^&^

The cell was cold and as blank as a slate. Stone walls, iron bars surrounded him and a floor covered in a thin layer of dirt was the only soft thing Watson could feel beneath his fingers as he lay, his cheek pressed to the unforgiving ground. His eyes were closed and he concentrated on breathing, one shaking inhale after the other.

It was very quiet. He could hear faraway noises, banging metal and shallow screams but they faded eventually, leaving him to listen to the blood rushing through his ears and the air flow in - out - of his tired lungs. He wondered how many other prisoners Blackwood had taken, he was sure it was more than anyone suspected.

He wondered how on earth they'd failed so miserably.

The cards had been stacked against them, there was no denying it. Too many vipers had been sitting in their midst since the beginning. Coward, the monster's high-placed toady had been one, as well as Adler's mysterious professor who had allowed the poison machine to do its work before taking away the part he wanted. Not to mention his own loving fiancee who'd turned out to be a snake in the guise of a sweet governess, clinging onto Blackwood's robes and smiling as they dragged Watson off to the prison where the rest of the high-level 'dissenters' had ended up.

God, he should have known.

Weeks had passed and the government was in ruins, with Blackwood and his minions playing the role of saviors. The public, shocked and wanting nothing more than the return of normality had accepted his dominance without large-scale protest. Blackwood was named Imperitius and spoke of world domination, as another man might speak of a coming rugby match or game of chance. Everyone listened and nodded and simply prayed they wouldn't be taken away next.

Damned sheep, Watson thought angrily, remembering when he'd taken an oath to protect his Queen and country, come what may. But that was probably why he was in prison along with other like-minded patriots - he couldn't be trusted. Confinement was a badge of honor and Watson was fine with that.

In theory. At the moment Watson was merely trying to think past the pain, wondering where Holmes was and how the devil he might, somehow, correct this madness. Blackwood had taken a special pleasure in beating Watson once they'd captured him, a personal brutalizing that had lasted for hours until he'd lost all fight, simply going slack and allowing the blows to fall where they would. Surprisingly, he didn't think anything was broken, but John Watson was sure this was only the beginning and not the end of his ordeal.

Groaning, he pushed himself up on his hands and crawled to the wall, sliding up to sit. He tilted his fiercely aching head back against the stone bricks, hoping to derive what little comfort he could from their coolness. Swelling began its inevitable rise in various areas that Blackwood had attended to - his lip and along his jaw, along with the ever-present ache in his already sore leg. With a sigh, Watson realized that he probably wouldn't last long enough to be of use to his nation, let alone anyone else.

Again, he wondered if Holmes was alive and scalding bile rose in his throat at the thought that he might not be. If Blackwood had treated him - Holmes 'loyal dog' - in such a manner, Watson could scarcely stand to imagine what Holmes' fate might have been. They'd been separated before the fatal moment and he hadn't heard anything since, between the hiding and his betrayal by Mary, whom he'd been eager to take off with, thinking that Holmes would simply catch up when he could.

Idiot, he berated himself again. You left Holmes behind and this is your reward.

Watson screwed his eyes shut. Misery, cold and hollow filled his chest. Holmes dead. It was a thought that was as horrifying as it was unfathomable. The image of him alone and suffering when Watson should have been there by his side, vainly calling out for him or worse, silently hating him for being abandoned by the only man he'd ever called 'friend'. Maybe he'd been glad to die alone, without his fickle partner there to hurt him more than Blackwood ever could.

"Oh God," Watson murmured, his eyes burning. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Holmes. I was a fool. I'm sorry." He curled over his knees and bit back tears, hating himself. So occupied was he with his own misery, he almost didn't hear the taps against the small grate on the nearby wall, one of the ancient vents connecting cell to cell in this oldest of dungeons.

Tap, tap, tap. There it went again. Watson wiped his eyes and slouched down, straining to listen, his ear against the metal grate. "Hello?" he whispered. "Is someone there?"

Suddenly a slim fingertip reached through one of the small holes and tickled the whorl of his ear. Watson jumped, then peered through the grate more closely.

A familiar pair of brown eyes stared back at him. Joy, like a sunrise, burned through Watson's blood. He nearly cried out, but he controlled himself at the last second, not willing to give anything away. "Holmes," he whispered frantically. "My dear ... oh, I thought I'd never see you again. How are you? Are you all right? What has happened since we parted? Where ..."

"Gently, Watson." Holmes' voice was rough and strained as from disuse. "All in good time. Tell me how you fare first."

"I am well enough."

"You are a very bad liar, my Watson. Try again."

"Blackwood has paid back some of his own with interest," Watson admitted. "And I am currently a single man as Mary revealed her true nature once the plot had come to fruition."

Holmes made a pained noise. "Ah, my poor friend. I am truly sorry."

"No, you're not and you shouldn't be as I no longer care," Watson said firmly. He pressed his hand against the grate, absurdly happy when he felt the flat warmth of Holmes' mirrored touch through the metal. "You and I are together now, against all odds and I will not be leaving you again. Be assured of that."

"I'm afraid I cannot make the same promise. I fear Blackwood has little affection for the thought of me continuing to breathe." Holmes' exhaled shakily and for the first time, Watson noticed that his palm was tinged red with dried blood. "He's been quite ... ruthless in his revenge. I'm almost afraid he put us beside one another in here to make things all the worse."

"Then the joke is on him because now I feel strong enough to take on ten Blackwoods," Watson whispered back fiercely. "Don't you give up. You are the better man, Holmes. Remember that."

Holmes' laugh was short and bitter. "I am a failure. Plain and simple. But I appreciate the compassion behind your words. Now, tell me what you've heard while on the outside. I was taken on the bridge and have not known any news since."

Watson swallowed hard, scarcely believing his ears. "Have you been here that long? The disaster was weeks ago."

"I'm afraid he's almost as handy with your sword as you are. Now tell me what he's done, spare nothing. I need to know."

Watson told him the story then, about the breakdown of the government. How the Queen refused to go into hiding and so was taken prisoner, to the very Tower where her ancestors had held their enemies. The rest of the royals had been scattered over the continent and the standing forces on the island had reluctantly capitulated, but the overseas military had not yet declared allegiance.

"So the game might not be over yet," Holmes sighed once Watson had finished. "That's good news."

"Now tell me of your hurts," Watson insisted. "Perhaps there is some way we can treat them, as foolish as that might sound."

"Fear not. Blackwood's doctors are quite happy to repair me for the next round of payback." Holmes' hand fell away from the grate as if he were too tired to hold it up any longer. "I'm sorry that you're here, Watson. I wouldn't have wished this on you for the world."

"There is no place I'd rather be than by your side," Watson replied in a quiet voice. God, how he wished that damned wall wasn't separating them and he could see Holmes face to face. Sliding down, Watson pressed his cheek to the grate in an effort to get closer. "Whatever is to be faced, we'll do so together."

Holmes reached up again and a rough thumb pad rubbed over Watson's cheekbone in tiny, soothing circles. "My Watson. Don't waste your courage on me."

"Nothing that concerns you is a waste," Watson swore, relaxing into Holmes' gentle touch. "Be of good heart. We are not done yet."

"I hope so," Holmes whispered. "I truly do."

He didn't sound very convinced, Watson thought, gliding off into an exhausted sleep. Perhaps the morning would bring clarity and better things.

If not, at least they were no longer alone.

^&^

tbc ... more to come.

Reviews are love. :D