A Study in Slime Revisited

Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Based upon Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime, by LaClarity at Wordpress

With respect, I loved LaClarity's fanfic so much, I could not help myself but had to see how I would continue the story myself.

For those who do not want to search up Smoke Hearts and pre-read it, the story synopsis from LaClarity:

A retired army surgeon, Dr. Watson was down on his luck. Invalided back from Afghanistan with a new clockwork heart, he was living above a whorehouse, eking out his scanty pension by running errands for a crooked former colleague. He had the good fortune to meet a young man who was prepared to go halves with him on better accommodations. His circumstances were improved, but he found himself a slave to an obsession with his mysterious new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He got the chance to discover exactly Holmes' profession was when they were called out to a scene of a crime by Inspector Hopkins. A young woman was found battered to death at the scene of a London Underground rave. Holmes took samples, before being removed by a very hostile Inspector Lestrade. Back at Baker Street, he revealed his stunning new method of crime detection, based upon scientific identification and logic. Impressed with his courage at the crime scene, Holmes offered Watson a share in his work, in return for a much-needed resource… affection.

To positively identify the sources of his sample, Holmes had to infiltrate Scotland Yard under Lestrade's nose in order to consult a list of known criminals. Dressed as a bobby, he dragged a furious Watson along 'under arrest.' Under the strain of the pretence, Watson tried to take his revenge by kissing Holmes, only to be rejected with Holmes' cold reminder that his affection would be paid for after their work was done. At Scotland Yard, Hopkins and Holmes identified one of the samples as being from a convicted art thief and raver-pirate, Thorpe. Confronting Thorpe at his residence, the thief bolted, and Watson gave chase by foot and a 6 foot tall-bicycle. He crashed onto Thorpe, and lost consciousness.

Waking back at Baker Street and feeling extremely unwell, Watson had the uneasy feeling that Holmes had had four hands to tend him, but only saw two upon opening his eyes. A needle and a bottle of anti-rejection drug roused his curiosity, but Holmes deflected his questions by kissing him. Utterly confused, Watson quarrelled with Holmes, accusing his flatmate of using Watson's feelings in order to manipulate him. Holmes argued that he had offered Watson a partnership not merely for physical intimacy or even love, but because each complimented the other; Holmes is a natural leader, Watson a follower. Watson was lonely and depressed enough to be tempted, even knowing that Holmes would not always be honest or explain things fully to him. However, he held firm, and after one last provoking attempt by Holmes to gain Watson's unquestioning acquiescence, Watson physically confronted him, only to have his clockwork heart wind down unexpectedly. As he collapsed, Holmes caught him, and Watson finally saw what Holmes had been attempting to hide from him – cephalopod arms. The original story ends with Watson fainting in utter horror. We rejoin our heroes at this most inauspicious moment.

Part 1

* In Which An Unnatural Device is Broken * A Hero Falls * A Solemn Promise is Given *

It was a nightmare, and I could not awaken.

Through the blackness swirling about me, there came the impression of hasty motion. I was laid back swiftly upon a hard surface by many hands –not hands – I shuddered - not all hands. A voice called my name, sounding increasingly frantic, the timbre of the voice rising.

"Doctor! Doctor! Your key has been wound, there's no need for this… Watson, will you listen?"

I couldn't reply. A wheezing sound rasped from my throat, as natural reflexes tried to force me to breathe. A hand rested on my forehead and lifted an eyelid to check the pupil. Another cupped the side of my face, in a way that would have wrung my heart to pieces had it been capable of feeling. A cold limb curled about a wrist, checking the pulse, while another moved quickly over my chest, tapping, leaving damp spots I felt dimly through my shirt front. Darkness pressed upon me, and I felt myself slipping away, as if sinking slowly through the floor.

Ah. So this is when that Jezail bullet finally completes its work. Thank God.

My head felt stuffed with cotton wool. Holmes continued speaking through the dull ringing in my ears, an edge in his voice. Anger? Fear? Does such a creature feel fear?

"Watson, I believe there has been a malfunction. The homeostatic device should have resumed the functions of your heart upon its reaching a resting state after your exertions… Damnation! Why does the spring unwind that way? There must be a slippage… Watson. Watson! I am going to attempt to manipulate your chest manually in order to keep the mechanism's valves pumping. It should be enough. Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

Terror and overwhelming pain stifled me. I had not thought it was possible to feel any worse, but the pressure on my chest was now beyond agonizing, even through the grey mists in my mind. It felt as if Holmes was crushing my lungs. Something moved under my shoulder blade, and the key was forcibly ground round in its socket with unnatural strength, making my mechanical heart beat. Again. Another twist. And again. But then it fell silent.

