Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Fifteen
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Fifteen
Authors: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Do not attempt to operate Holmes and Watson while intoxicated. Also, these are not ours.
Summary: Watson is jealous. Holmes is clueless. Somehow this is all solved by sex.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: More slash, which we all know is what we skim the rest of the chapters to get to.
Word Count: 8,223
Author's Notes: Part 15
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen
~~~~~
Holmes, meanwhile, has absolutely no trouble speaking to a woman regardless of her state of undress. Oh, he is as distracted by it as any man, but also is quite able to carry on a conversation without turning red or looking in the least sheepish. If a woman chooses to bare any part of her anatomy to Holmes, Holmes is quite happy to go along with it. He is a gentleman when it suits him, and right now it certainly does not.
"Well, Miss Baker," Holmes begins, well aware that Watson is rather unable to concentrate in this situation. It will have to be him, then. Well, that's fine enough. Holmes can play a journalist as well as he can play anything else. "If you don't mind my saying, all of our research on the subject has led us to you and your career." He had, of course, quickly glanced about her room, spotting the paraphernalia from previous shows she'd been in without being obvious about it. "It's so kind of you to see us in person, I for one was completely convinced it would be impossible to meet you. You must be very busy, with this new opening tonight."
The actress smiles, batting her lashes a little and leaning in towards them, giving Holmes a very clear view of the fact that she has nothing on beneath the top of her robe. His eyes stray. He is only human. But he is still listening very intently to what she has to say. "You're too kind, Mr...?"
"Abbey," Holmes says, too quickly, belying sudden nervousness, and forces his eyes to meet hers. "Harold Abbey, miss."
Miss Baker smiles, pleased at the effect she's had on him, and continues on in a purr. "Mr. Abbey," she repeats. "You're quite right, of course, I am a very busy woman, but never too busy to take a moment to meet with kind gentlemen as yourselves. I've been working on this performance since the beginning a month ago. I think it might be my best role yet."
Holmes' eyes widen hugely, obviously impressed. The effect makes him look much younger than usual. "I can't imagine how you could outdo your role in Moliere last April," he says admiringly.
Flattered, Caroline Baker rests a hand against her collarbone, just above her breasts, and although Watson can appreciate the scenery as much as anyone else, he can't help but notice Holmes admiring the view, as well. And for some reason, despite the fact that he knows how rare it is for Sherlock Holmes to care for anyone or to do what they'd done the night before, he doesn't like it when the other man pays attention to this whore.
At that last descriptor, Watson forces his brain to halt. Well, that had certainly been violent, hadn't it? Much more violent than he'd anticipated his thoughts as being. Still, the clenching in his gut does not disappear, but in fact only worsens when Miss Baker leans forward again, a bit farther this time.
"You're too kind, Mr. Abbey," she very nearly purrs, her eyes ticking to Watson, who forces a smile.
"Mr. West, Miss," he says politely. "I will be eager to compare the two performances after tonight."
"It's always such a pleasure to meet such devoted fans," Miss Baker replies, smiling a tad smugly. "Now, please. What do you need to know for your piece? Anything you need is yours." Watson's jaw clenches completely of its own volition, but he doesn't say a word, maintaining a pleasant smile and letting Holmes do the talking. He doesn't think he'd be capable, at any rate.
Dutifully keeping his attention solely on Miss Baker and whatever pieces of her anatomy she chooses to put in his line of vision, Holmes begins coming up with questions regarding her career, her favorite roles, this newest project, how she prepares herself, everything a journalist would naturally ask of her. He begins writing it down, too, or at least makes it seem as though he is (in reality he seems to be writing some sort of chemical equation in his scrawl of a shorthand, along with what may or may not be several bars of a song).
Interspersed periodically, of course, are stammering compliments and several shows of blushing and swallowing while she seems to lead him along, so that within a few minutes, it's an easy thing to get her to discuss less pleasant matters, such as the story one of their colleagues at the Dispatch had done.
