|
| |
Fleagueing the Jade
By Taleya
I loathed this. I loathed it even as it excited me. The
shouts, the very smell of money exchanging hands, hurried bets and the sweat of
beer making my heart pound. I hated the fact that my friend was being reduced to
this again, that he would be left bloodied and bruised, and all because of me.
Never again I had sworn. Never again. And so I had handed the paltry income over
which I had no control to my dearest Holmes, who possessed nothing but control.
Unfortunately, even with my pocketbook now safely in the hands of my dear
friend, my excesses at the card table had proven more costly to our funds than
we had expected. We were at desperate ends indeed - my pension had all but dried
up, frittered away on useless games and the few cases Holmes would later build
his immense career upon were but a mere trickle, and far between at that. Mrs.
Hudson was a patient woman, but her patience only stretched so far - she herself
was far from rich and could scarcely afford the louche intrusions of two
feckless layabouts on her property.
Holmes had taken action with his usual aplomb, brushing aside my apologies and
shame with a single, graceful gesture. I would no doubt curse myself as I bound
and bandaged his wounds, he said - but at least I would do so from the comfort
of a roof over my head and a fire to warm myself beside, rather than suffer the
deprivations of a London winter.
And besides, he was a magnificent pit fighter.
The last of our money was wagered on him, and wagered heavily. Thankfully the
crowd tonight differed from the usual group; it seemed that luck was on our side
as few believed the small, scruffy figure could hold out against the
shaven-headed bully boys who usually frequented the ring.
Unfortunately there are always those who are either unable or unwilling to place
their trust in seemingly self-evident facts, and instead move to force the hand
of fate.
The first indicator that something was badly wrong came
when Holmes stumbled against the ring. Thankfully he had not yet entered it - a
fight was already raging in the pit, two meat-packers from the East end slogging
away at each other like giants at war. Holmes had been jostled by the crowd, a
group of ruffians buffeting him to and fro, laughing a little, looking for all
the world like a child on a sailboat. But then he stumbled - and the motion was
so unexpected, so graceless, the clutch of his hand on my sleeve and shaky
whisper of my name indicating a thousand things were wrong.
"Holmes?" I clutched his shoulder as he turned, pulling him into my arms as his
knees gave way, my shout lost beneath the roar of the crowd. "Holmes!"
"..'son," he slurred.
I dragged him away from the circle, into an abandoned corner, my hands at his
chest, fumbling for my pocketwatch. His heart beat slowly, but strongly, eyes
unnaturally bright and glittering in the dark. With a fumbling motion, he pawed
at his sleeve, head lolling back against the wall.
I rolled back the cloth and cursed at the bruise blooming there. Doped. He'd
been doped. Teeth bared, I cast about for those responsible, but it was
impossible to tell; in such close quarters any one of the ruffians about us
could have performed the act. He was in no shape to fight, that much was certain
- his muscles were limp and languid, legs unstable. I shook his shoulders, but
his head flapped as weakly as that of a ragdoll. A vaguely pleasant smile was
fixed upon his features, eyes unfocused and huge under his unruly bangs.
Desperately I slapped his face - it was too late now to back out, all of our
money would be lost, and our home with it. If I'd only had my gladstone bag,
there were all manner of stimulants I could administer, but it was locked safely
away in my cosy garett at the top of the stairs in Baker street. A garett I
would no longer have.
We were in dire straits indeed.
I had a pennyworth of ginger in my pocket. To tell the truth I had been planning
on making tea with it - but now it would have to serve a far more brutal
purpose.
"Forgive me, old friend," I whispered, palming the root in my hand. Then I bent
him over a nearby bench and slipped that hand down the back of his trousers.
I have seen many battles in my life. I was present at the
horrific rout of Maiwand; I have seen both the best and worst of mankind. I have
seen the horrific depravities men will inflict on each other in the heat of
battle; I have seen badly wounded men raise their weapons and defend a few scant
inches of sand with a scream of defiance on their dying breaths. But even in all
this, I have never seen anything as awe-inspiring as Sherlock Holmes with a
pennyworth of ginger up his arse.
He leapt the wooden barrier around the ring as if it were nothing but a scrap of
detritus in his path. The battle between the meat packers was still ongoing, but
this seemed of little consequence to him. Screaming like a devil, he dispatched
both of them with actions so fast they seemed almost acts of god. One staggered
back, hands clutching a badly broken nose, courtesy of my friends hard head,
then fell against the barrier with an audible crack, hunched over a slew of
broken ribs. The second lasted a mere moment longer before simply fleeing,
barging through the gates and taking to his heels in the face of a vengeful
shiva.
Holmes opponent leapt into the ring, no doubt fuelled by foolish bravado and the
heady roar of the crowd at this unexpected spectacle. He barely had time to
posture before Holmes' eyes fixed upon him, wild as a stallions, rolling in his
head. My friend charged, feckless and wild and the younger man caught him by the
neck, employing Coolie methods of fighting, beating him viciously about the
face. He may as well have struck an elephant with an ink-pen for all the good it
seemed to do him; Holmes barely shook off the blows before bellowing and
straightening his spine, headbutting the man with such force he was instantly
struck insensate.
A sudden, awed silence spread across the room as Holmes stood there, panting,
twitching. I hurriedly made my way through the silent throng, snatching at our
winnings, then turned to see the crowd had parted, leaving nothing but bare
floor between myself and my friend.
Holmes' eye fell upon me, and a low growl began to issue from his throat. I
backed away, hastily stuffing pound notes into my pockets as he advanced, then
finally took to my heels as he began to charge, fleeing into the night and
desperately wishing for an elephant gun.
He would forgive me, I assured myself as I pelted through the cobbled streets,
cursing my old wound. He would rationally assess the situation and of course
confirm that I had taken the proper course of action.
Eventually.
I was sure of it.
|