"Watson, breathe. No, my good man, you cannot leave just yet; there's still work to be done. I've seen your worth, and… Watson… will you just… take a breath, please. Just… MRS. HUDSON! Please, fetch help immediately! Wire Inspector Hopkins… anyone!"

Light footsteps hurried into the room and stumbled to a stop. There was a stifled scream, and the steps hastily fled downstairs.

Almost, I could suppose the note of concern in that voice was genuine. It sounded quite hoarse. Almost my traitorous broken heart roused itself to believe - but Holmes had deceived me. He had asked me to take him – as a partner, as a friend - without disclosing his own abominable secret. Holmes was not human, any more than I. Sweet Christ - the horror of it! The disaster of Maiwand was nothing to this betrayal, Murray even less. The roaring in my ears grew louder, the numbness in my arm and chest spreading. The key was forced round again and deep within my chest there came a tiny distinct snap, as my poor mangled heart was broken for the last time. Holmes cursed as I spasmed in his unnatural grasp. All sensations were falling away, and I found I could not bring myself to care. In his power I might be, but not even the great detective could force my soul to submit to staying, when it was apparent my body was beyond containing it.

Fingers abruptly pinched my nose, and cool lips fastened over mine, forcing my mouth open. Air from Holmes' own lungs filled mine, and was pushed out again with a damp squeeze around the whole of my chest. Again his mouth covered mine, with a more ardent urgency then he had shown in any of his earlier kisses. The key in my back twisted again with a strangely wet click and warmth began to run from the socket and trickle down my spine. The key turned again, maintaining my heart's beat. My eyes slitted open, and through a maelstrom of colours I could see Holmes' face, grey and pinched. With the little air I had remaining in my lungs I gasped out, "You monste... "

But his mouth swooped down and captured mine again, forcing life into me. And the key turned, pinning me to my body as effectively as a butterfly to a collector's board.

"A monster I may be, Watson, but I have told you – I require you. You cannot – I will not let you – You are needed. Stay."

I convulsed again, head flung back. His mouth followed mine down, and his lips moved almost noiselessly against mine, shaping a word. "Please," he breathed as though the word were forced from him. His breath filled me again, and I was caught. Holmes' indomitable will had prevailed. There was no question that he would let me leave, not while he had two hands – or was it four? - hideous, unnatural! - to keep me. I gasped for air, shuddered again, but could not tell whether it was in relief at his words or revulsion at the inhuman, cool touch of his extra appendages. My eyes slid shut again in acquiescence to the inevitable, and the darkness washed up and over me. As my consciousness began to slip under, a horrified shout followed me down, "Watson, no... !"

The roar of gunfire reverberated back from the walls of the ravine behind me, interspersed with the crack and whine of rifle fire ahead and to the left. A cavalry horse, riderless, lathered with sweat and streaming blood from a gash on its shoulder galloped past in white-eyed panic, whinnying. Every few moments, a huge deafening blast would obliterate the scene, as Ayub Khan's fiendish artillery produced a pitiless barrage. Through it, there came the screams of men. I wiped streaming sweat from my forehead and ducked down as another shell arced down and exploded, showering me with debris. An inhuman howl of pain followed.

"Williams! Williams!" frantically called a voice, shrill with anger. "You bastards! You bloody, fucking, murdering bastards! Doctor! Doctor! Over here!" There came another cry of agony. "Hold on, mate, hold on... Doctor!"

I ran, heart pounding. Everything looked preternaturally clear in the brilliant sun, despite the smoke which clogged my throat and lungs. I dropped down next to the young soldier lying on the ground who was keening in agony. A corporal, face spattered with his companion's blood, thoughtlessly clutched at the fallen man's blood-sodden sleeve. The shoulder of the uniform was torn, revealing the twitching muscle fibre and glinting whiteness of the bone of an arm half-ripped away from the shoulder. "Oh, my God."

The corporal was beside himself. "The bastards, the bloody bastards! Williams!"

"Pull yourself, together, Corporal. Corporal!"

"Yes – yes, sir."

The barrage was diminishing, but another shell fell nearby, causing us both to hunch over the young boy on the ground. A ricocheting sliver of stone stung my cheek. I flinched and began to move quickly, flipping open a leather pouch and pulling a roll of linen from it.