"Miss Baker, you'll have to excuse the horrible subject matter," Holmes finally says sheepishly. "But our colleague recently investigated a crime in which a young lady's fiance was wounded, and then the young woman had gone missing. He insisted that the young lady worked as your maid. If that is indeed true, you must let us express our condolences. How frightening that must be for you."
Looking vaguely startled by this line of questioning, Miss Baker flips open an embellished ornamental fan and begins to fan herself, making sure to flutter it just below the line of her cleavage. Watson mimes being quite entranced right along with Holmes, although certainly not to the same degree. He's sure Holmes is in a class all his own in terms of acting, but he still wants to hit him. And to strangle Miss Baker for her utter ridiculousness, as a close second.
"Oh, it was entirely terrifying," she says in a breathy voice. "Mr. Abbey, I can assure you--though she was not the most reliable of maids, and I was not surprised when she did not arrive that morning--it gave me a terrible fright to find a constable on my doorstep of all places."
She tuts, shutting the fan with a snap in a sharp motion. "The girl constantly had her head in the clouds. Always daydreaming about that bit of rough she'd managed to lure in. I always knew she'd be trouble one way or another, but she starched the linens so well that I couldn't justify dismissing her."
Although he looks about the same as he's looked the entire conversation- which is to say, completely entranced- Holmes actually is hanging on every word for this part of the conversation, watching the actress carefully. Interesting, he finds it, that she should refer to Miss Winstone in the past tense in such a manner. As though there is no hope of her returning- a foregone conclusion that the girl is dead?
He spends a moment looking justifiably impressed by her bravery and sympathetic about the maid's less-useful nature. Poor Miss Baker, to have such a horrible thing happen.
"I suppose that won't be a problem now," Holmes says sympathetically after a moment. "Still, it's a terrible thing." Not for the missing young woman, of course. For Miss Baker.
"Oh, it is," the actress says sadly, nodding. There's a loud rap on the door, and she sighs. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I really must continue preparing for rehearsal. But I trust I'll see you both after the performance this eve?" She might be addressing both of them, but her eyes are on Holmes.
"Caroline!" someone shouts through the door, and she sighs, standing and dropping her robe, stepping behind a curtain. Holmes and Watson are left gaping at the fact that she'd just been standing there for a second, naked.
From behind the curtain, she calls, "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. West. Mr. Abbey, if you have a moment, I could make use of an extra set of hands in fastening all of these... hooks."
Watson's eyes widen, and his jaw clenches for a second. Not giving Holmes time to respond, he latches onto the other man's arm in a vise-like grip and begins to drag him to the door. "So sorry, Miss Baker, we really must be going!" Slam.
The shock of seeing the woman actually drop her robe in front of them had actually thrown Holmes quite out of his persona for a moment; he couldn't help the moment of deja-vu, recalling the Woman doing nearly the same thing the last time she'd been in London. He has no idea how he continually ends up in situations such as this one, but he's not entirely certain he minds. Granted, in comparison Caroline Baker is hardly interesting at all in any sense of the word, but Holmes can't say she's not attractive.
He does not manage a response, but rather only barely opens his mouth to stammer something when suddenly Watson is dragging him bodily out of the room. Watson might actually have just dislocated his shoulder, he's dragging Holmes so painfully from the little room. This receives a quiet howl of pain from Holmes, who doesn't dare try to shake Watson's grip until the door is shut and they are backstage once more.
At this point, Holmes finally turns his attention to Watson, who... appears quite livid, actually. Holmes spends a moment staring at the other man with wide, uncomprehending eyes, clearly not understanding why this should be so, before weakly pulling at his arm a bit, wanting it released from Watson's painful hold. "I don't believe she had any hooks at all back there," he says. Actresses. Either her career really is failing and she truly needs the press desperately, or she is truly... that susceptible to flattery. Not that Holmes is unaccustomed to that; he is himself rather susceptible to it. One of his many failings, he supposes. But he wouldn't bed someone because of it. Well, perhaps Watson.
