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Surgeon, Soldier, Survivor
They’re all dead, then.
John Watson carefully pulls the blanket up over the face of his last companion. He can’t say for certain that Hallster was a good man, but even bad men don’t deserve to die the way he did, writhing in agony as some unknown poison has its way with them.
This leaves John with a choice, though. Does he turn back? Does he give up on the tower and the fair maiden trapped within, or does he continue onward, and face horrors that have killed five of the six men sent on this mission?
If he returns, he will likely lose what life he has managed to scrape together for himself. A crippled soldier is of little use, after all; a coward of even less. But he will still have his life, yes?
John rubs at his leg, cramping already as damp fog settles over their camp, a constant companion at night. Can he carry enough to make it back to civilization? Or will the trek just be an even slower death?
A death that still leaves the woman they were sent here to save in peril.
John sighs. He won’t be saving anyone brooding over a dead body. It’s time to strip what valuable or sentimental effects Hallster has on his corpse off him, and find a place to bury him.
It will be a long night, and John doesn’t intend to start any journey—either towards the tower or away—on too little sleep and an empty stomach.
***
The walk to the tower’s base is uneventful, even beautiful. Plants grow thick and healthy for a good mile around the imposing stone edifice, and John has to remind himself sternly that it is likely not because they are fed by the blood of foolish men.
His companions have cut an obvious trail, and John walks along it carefully, testing each step. There is the pit that claimed poor Simpson, dark and damp and apparently full of tetanus. John covers his mouth with a cloth and breathes shallowly as he eases his way around it. He doesn’t know if it’s some miasma or something about damp earth in a compound fracture, but tetanus is not the way he wants to die.
He finds the pale yellow flowers that led to Frost’s death growing thick and wild along the trees surrounding the tower’s clearing, and decides tying the cloth over his nose is best. Frost had been such a quiet, normal fellow until he started picking the flowers.
The thirty feet around the tower is dramatically clear of plant life, the gray stone edifice rising precipitously. Carver and Gerry found the door, though; they even figured out the trick to opening the heavy stone monstrosity.
It was just everything they found beyond the door that proved to be too much for the clever pair.
“Hello down there!” a voice calls.
John startles, jumping back with a yelp and looking up.
A young man, beardless, pale-skinned, with a nose that could slice bread, stares down at him from a window at the very top of the tower.
There is a creature in the tower that tries to lead us astray, Carver had grumbled. It looks human, but it most certainly isn’t.
Is this the creature? He doesn’t look innocent, and certainly not like the beauty that is supposed to live in the tower, but a demonic monster of misdirection?
There’s a very good chance John is going to die anyway. He might as well die with as many answers as he can finagle. “Who are you, good sir?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” the apparition calls down.
John blinks. “Holmes? Like the Queen’s advisor?”
“Quite so,” the apparition says, expression suddenly growing sharp and fierce. “You know my brother?”
“No,” John hastens to clarify. “Just… he was there when the Queen gave us our task. He seemed… upset.”
He seemed to alternate between broken and furious, snapping out brief commands to them before being shushed by the queen, whom he had studied with a quiet smoldering rage that made John deeply uncomfortable. Surely one was not supposed to look at a monarch as though they were a pile of obstinate dung?
“I imagine he is. My brother does not like changes to his routine, and my being kidnapped has undoubtedly been most disruptive. I also imagine that there are quite a few people being foolish about me at court during my absence.” Sherlock’s own glower appears for a moment, and John wonders if perhaps he should try risking the forest alone.
“If you don’t mind my saying…” John clears his throat. “I heard it was a beautiful young woman who had been kidnapped? Hair dark as night, skin creamy as milk, the haunted eyes of an artist?”
The paintings they had been shown were indeed gorgeous, even if they were strangely rendered, sharp in a way that John hadn’t expected, detailed in a way that made him feel off-kilter.
Sherlock starts to laugh. “Oh. Oh dear. Are people really saying that?”
“Yes?” John replies, and then frowns, straightening and steeling his voice. “Yes, they are. And a young woman’s disappearance is no laughing matter.”
“No, of course it isn’t.” Sherlock sobers instantly. “But I can assure you, there is no young woman in this tower. There is only me. And if you would be so kind as to assist me in escape, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Why were you placed in the tower?” John asks, remembering his companions and their fears of being tricked by an inhuman monster.
