are you wearing a false nose? -- open to stopnarrating

[soldierboy]

Watson curses his leg.  Usually he manages more than adequately, though his sprint still has the flavour of a limp to it; he holds his own in a fight, and even if the Jezail bullet wound should ache, he has become used to the pain.  But when the floor gives under his foot, the soft tear of rotten wood felt before it's heard, but felt not soon enough, and Watson finds himself in a moment halfway through the floorboards, the ragged edges biting into his thigh, his muscles seize and cramp, and he simply cannot pull himself loose.  Monaghan kicks his stick away, for which Watson growls at him, and then swears vehemently as Monaghan tears off, now free of his pursuit, ducking left, and he shouts to Holmes as his companion lopes up from behind.

'Out the back way, he's headed for back way-- damnit, man, leave it!'

And because they both have their priorities, Holmes does.

He can hear both of their footsteps, and the sounds of crashing, more distantly, and he grits his teeth as he pulls himself up out of the floor, noting distantly the place where the leg of his trousers is torn, the skin underneath scraped enough to bleed, but the wound is less painful than the leg itself.  It takes a few moments for the cramping to cease, and Watson levers himself up, limping over to pick up his walking stick, and then as fast as he can, hurries the way Holmes and the object of their chase had gone.

The sounds of fighting have ceased, and Watson assumes it to be because the chase has taken them away from the warehouse, but as he rounds a corner, he spots a figure lying on the ground perhaps fifty meters distant, and a worry that he'd not considered before begins to beat with his pulse, joining the adrenaline that's already there.

'Holmes!'

The man is of the right proportions to be Holmes, but Watson is dubious that Monaghan would have been able to get the better of him in a fistfight, which meant-- but no, he'd heard no gunshot, and as he nears, Holmes woozily levers himself up on one elbow.

'What the devil,' mutters Watson to himself.

Because it is Holmes-- looks like Holmes, but he's wearing denim trousers like some American navvy, and the strangest jumper Watson has ever seen, and he has no idea what to even begin to make of his shoes.  Watson closes the final few paces, near enough to see the expression of bleary confusion which, even at Holmes's most drug-addled, he has rarely seen on him, and he eyes him dubiously, even as he drops to one knee with the intention to feel the back of Holmes's head for the impact of a blow.

'What are you playing at?  Surely now is not the time for disguises; I thought you'd been shot.' 

Comments

[stopnarrating]

The thing about LA—and there's lots of things about LA—but the thing about LA, apart from the parties and vegan food craze and actors who dress like hobos and its all around plastic-y, dispensable nature—you know, like one of those toys that comes in kids' meals: cheap but you still play with it because you're bored and your dad is shouting at your sister for spilling ketchup on the seat—.

Anyway. The thing about LA is, no matter how often anything changes, none of the changes really surprise you. Not like, for instance, say, the floor collapsing out from under you. Or a guy, just a random guy, in one of those kind of old-timey hats, hitting you over the head with a gun.

Harry thinks that's called pistol-whipping. Yeah, pretty sure.

Either way, it fucking hurts. He blinks at the guy kneeling in front of him, expression one of concern even in the dense shadows.

"I'm all right. I'm all right; I'm all right: it's okay. It's just—ahh." As he sits up, the thing with stars—it's not really stars but that's always what they show in cartoons, stars or birds, Wile E Coyote and the anvil: that's how Harry's head feels. He's just missing the Roadrunner's pitying beep beep. "It's just my skull."

He raises his head to the back of his head, touching the other guy's fingers, and whoops. Sorry? Sorry. He doesn't know the protocol for finding yourself in a new place with a concussion. Which is funny, actually, because he probably should by now have some idea—Harry looks around.

"Where's, uh. I was with—. But I don't see—. Did it get really dark suddenly or is that another symptom of concussion? There's a real Armaggedon, end-of-the-world, History channel feel going on here. I think that's—. Oh, okay, I'm just going to lie down again now. Okay."

Lying down—laying down? hmm—seems to be what his body is doing anyway.

[soldierboy]

There's no blood (though Watson can't help but notice as he feels over the back of his head, that Holmes's hair is shorter than it was ten minutes ago, which he has no explanation for), and though his expression is unfocussed, his eyes settle on Watson when he meets them. Still, concussion might at least explain the babbling-- or the accent, which has shifted inexplicably into flat American. Watson frowns, concern and annoyance warring in him.

But then Holmes is slumping back, and Watson's hand on the back of his head tightens, the other going to his shoulder to lift him back up and lever him into a sitting position against the wall.

'Oh, no you don't, no passing out on me here; I'm not about to carry you home. Holmes-- Holmes. Do you know where you are?'

He can't explain the clothes, or the hair, or the fact that-- yes, his shave is closer than Holmes's two days of stubble, but it can't be anybody but Holmes. Or if it is-- that kind of exact reflection is beyond nature, and it's not as if Holmes has an American twin running around London.

[stopnarrating]

"Yeah," Harry sighs, "yeah," and tries to force his eyes open when they start to shut again. Nope. No passing out. No. Passing out. The wall: the wall is good.

This guy is good. He's nice. Harry likes him. Or at least he seems very dedicated to Harry's welfare, kind of cradling his head like that and holding onto his shoulder. It's nice—it's gay—but it's nice. Perry never had a great bedside manner.

"That's not really my—.You should be—a doctor or something," Harry gets out, dopey for a moment, before the pain shoots through his sinuses, like a migrain from hell. He groans and leans forward, kind of slumping against the guy's shoulder. "That would be . . . really great right now. Actually. A doctor. Oh, my head."

He should probably tell the guy that's not his name and that he doesn't know where he is, that this is leading to some big fuck-off of mistaken identity and broken hearts probably—and wow: gay—but consciousness does seem really difficult to attain.

"I think—I don't know; I can't tell for sure—but I think . . . I am going to pass out . . . now . . . For a bit."

At least he makes good on his promises.

[soldierboy]

Really, it cannot be anyone but Holmes. But with every word the man says, the more Watson becomes bizarrely convinced that it... isn't. Holmes's disguises have fooled him on occasion in the past, but it's another thing entirely to have a man who looks just like him, and yet to still be unsure that he is, in fact, Holmes.

Because even with a blow to the head, Holmes would know who he is, and even disregarding the accent, the speech patterns the man is employing are nothing like Holmes's.

But he's well and fully unconscious now, slumped against the wall, and Watson frowns and takes a moment to check to make sure there aren't any other obvious wounds. There aren't, that he can see, and were they at Baker Street, he'd conduct a more thorough examination, but a cursory once-over will have to suffice for now.

His thigh is beginning to ache again from crouching like this, and Watson doubts that he'd be able to carry Holmes-- or whoever he is-- just at the moment, without some assistance from the man. So he falls back against the wall next to him, stretching out his leg and wincing. Once he regains consciousness, he'll take them back to Baker Street. If it turns out he isn't Holmes, well. Then Watson will be wanting an explanation, and he might as well get it in the comfort of his home.