"No," Watson grates out, releasing Holmes' arm only to shove at his shoulder, pushing the other man ahead of him and out the nearest door into an alley behind the theatre. He has a sudden vision of himself checking the alley for anyone nearby and then shoving Holmes up against the nearest wall and making him forget entirely about Miss Caroline Baker, but common sense intervenes before he does more than look about and check for passerby. Instead, he simply starts to walk, leaving Holmes to follow as he will.
Once they reach the Strand again, though, he can no longer hold it in. "Whore," he nearly spits. "Bloody whore. I did not like her in the least."
He's attracting attention now, though, and he knows he's going to have to calm himself or risk getting them both into rather dire straits. Clearing his throat rather violently, he finally turns to glare at Holmes. "Need you have been quite so very interested?" All right, so the calming isn't working as well as he'd intended.
"Yes," Holmes says unrepentantly, staring at the other man. He is a bit worried at the outburst, needless to say; after all, they are in public. It is not normally Watson who has to be kept watch over while in public, that's a certainty. The reversal of roles is quite startling, but no more than the anger behind the words, or the look in Watson's eyes that Holmes suddenly recognizes as... jealousy.
Holmes can't help that his eyes widen slightly at that; he might be a genius of observation by all accounts, but the man is hopelessly dense at times when it comes to matters of emotion that aren't related to motives, acting and disguise, or witnesses. It had never occurred to him that Watson might actually be jealous of his ridiculous flirtation with an actress in order to get information he needs. He's done it a thousand times before- and more than that, on a few more desperate occasions.
It had never bothered Watson before. Or maybe it had, but he couldn't admit as much to himself. Or perhaps... perhaps the night before had had the sort of meaning to Watson that Holmes had tried not to allow himself to hope it had.
And so Holmes is left blinking over at him, a bit startled and yet unable to say that it wasn't necessary, ever focused on the matter at hand as he is. "It was necessary, or I wouldn't have bothered with her. Didn't you notice, Watson, she continually referred to Miss Winstone in the past tense? She believes the girl is dead. Or soon to be."
Still angry, Watson turns and continues to walk, but this time he goes more slowly, and Holmes falls into step next to him as always. "I had not noticed," he says more quietly after a moment. "I do apologize. I'm afraid I was not as observant as I should have been."
He glances at his father's watch. "At last count, we've... Christ, nine hours at the least until it would be safe to enter either Yaxley's property or that above the alley in Kingsway. We could go to Baker's home as well, while she's at her bloody performance."
And as for what they're to do with their time until that night, when it's safe to do any breaking and entering... he doesn't know. They could eat, and likely return to Baker Street to... sit. And worry, in his case, or stew. Probably to regret his explosion of temper, which he feels could easily flare up again if tested.
"Hmm," Holmes begins, as they eventually do start back toward Baker Street and home. Miss Baker's residence... "Perhaps. Or Lord Darnley." Every avenue must be investigated, after all.
They might have to return to the theatre, but Holmes does not think that now is the moment to suggest that to Watson. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut on that, considering instead the window. The window, Mr. Yaxley, Miss Baker thinking Miss Winstone is deceased, the stabbing, the cousin. Holmes' mind goes over every piece of evidence over and over in a circle and in a line, in every order he can think of continually, as it's been doing since he woke up that morning.
Well. Except the moments when he was watching Watson dress. He wasn't quite thinking of the case at that moment. Or just now, for a moment, seeing the doctor so angry... he still is. Holmes... almost doesn't know how to react to that.
"I do have samples to test," he says after a moment. Samples from the alleyway, of course. "Oh, damn. Watson, you shouldn't have dragged me out of there so quickly, I was hoping to locate and congratulate that blonde chorus girl on molesting you so thoroughly. I can hardly blame her." Of course, all of this is said completely in public and with such a straight face, as though it's completely normal conversation, that no one takes even the slightest notice. No one but Watson, that is.