“I was brought here by a witch.” Sherlock sighs. “I seem to have interfered quite a lot in her business. Or his, perhaps; it’s really quite difficult to pin down Moriarty. I have considered that perhaps there are multiple people using the name. If you were a criminal mastermind, though, would you share power? It seems a strange thing to do in that situation, but perhaps—I am digressing, though. I was brought here against my will by a spellcrafter who wishes harm not just to me, but to everyone in my family line, and I believe to everyone in the royal line.”
“Good gods, why your family specifically?” John exclaims. The royal line is sensible, at least; but what has this young scarecrow’s family done?
Sherlock grins. “It seems I have been quite annoying.”
John frowns upward.
Sherlock’s grin falters slightly. “I have been quite annoying, and my brother is a confidant of the royal house, intent on improving matters for all in the realm. When Moriarty and company are depending upon unrest and discontent to bolster their power, this is a problem, especially because my brother is very, very good at solving problems.” Sherlock’s lips turn down in a brief glower. “Especially if he doesn’t have to move in order to do so.”
John rubs at his temples. “The queen sent me to rescue a sister, not a brother.”
“The queen doesn’t always see her nose in front of her face,” Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. “Now, are you going to listen to me, or are you going to die like your companions?”
John stiffens. “There is a good chance I will die like my companions no matter what. I am not the heartiest of saviors, sir.”
Sherlock blinks, and his expression softens. “You have been injured on previous adventures. Your shoulder and your leg both pain you.”
“Yes,” John says after a moment’s hesitation. Why argue over what is blatantly true?
“I am sorry,” Sherlock says softly, his voice barely audible over the distance that separates them. “I did not mean to make light of your companions’ deaths. They did not listen to me, and it is a pity they did not, for I have no wish to see blood shed when it need not be. You seem the type to listen and learn, though.”
“What gives you that impression?” John asks, crossing his arms, feeling silly with his face still covered by the cloth.
“Well, for one thing, you are still alive.” Sherlock shrugs. “You wore gloves; you have covered all your skin that can be covered. You have improvised a protection for your lungs, which is quite wise, given what lurks both outside and inside this tower.”
“And what is that?” John demands. “What horrors will I face if I attempt to free you?”
Sherlock’s grin returns, quick and cat-like. “If you will listen, I will tell you all that I know. If you will observe for me, and be slow and patient and return so that we may speak, I will help you devise a way to escape the traps that laid low your companions.”
John considers. “You’re quite certain you are Mycroft Holmes’ sibling? That there is no young woman in the tower?”
“I am quite certain. If you’d like, I can start listing both my brother’s positive attributes and his flaws; he has many of each.” Sherlock’s tone tips upward, hopeful, cajoling. “But I was hoping we could instead work on my rescue?”
Sighing, John limps towards the tower door. “I do not know Mycroft Holmes well enough to even guess at whether your words would be accurate. I was sent on this mission to either bring back the missing Holmes sibling or die trying, and I would like to do the first and avoid the second.”
Technically he was sent only as a field medic, the five knights intended to do the work of the rescue, but Sherlock doesn’t need to know that.
“That suits me admirably as well!” Sherlock calls down. “I would suggest we start by you avoiding touching the handle of that door. It is connected to some mechanism that results in the release of a noxious gas that seems to render those who inhale it quite insensate.”
John freezes, his hand returning to his side. “I don’t suppose you have another suggestion?”
Again that quick cat-grin, there are then gone. “Oh, I do.”
“Does it involve letting down luscious locks of hair?” John mutters acidly as Sherlock vanishes from view.
“What?” Sherlock calls down to him. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Nothing,” John calls at a higher volume, and waits to see what information the young man can provide.
***
“You’re certain you can’t feel the tumblers?” Holmes demands again, his voice only divided from John by the thickness of the wooden door.
It is, unfortunately, a very thick wooden door.
“I am quite certain that all I feel against my forceps is smooth metal,” John reiterates for a third time, and then pulls the metal free of the lock. “This is preposterous. To come all this way and be defeated by a simple lock…”
“It’s not all that simple, I don’t believe. But I do think it is a problem I could solve, if I were but in your shoes.” Sherlock sighs, a sound of disgusted frustration that John can feel even through the thick wood of this final obstacle.
“If you were in my shoes, sir, I am certain I would not have been half the help that you have been.” John slumps against the door, staring at the strewn contents of his physician’s velise.
“We will find a solution. I must simply think again.” There’s the sound of something shifting, and John imagines Sherlock sitting with his back to the other side of the door. “Recite once more the contents of your velise, as well as whatever is in your pockets, and anything else that is easily accessible.”
