sputtered behind him, attempting not only to get oxygen into his starved lungs, but to reach Irene's side. She wanted desperately to go to him as well, but feared what Watson may do to either of them if she attempted it.
"I knew I was right to be suspicious of you," Watson spat. "You're nothing more than a thief and murderess. Luring people in was your bit for him, wasn't it? Tricking those who love you most. You still work for Moriarty, don't you..."
Without warning, Watson gripped the sides of his head, sunk to his knees, and cried out in agony, tears filling his eyes. He continued to scream, in spite of Irene moving to wrap her arms about him as best she could and Simza rushing into the parlor, quite pale but fearing the worst when she heard Watson scream. She moved to crouch beside him as well, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Watson was beyond their reach. He whimpered and cried out, in such unspeakable pain he could not even form the words to explain what was wrong.
Finally able to breathe again without too much difficulty, Holmes crawled over to where both women knelt beside his friend, Watson's strangled screams still piercing the air. Pressing a feather-light kiss to Irene's bruised cheek, he whispered, "Allow me, dearest. Please? Simza?"
Both nodded and moved back, allowing Holmes to kneel before Watson. He placed his hands on either of Watson's shoulders, leaning down so their foreheads met. "Watson," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Watson, you're alright. Come back to me, brother. Come back."
As Holmes continued to speak, alternating between English and a touch of French, Watson began to calm at the sound of his familiar voice. He stopped screaming, but now tears poured down his cheeks and he was trembling from head to toe. "Holmes," he gasped, his voice hoarse, "what happened?"
"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question, my dear Watson," he said sadly, not dropping his hands from his shoulders, but lifting his head as Irene moved to take one of Watson's trembling hands in her own, giving him a wary smile when he turned her direction.
Watson frowned, taking her chin in his free hand and gently turning it to the side. He could easily make out the hand print on her pale cheek. "I- I did that, didn't I?"
Irene couldn't meet his gaze, instead looking to Holmes for guidance. As did Watson, who suddenly felt as though he couldn't breathe when he truly looked upon his friend. His nose was clearly broken, blood staining his face and shirt, with bruises already forming beneath his eyes. There were clear strangulation markings along his neck. "And did I... I did," he choked, the realization nearly making Watson physically ill. "I don't... I can't remember, but... Oh God, I did. Didn't I? Oh God!" He fell back from Holmes' grasp, scrambling to his feet and beginning to pace. He couldn't think. Why couldn't he remember what happened? His mind felt foggy and he couldn't latch on to any single thought. His headache had increased ten-fold with a shooting pain behind his eyes. The ringing in his ears had yet to cease and the room was spinning and he just wanted it all to stop!
The more he tried to remember, the worse the pounding in his head became. He stumbled toward what he thought was the direction of the settee when he felt a strong hand grip his upper arm to keep him upright. Watson suddenly felt as though all the blood had rushed from his head and reached for the outline of his friend in a blind panic. "Sherlock," he gasped, just before he lost complete consciousness.