Watson pales, and he actually stops walking for a moment, gaping at Holmes' back. The detective just keeps walking, not pausing, as is his usual routine, and Watson has to hurry to catch up. He might not have bothered, but he feels the need to hiss out of the corner of his mouth, "I'm going to throttle you."
Does the man want a sentence of two years' hard labour? Their reputations ruined, likely social exile from England... is this what he wants? Possibly about to suffer a cranial explosion, Watson is unable to do anything more after that save to follow Holmes back to Baker Street, where they return to the rooms and Holmes locks the door, presumably to keep Mrs. Hudson out. Watson, for his part, is still dazed and in shock.
"Are you completely mad?" he finally manages, immediately correcting himself. "Oh, forgive me, I'd forgotten to whom I'm speaking! You utter madman, you can't just say things like that in publ--"
He's cut off by what feels more like an attack than anything else as Holmes nearly tackles him back against the wall. And there is no more talking for at least a few minutes, until Watson frees his mouth just long enough to ask, "I thought you had samples to test?" If Holmes pulls away, Watson will drag him back, bloody hell...
Whether or not Holmes is bothered by being called a madman isn't apparent, as he appears not to have heard anything Watson had said to him before tackling him (as well as a man injured as Holmes is is able). But when Watson pulls away to ask about his samples, Holmes can't help but spend a moment looking horribly thoughtful. Samples to test... right.
"Samples," he repeats, breathing hard, "you're right." He speaks as though he has suddenly recalled that such things exist, although the tone is less pronounced than usual, undoubtedly due to the fact that his breathing is already labored. His eyes, too, betray him; they're much less focused than his usual intense stare, pleasantly glazed over in a manner that makes Holmes' entire face look much less sharp, less hard, than is typical for the calculating detective.
After a moment, though, Holmes begins to pull back, making as though he's going to move away from Watson. He does this really out of no desire to test samples at all, but just to force a reaction from Watson, which is quite typical of him in any situation. It is equally typical of Watson to know exactly what Holmes is doing, but to give in anyway.
Watson does not disappoint, grabbing on to Holmes' arm for the second time that day and yanking him back almost viciously (punishment which the detective undoubtedly deserves), dragging a sharp, pained gasp from Holmes that quickly becomes another noise when their mouths meet again, somehow more violently this time than even a minute ago.
Even though he's currently the one pressed against the wall, Watson still manages to at least have partial control over the situation, not relinquishing Holmes' arm save to drag the other man's coat back over his shoulders, taking his own off as well. Never before has he been so completely frustrated at wearing so many layers... He fights with his waistcoat, and Holmes isn't helping, as they're both trying to undo the buttons, but finally Watson gives up with a groan into the other man's mouth, working on Holmes' shirt.
He gets it off and doesn't bother with shucking his once it's undone, far too absorbed in exploring Holmes' torso, which he'd regretfully neglected more than he'd wanted to in their mad scramble the night before. And when Holmes gets his trousers undone again, the noise he makes is barely muffled.
Although at one point, Holmes may have wanted to take this a little slower than the night before (not that it would be very easy to take it any faster), by the point Watson makes that noise Holmes has absolutely forgotten any and all notions in his head about speed or exploration or anything, really. He's finding it exceptionally difficult to keep hold of one thought more than a second or so; every time Watson does... just about anything, Holmes completely forgets anything he'd managed to think at all.
Watson hasn't let go of his arm; in fact he is holding so tightly to Holmes that Holmes is starting to lose circulation in his hand, but he doesn't mind, would rather Watson be holding on to him tightly just to prove that everything is... well, real. Holmes has always had a very strange relationship to pain- it's just as good, if not better than pleasure as a diversion, at shutting his mind off, and as such has over time become irreparably mixed in his mind. So the fact that Watson gripping his arm hurts... only adds to Holmes' inability to breathe, or to keep himself under any semblance of control. He's practically panting within minutes.