John clenches his teeth for a moment, then forces himself to calm and breathe. Holmes has worked miracles with details before, and it is better than sitting here moping, waiting for them both tostarve to death. “I have the contents of my surgeon’s kit. A scalpel, quite sharp. A curved needle. A straight needle. Cotton bandaging. Silk bandaging. A honey poultice. A cockatrice salve. Amphisbaena solution. Cat gut of several thicknesses. Silk of several thicknesses—”
“The amphisbaena solution. It is not to be used with a honey poultice, yes?” Holmes asks eagerly.
John blinks. “No, of course not. It can be toxic if applied to an open wound, which is usually what honey poultices are used for. And it tends to react badly, forming a—”
“A thick material which hardens!” Holmes’ voice is far too excited about this possibility. “What thicknesses of cat gut do you have?”
“All the regular ones. Three-ought, two-ought, ought, I even have one and two in case one of the horses is injured.” John sits up, his own heart beating faster, picking up the excitement in Holmes’ voice. “You have a thought?”
“I think I can walk you through creating a set of lock-picks. They will not be beautiful, but they will hopefully be more functional than your medical equipment. It will require the use of a great deal of your honey poultice and gut and amphisbaena solution, which I know is quite expensive—”
John barks out a rough laugh. “Sir, if I bring you home in one piece, your brother all but promised me the kingship. Which I do not want, but I suspect I could ask for a crate of amphisbaena venom, undiluted, and he wouldn’t consider it too high a price.”
“No,” Sherlock says softly. “No, I do not imagine he would. And so we shall provide you, if you manage to free me from this trap.”
“Well, let’s see what acts of magic and chemistry we can work together,” John says.
It takes them two hours to find a dilution that thickens as they want, coating the cat gut and creating a thin, durable lock pick. John still manages to break two of the three before he finally gets the feel of the tumblers that Holmes is chattering about, but feel them he does.
“One,” he breathes, acutely aware that if he shatters this lockpick he will need to return to shaping gut and mixing toxins. Another snick, more felt than heard, and John breathes, “Two!”
“One more,” Holmes cries, his voice tight with excitement.
“One more,” John agrees, his lips pulling back in a fierce grin. He moves slowly, carefully, his hands as stable as though he were in surgery.
And then he can feel it.
He can gently, so carefully work the lock pick under it.
He can twist, as Holmes told him, trying to get everything aligned—
And the entire door slides out of alignment as the final tumbler does what John wants it to do.
For a moment John just stares at where the door has shifted. The deadbolt was clearly holding a great deal of weight. All he would need to do now is grab the handle, turn it, and—
But Holmes has already done so.
The young man stands beaming in the late-evening light that pours in through the tower window, looking more like a scarecrow than ever. An exuberant, excited scarecrow who is gazing down at John with gratitude and adoration.
John grins up at him.
Which means he sees the moment Holmes’ gaze slides across the floor where the thick door had been, and snag on something John hadn’t noticed—a series of protrusions, with thin silver chains tied to them.
Silver chains that have all shattered, thin spiderwebs of precious metal that almost seem to form a pattern.
“Oh, fuck,” Holmes says with the eloquence of a soldier who has spotted the enemy too late.
It does at least give John enough warning to put his hand on his sword hilt before the monster descends on them.
***
The enormous spider-scorpion creature lunges again, tail flashing as it strives to break through Sherlock’s defense.
Sherlock would have succeeded in fending the creature off if he’d had better tools at his disposal. But he with a broom handle, hastily grabbed during the creature’s first mad attack, which John had barely fended off; and that means John has to get up.
It doesn’t matter that his shoulder hurts.
It doesn’t matter that his leg refuses to hold his weight.
He has to get up, get in there, fight.
The creature manages to shatter Sherlock’s broom, sending the young man stumbling back against the stone of the wall. Sherlock cries out, a sharp, high-pitched yelp of surprise that turns to a groan of agony as one of the legs slams forward, through his right shoulder, pinning him to the wall.
John doesn’t waste any more time. It hurts, feels like someone has slammed hot coals into his shoulder, but that doesn’t matter.
He needs to do this.
He needs to protect this young man.
So he drags his bad leg behind him, and he buries his sword in the creature’s thorax. John is not an expert in arthropod anatomy, but he knows where the heart should be relative to the rest of the monster, and he will find it.
He will stop it.
The creature flails, wrenching itself loose from Holmes’ body. Blood flies, some of it green, some of it red, warm splashes across John’s face and arms.
I did not think invertebrates were warm-blooded, John thinks stupidly as he yanks his sword free. Magic truly can do miraculous things.