"We must move him back. Hold this against the artery. There." I kept my voice as calm as I could, but time was running out – a retreat would have to be made soon. The medicos had been at the rear, but with the speed of the Afghan advance, our position was in danger of being overrun. Already I could hear the guttural cries of the Afghan skirmishers as they urged each other onward.

"Like this?"

"Press harder. Good, that's it. Are you hurt?"

"Just my arm, sir."

"Show me." He extended his forearm to me, where a thin line of blood trickled from the join between flesh and the mechanical armature of his hand. A slug was flattened against the palm, creasing the metal. The pistons of the little finger pumped uselessly and spasmodically. "Ah, that's not too serious. You'll live."

Murray appeared behind me suddenly, and I gratefully motioned for him to take hold of the soldier's legs preparatory to moving him. He ignored my gesture.

"Dr. Watson, sir, there's no time! We have to begin moving, the retreat to Khig has been called." Indeed, I had failed to notice the shrill of the whistles through the screams and crashes.

I nodded and straightened. There was a crack and whine. Murray shouted, his warning useless.

The first bullet caught me in the thigh, causing me to lurch and turn half-round. Time seemed to distort and stretch. His face contorted in horror, I saw the corporal reaching up to pull me down, hands wet with his friend's blood. From the corner of my eye, I saw Murray gather himself to knock me over.

I have heard it said you don't hear the bullet which kills you. I am not sure. What I know is this: there was a thunderclap, and then a moment of utter stillness and quiet. The second bullet, entering my shoulder just under the clavicle, splintered my left scapula upon exiting, as careless as a finger punched through soft paper, and just as destructive. I staggered and fell to my knees, gasping, arm lolling limply.

I looked up at a frantic Murray, who was mouthing something soundlessly. My right hand lifted to my chest, to cover the gout of blood which had so strangely appeared. And then the lightning stroke of pain hit, and I collapsed forward. Murray caught me, and swiftly slung me over his shoulder. I could not even catch my breath enough to scream, much less protest. He threw me over the broad padded back of the medical veloci-quine, goading it into swift motion. Upside-down, the last view I had was of the corporal, still kneeling next to his stricken companion. His face was white and filled with a curious combination of fury and despair, the brass hand which was stretched out to us falling away to clench uselessly at his side.

And then the noise of the battlefield crashed back over me.

"For God's sake, hold him down!"

"Inspector, you must wipe away that blood, my fingers are slipping on the key."

"How much longer can he hold on? Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson, sir! We are nearly at the hospital!"

I flailed in the dimness, vaguely aware of shadowy figures bending over me. I knew what was happening, I knew what came next. They would take me to that tent filled with death and blood, and they would kill me. The surgeons would take my heart out. The pain in my chest caused my breathe to come in shallow gasps, as the bullet wormed its insidious way around, turning end over end in the centre of my heart. Not again, not again! Please, God.

"Hopkins, never mind that. Here, you take my place. Turn the key as far as it will go, every second. Do not fail."

A cool hand gripped my face, fingers pressed into my carotid, and grey eyes glinted down at me, assessing and evaluating. No. The surgeons... the surgeons will... There was a voice, gasping and breathy, high-pitched in terror.

"Murray, where are... ? Murray! As you love... don't let them... do this! Murray, don't leave!"

The fingers fell away. "This is not working," came a low voice. "Hopkins, do you have a wire transmitter?"

"Me, sir? One of the portable ones? No, only detectives of five years seniority get one of those."

"Useless! We're just coming up to the Tottenham Court crossing – there's a blue box there. Stop the cab!"

"Mr. Holmes, sir! What are you doing? I can't... "

Hands fumbled afresh at my back, and I made a futile effort to twist away, agony twisting the breath from my lungs.

"Damn you, Hopkins! Here, you must place the call, then. Use this number. Tell them we are headed to Bart's; that I require my original model; and if they give you any trouble say this code phrase: 'Violets bloom beneath the snow'."

"What? Sir, this number, is it - ?"

"Just do it! There's not a moment to be lost! I will take care of him! Get out, get out and make the call, now!"

There was a scramble of movement. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. A hand caught mine and squeezed it, hard. The key in my back clicked round again, again. My lips tried to shape words. No. My heart. The grey eyes blinked.

"Doctor, can you hear me? This is not Afghanistan. You are in an auto-cab. I am taking you to St. Bart's – we must perform emergency surgery. Your heart has suffered a malfunction."

I shook my head frantically, beyond all reason. They will cut it out.Did I speak it out loud? I could not tell. His voice continued. "Doctor, please calm yourself. They will not take out your heart – only repair it."