And he still has his other hand, after all, which is put to very good use a moment later. He's quickly getting quite good at undoing Watson's trousers, which is the sort of skill Holmes is certain he wouldn't mind honing. And even though Holmes finds that doing that he is having a very hard time concentrating, he nevertheless manages to pull back from Watson just enough to make a very thorough, very enthusiastic inspection of the other man's neck and collarbone with his tongue and then his teeth, unable to be still or to keep himself from groaning as Watson explores what he can reach of the detective's still-bruised torso.
Forced to let go of Holmes' arm to regain the use of his hand, Watson immediately goes for Holmes' trousers this time, nearly ripping them open in his haste to return the treatment Holmes is affording him. "Christ," he chokes, that being the current extent of his vocal capabilities. He's not going to manage anything more, not with Holmes attached to his throat...
He gets a very satisfying noise from the detective as his hands reach their goal, and the next few minutes are a frenzy of activity as Watson's hopes of taking things more slowly and more gently are dashed... not that he's disappointed in the least. In fact, he's rather shockingly happy about the entire thing, as evidenced when they both nearly collapse some minutes later, finished quickly once again and slowly returning to an awareness beyond that of each other.
And Watson finally realizes, some time later, that they're propped up against the wall in the sitting room, Holmes leaning against him while he leans on the wall, with their shirts off or nearly and their trousers undone. Feeling entirely decadent (and a bit embarrassed that he hadn't been able to control himself long enough to finish undressing and/or reach a bed), Watson just sighs, one hand resting comfortably on Holmes' back.
"That," he says finally, "was not the sort of testing I think you had in mind." He chuckles. "Or perhaps it was."
His forehead leaning on Watson's shoulder while the rest of him uses the doctor (and the wall behind him) to remain upright, Holmes opens one eye to watch the smile on Watson's face that he knows is there when he chuckles a little. It is a rare thing to get a smile out of Watson; maybe that is what makes it so valuable. Rarity can give value. But still, Watson's not miserly with smiles, not really. Maybe it has only been recently that his smiles have been so rare.
It doesn't matter, because the sight makes Holmes grin a little to himself... although he was already grinning, every bit the most evil, incorrigible, childish grin a man could wear. Holmes is indeed quite pleased with himself. And, of course, with Watson.
"Indeed, the test was wildly successful," Holmes mumbles into Watson's shirt, which is half unbuttoned, the attempt at removing it having been abandoned by an impatient Holmes seeking the other man's trousers instead. "Though of course it will have to be repeated at a later time. For the sake of accuracy."
"Accuracy being of the utmost importance," Watson replies immediately, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes for a moment, just wanting to rest. "It cannot be sacrificed under any circumstances. Of course... many trials must be conducted before your hypothesis can be proven."
He pauses. "I don't even know what your hypothesis would be."
That gets a laugh from his companion, the vibrations of his humor vibrating through Watson's shoulder and making him shiver slightly. Watson's hand slides up Holmes' back to rub the nape of his neck thoughtfully as he considers. "But I will not forgive you if you include Gladstone in any of these particular tests."
Amused, Holmes briefly allows his eyes to drift closed again, for a short time too content to move, or to worry that he appears too comfortable where he is. His face is half buried in Watson's shoulder- the excuse being that tired out as he is, he is using the other man to hold him up- and Holmes can't help but savor the quiet moment, the smell of Watson and now sex, too, all around him and Watson's hand on his neck.
This of course gets a shiver out of Holmes completely against his will, but he bits his lip against it, refusing to give Watson reason to stop. Instead, Holmes forces his mind to the idea of Gladstone and of hypothesis.
"I am confident there is a hypothesis or two to prove," he says, quite sure that there is. After all, Holmes had made Watson himself into a case. In fact, Holmes isn't entirely convinced that Watson isn't still a case, only that the other man does not fit nearly so neatly into the frame his mind had used to distance himself from the matter at hand. Frustrating, to say the least. Even now it can be. Holmes is not any more accustomed to what has been happening than Watson, only more open-minded about it all to begin with, more ready to accept it.