Then he is collapsing to the ground, his leg dragging him down, down, but it ends up being a good and blessed collapse, because it means some of the flailing legs miss his head.
Except the mouth of the creature is suddenly right there, inches from John’s own screaming lips, pedipalps dripping something that looks terribly noxious, and—
Sherlock Holmes screams as he buries the broken shard of broom handle that he refused to drop deep in the hole that John made with his sword.
The spider-scorpion makes a raspy, keening sound and finally collapses, legs pointing inward, stinger hitting the ground with a thwack.
“There,” Holmes breathes. “That’s quite enough of that.”
“Agreed,” Watson manages to pant out. “You’re quite strong, you know.”
“I have to be,” Holmes says, and despite the gaping wound in his shoulder and the blood coating his right side, he holds out his left hand to help John up.
John takes the proffered hand, and for a moment they stand together, supporting one another.
Then Holmes lists dangerously to the left, and it’s all John can do to keep them both upright.
“I need to bind that wound,” John says firmly. “We must stop the bleeding.”
“I think I would quite like that,” Sherlock manages through chattering teeth.
Shock, already. That is not a good thing, but if they can get back to camp, back to John’s medical bag, there are many options that can be used.
John does his best to create a field dressing, and exhales a silent sigh of relief when blood doesn’t immediately seep through. He was uncertain on how much of the beast that attacked them was poisonous, but apparently not the leg hairs. Just deeply irritating, John would guess, and he will have to ensure he removes all of them from the wound.
“Now,” John says. “I don’t suppose you think our descent will be easier than my ascent?”
Holmes laughs, a low, dark chuckle, and this time John sighs audibly.
“I rather thought so myself,” John agrees, turning his sigh to a battlefield crow laugh of his own. “Ah, well. We’ll just have to be slow and careful, I suppose.”
Sherlock carefully eases his way to his feet. “I think the two of us, sore as we are, can manage that.”
***
They do manage to make it back to the camp, though John winces as he hears the collapsed tower shifting yet again in the distance. How many destructive traps were there in the blasted thing?
“I truly wasn’t meant to walk out of there alive,” Holmes whispers, his eyes glassy, his skin even paler than earlier, making him a ghastly white in the moonlight. Definitely still in shock, though John puts his fingers to the young man’s throat to confirm the too-fast pulse, the too-low blood pressure. It is at least a good thing that Holmes is still walking, even if unsteadily; still talking, even if John is starting to wonder if he is using specialized words or just slurring some so badly John doesn’t recognize them.
“You were not meant to escape alive,” John agrees, hastily putting water on to heat. He will need it for tea, and for cleaning, and both are absolutely imperative right now.
Holmes’ eyes wander yet again to the disturbed earth where John interred Hallster’s body. “I’m sorry. It hadn’t quite seemed real, you know. The people dying. Your risk. I’m so terribly sorry if I was rude about it. I didn’t intend to be. I just really thought—I thought he wouldn’t really kill me, not when he clearly intended to use me in a ritual, and living blood is better than dead, better by far—”
“It is,” John says, quietly but firmly breaking the frantic train of thought and speech. “But for most men, making sure their enemy cannot harm them is just as if not more important than completing their task in the fastest way possible.”
Sherlock gives a slow nod, his hand hovering over his bandaged shoulder.
“I am making you a tea,” John explains. “It will help with the pain, and with infection. But it will taste absolutely terrible. Do you think you can drink it for me?”
Holmes grimaces. “I will try,” he finally says, words a dull whisper.
“That’s all I ask,” John reassures, laying out his bandages. “These have been spelled. They will help stop the bleeding and fight off infection. They cannot, however, do anything about poison—” As so many of John’s compatriots found out, but that is not a thought he can afford right now. “And they work best on a wound that has been cleaned. Once you’ve had your tea, I will remove you upper garments and set about cleaning the wound. Removing dirt and monster hair. Is that acceptable?”
Holmes’ mouth moves, but he doesn’t say anything, his gaze fixed beyond John. “It is necessary, yes?” Holmes finally asks.
“Quite,” John says emphatically.
Holmes closes his eyes. “Then it must be done.”
John nods, and waits impatiently for his water to be done.
Once the water is ready, John mixes up the tea, and waits to see how much Holmes will manage to take.
He downs the first sip, and then gags horrifically. But he doesn’t vomit, and after setting his jaw, he manages to finish the other four mouthfuls.
“Oh, that was truly terrible,” Holmes murmurs.
“Yes,” John agrees. “But we’ll give it a few minutes to work while more water heats, and you’ll be glad of the tea when I ask you to move so we can get your clothes off.”