Weak, contemptible tears continued to slip down my face, and the voice sighed softly. "You need not fear. I will not let them harm you. I swear it. Just do your best to live. All will be well."

A desperate hope in his promise was all I had left to cling to as I blacked out.

Notes:

Veloci-quines and their usage in Warfare, from Chapter 16 of Overview of Modern Warfare, written by Orville Longridge, pub. Henry Linton, London, 1879

The use of mechanical horses as medical vehicles in modern warfare can be attributed to two people – the late Richard Trevithick, inventor of both the veloci-quine and the precursor of what is now known as an auto-cab, and Major General Lord Frederick Sleigh Roberts. Both came from disparate backgrounds - one an unconventional engineer from the mining districts of Cornwall, the other a long-time military man born and raised in India. However, it was through their innovations that that the conduct and equipment for medical search and rescue on battlefield was changed, thereby saving many soldiers' lives.

{cut}... Upon the adoption of the differential gear system first invented by Onésiphore Pecqueur, Trevithick was quick to change the design of his still costly steam-automotive to one that made use of previous technologies still widespread throughout the world - the cart and carriage. By incorporating the separate Watt steam-condenser into the engine and increasing the pressure differential, he was able to create a smaller, more stable engine for steam. With the French gearing system, a mechanized equine body designed by the American ex-patriot George Bogart and his new engine design, the veloci-quine was born. Controlled through a lever system on the withers, the pony-sized automaton was capable of paces from a walk up to a slow canter. Hoping to market the automaton to livery stables and cabbies, Trevithick found opposition to his creation by Luddite groups afraid that this new technology would cause Englishmen in horse-related work, such as farriers and grooms, to lose their jobs. The veloci-quine project was shelved, with only three working models remaining as novelty items for children to ride in a small park in Bloomsbury. Trevithick died in 1833, disappointed and poor, though his inventions would improve the speed and standard of mechanized locomotion throughout the Empire...

{cut}... and from his long experience in the East Indian Army, Lords Roberts was aware of the drawbacks of using live horses on the field of battle or as support for the army in hauling supplies. The expense of maintaining a live animal, the high death rate of horses in harsh climates in places such as India, and the dearth of quality horse-flesh made the idea of an automaton horse attractive. Using his influence as Major General of the English forces in the second Afghan War, he was able to persuade the reluctant Horse Guards to commission the building of several new prototype veloci-quines, adapted for use as medical and supply transport. Henry Marc Brunel carried out the manufacture, improving the controls and motion of Trevithick's design as well as changing the body to one more suited to carrying injured in comfortable repose. Soon the new automatons were delivered to Afghanistan for field testing…

{cut}... was not immediately the unqualified success hoped for, due to the unforeseen difficulty with particulate from desert sands wearing at the gears and the difficulty of finding clean water suitable for the boilers. However, with new plating and diaphragm seals for joints, the veloci-quines soon found a place on the battlefield, conveying the injured by cart or atop their low, wide padded backs to safety. With the coming of the new algorithmically controlled automatons which are more capable of individual action, it may even be that the use of flesh and blood equines by the Calvary in battle may come to and end, though this is disputed ferociously by commissioned officers and nobles, who feel that ownership of a true steed distinguishes a true officer from the common run of volunteers...

Author Notes: Thanks to BBC Radio's radio drama of STUD for giving me an auditory impression of late 19th century war, minus the veloci-quines. I recommend their work for all and sundry. There is nothing like having Holmes and Watson speak directly in your ears... even whisper sometimes. Or shout, if that's your preference.

Ladies and Gentlemen - my first fanfic. Of another fanfic. How deep the rabbit hole of fandom goes! I am in quite over my head. Deepest thanks go to my betas - Cryptix, for the honesty in her comments and her wrangling of my atrocious punctuation (which can only be partially blamed on the Japanese OS of MS Word). TheRimmerConnection for canny comments about characterization. Marixsa for helping with plot holes And Jamie - who pushed me over the edge of the rabbit hole by sending me the original story.

Generally, I would like to apologize - in writing such a story, one is practically required to know the source material - LaClarity's work. It's like being in university again, and making sure you have all the courses need to move on. I never really meant for anyone to work that hard just to get to my little piece. Secondly, don't expect tentacular hijinks for some time - Watson is in a fragile state, and both boys have ISSUES to work out. Rather a lot. Lastly, yes this is a WIP, but the plot line is clear enough to follow if you know A Study in Scarlet. It will have an end.