And as for Gladstone... "I think I shall only require one test subject."
Watson makes an agreeable noise, his own eyes still closed, but when they both start to sway on their feet, even against the wall, he knows they'll need to become horizontal very soon. "I'm going upstairs to nod off for a bit," he announces tiredly. "You should do the same down here. But if I don't soon make an effort to make my room and the bed seem used, Mrs. Hudson will figure us out."
And as much as he might want to doze off with Holmes, they can't take the risk of Mrs. Hudson becoming suspicious, as she has a tendency to simply invade in the middle of the day, bringing food and mail. If she should spy a door locked again and both of them within it, she would question it, even if she did not automatically come to the correct conclusion.
Although Holmes is slightly suspicious himself that the landlady already has figured them out- before there was anything to figure out, strictly speaking- this is one thing he is not prepared to test. There are a few lines even Holmes will not prod at, at least right at this moment in time, when he is still not convinced that he's going to wake up suddenly and realize this was all a dream.
It's easy right now not to worry or wonder what would happen if some day that was the case, what he would do with himself. Right now Watson is right there and he has a case and everything is as it should be. But it won't always be, and Holmes always knows that in the back of his mind, can only hope that he hasn't fallen into a trap laid by his own mind, or worse, Watson's, clinging to a hope that can't be justified.
It doesn't feel like that right now. Right now he's physically worn out, in a pleasant way. But mentally, Holmes is not worn out at all, and in fact his mind is beginning again to race, refusing to come to a halt, everything he had seen and heard this morning running through his mind over and over. It had halted briefly- a miracle in and of itself- but now there is no chance now that he'll take Watson's advice. There is simply too much to do.
Even so, Watson is tired, and Holmes cannot argue with the good sense behind that statement, and so after a moment pushes off of Watson with a groan to rest his weight on his own two feet again (and to begin righting his clothing as much as Holmes ever bothers). Watson's bed... it has no bedding, and Holmes is certain he had recently bled all over it. "There are no bedclothes," he points out, and it is clear from his tone and the focus, the sharpness that has returned to his gaze that he will not be sleeping again today. It's not typical of him to think of something so mundane as bedclothes, but recalling that he'd slept on the bed often when Watson was gone has him wondering how much, exactly, he'd bled on the bed, and suddenly not wanting Watson to realize how commonplace it was for Holmes, in a chemically induced stupor, to curl up on the bed that was once Watson's and wish that he was brave enough to shoot himself.
That sort of memory, now while he is engrossed in a case, with Watson present and life back on track for a while (until the next time), gets a mild frown out of Holmes, who quickly looks around the room, not wanting Watson to question his attention to the bed's lack of dress. "Although... surely Mrs. Hudson thought of that."
"She did," Watson says drily. "This morning. It's been cleaned and made." Of course, Watson can make use of the excuse that he'd sat up with Holmes to be sure that his concussion didn't pose any risks, but that excuse won't work now and on future nights. He doesn't know how they're going to manage all of it, because he had... well, he would like to sleep next to Holmes again. To wake up next to him again. It had been comforting in a way that is familiar to him, but also strange.
Familiar because he'd often enjoyed waking and feeling Mary's warmth on the mattress next to him, but strange because even that hadn't brought the same sensation of time being stopped. Contentment, yes, but never wonder with Mary. He's afraid to hope that it had simply been the novelty of the experience, but after what they'd just done (again!), he can begin to hope that all of this isn't only the excitement of the new and the forbidden.
Straightening his own clothes, he sighs and shoves himself up off of the wall as well, squeezing Holmes' shoulder on his way past to the narrow staircase. "I'll be down in a few hours. Try to rest yourself if you can." It will undoubtedly be a long night.
To that, Holmes makes a noncommittal sort of noise. They both know very well that Holmes will not rest; Holmes wonders if Watson realizes how relevant the phrase 'if you can' is to this situation. He cannot rest. Not when he has a case to solve. That's how it has always been, how it always will be, and there is no changing it.