“I do not think they will be salvageable,” Holmes says sadly, looking down at the blood.
“Perhaps not, but they are covered in the blood of a monster, which I have heard is useful in spellcraft; and one never knows what a good laundress will be able to manage.”
Holmes makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t protest further.
Once John has warm water, he arranges all his tools, takes a deep breath, and asks Holmes, “Can you remove your jacket and vest?”
Doing so is clearly uncomfortable, but Holmes manages, not even cursing as he does.
“Wonderful,” John says, smiling at his patient. “Let me undue these buttons, and then… do you think you can lift your arms so that I can remove the next two layers as swiftly as possible?”
Holmes manages to do so without fainting, though he does turn a rather ghastly shade that people are not supposed to be. John hastily pulls shirt and undershirt off Holmes.
And is left staring at yet another garment. It’s sturdy, made of thick cloth, and boned in places. A corset? But the shape is all wrong.
The shape is constricting Holmes’ chest, and John curses, grabbing his dagger. He can cut the fabric down the center, get it to release his patient’s trapped breath as quickly as possible—
“It laces on the side. Please, don’t destroy it,” Holmes says, voice quiet but still forceful.
John hesitates, then takes a closer look at Holmes’ set jaw, his rapid breathing. Making the man upset won’t help things.
It’s easy enough to get the laces undone. They are clearly meant to be managed by the one wearing the garment, and John draws in a deep breath as he watches Sherlock’s chest finally expand to full capacity.
A chest that is… well…
“I am Mycroft Holmes’ brother,” Sherlock insists, eyes still not focusing on John.
“Was this… an earlier curse?” John asks, setting to work cleaning the wound, trying not to look at or touch the breasts that are suddenly right there.
A woman’s breasts. Not large, but undeniable, irrefutable.
“Would it be more forgivable if it were?” Holmes asks sharply, drawing in a deep breath and finally fixing his eyes on John.
John considers, stopping to lift his tweezers and pluck a thick, dark spider hair from the wound. He has a decision to make here, he knows. He can feel the importance of his next words hanging in the air; knows that they will define the relationship he has with this wild, untamed, brilliant creature named Sherlock Holmes. So he says the honest truth, and hopes that it will be enough. “I do not find there is anything to forgive, whether it is a curse or merely the way things are.”
Sherlock’s eyes continue to rake over him, uncertain, distrustful.
“If we were not in such dire circumstances,” John continues. “I would not have seen you undressed for quite some time. I imagine in that time you would be much like I have seen you today? Brilliant? Fierce? Brave? Unaware of your own limitations?”
Sherlock’s pale skin regains some color. “I am quite aware of my own limitations. I just do not think other people are aware of my limitations.”
“Well, I should like to learn.” John plucks another thick hair from Holmes’ flesh, watching as blood wells up around the injured spot. He feels fury welling up in his heart in a similar way. How dare the Queen call this man a woman; send them out to find a maiden when surely, surely she knew that they were searching for a man? How dare the world see this brilliant man, and say that he must not know his own mind? Why should John side with them—with the people who sent six men out to die, so that Mycroft Holmes would not turn away from them—over this firebrand of intellect and determination? “I shall call you Sherlock Holmes, and you shall be Mycroft Holmes’ brother, and we shall find a way to stop this madman who sought to kill you, and worse, to use your death to hurt others.”
Holmes slowly, hesitantly, relaxes under John’s hand. “You are a strange man, John Watson.”
“I am a doctor,” Watson growls, holding tight to what he has always known; to what has always been true. He is a doctor, and he treats ailments, and it is clear even from half a day’s acquaintance that Sherlock Holmes is many things, but mad is not one of them. “I take care of my patients. I do not judge them save when it comes to how well they listen to my instructions.”
“And what are your instructions now?” Holmes asks, lips twitching into a smile.
“Stay still. There’s some hairs buried deeper in your shoulder, and this is going to hurt like fucking a cactus, pain medication or no pain medication.”
Holmes laughs, and it is a pleasant sound, vibrating through John’s chest. “Do your worst, Doctor.”
John smiles, pleased with himself.
They still have a forest full of monsters to navigate on the way home.
They are one crippled man with a sword and one grievously injured man with a too-swift mind and a body that he clearly despises, choosing to walk for two hours with his chest constricted rather than admitting his differences from expectation.
But having seen how they managed the tower together, John thinks they actually have a very good chance of making it home.
And isn’t that all a soldier ever wants? The enemy defeated, the path home clearly delineated… and a good and trusted companion to walk along it with.