But Holmes doesn't mind; would rather be working than resting, anyway, and once he's done watching Watson disappear up the stairs, he unlocks the door, picks up his coat, and pulls his samples and his pipe out of his pocket. He really had wanted to test the samples... but testing Watson had taken priority. Holmes doesn't know what that means, but he certainly takes note of it.
Or he does very briefly, before he begins his work, humming to himself now and then and pulling out the "notes" he'd taken during their interview with Miss Baker. He glances over the equations there, and spots the bars of music (indecipherable scrawls to any other eye), realizing now why he is humming Mozart in conjunction with these particular tests. Notably, he does not question why he might be humming at all in the first place, but rather happily begins his tests, content as only the manic detective can be when he is frantically trying to solve a case.
~~~~~
It's some six hours later when Watson finally emerges, freshly shaved and dressed in well-aired, if not cleaned, clothes. He finds Holmes still humming a bit and sitting at the window, puffing away at his pipe... and suspects that he's likely been pacing but meant to pretend that he hadn't been, as there had been a sudden flurry of activity and the sound of something falling over (he sees now that it had been a stack of books) before he'd come into view on the stairs.
"Evening, old boy," he says calmly, raising a brow at the state of the room, worse than usual. "How did the samples turn out in the end? Anything of use?"
Ignoring Watson's appraisal of the room, Holmes does not pause to raise an eyebrow back at him, but rather of course launches directly into an explanation of his findings. Watson knows him well enough that he knew very well that asking the detective about anything else would be futile; Holmes won't discuss anything until he's given a lecture or two on his findings. And that is what he does; Holmes doesn't communicate, not as most people, but rather lectures. That is, when he's not flinging insults over the heads of those around him.
Luckily, Watson knows this and immediately asks exactly what Holmes wants to discuss. Holmes knows, though, that it's not just placating him. Watson is interested. That is undoubtedly why Holmes took to explaining things to him so often in the beginning. He does demonstrate rather more patience with Watson than with anyone else, at least on occasion.
"The blood was Yaxley's alone," Holmes says immediately. "The young woman was not injured, at least at that location." Which indicates... several things. But Holmes doesn't go into that just yet. "But more importantly-" Well, from a deductive reasoning standpoint, otherwise one might argue that the young woman's safety is the most important thing. "-I know from where her kidnappers came." He lifts an envelope, holding it out to Watson after a moment. It contains... what would appear to the untrained eye to be... well, dirt. Holmes' eyes meet Watson's before he adds, "The both of them."
Watson's brows go up. Well, that does make sense; there would have had to have been at least two. One to stab Mr. Yaxley, and one to abduct the girl. They must have been prepared for him to fight back, or the young couple had been surprised. "That does make a great deal of sense," he agrees.
Taking the envelope, he sniffs at the dirt, smelling coal, but he doesn't have the often-astounding olfactory ability Holmes possesses. "Coal, then. What else?" He supposes Holmes will no doubt go through his entire process, but he should like to hear the ending rather quickly, since they must undoubtedly go after the girl. "And where? Have you sent out the Irregulars already, and informed Lestrade?"
"Irregulars, yes," Holmes says, standing. Or, rather, more propelling himself away from the window to begin pacing again, removing the pipe from his mouth to put both hands behind his back. "Lestrade, no. The Inspector will hardly be interested until the girl or her captors are discovered." Which Holmes of course means to do, but he has yet to find their exact location.
"As for the kidnappers-" here Holmes snatches the envelope back from Watson, although the other man is hardly fighting him, having already deduced what he could from the contents. Incorrectly, unfortunately, but he was close enough that just yanking the envelope from him is enough rebuke for now. Well, that and a sharp look.
"-not coal. Coal ash." He removes some of the sample from the envelope, showing Watson what appears to be dirt, but in it finer dust that leaves marks on his already-marked hands (as Holmes quite often uses his own hands and other appendages to test various theories). "To such a degree that added to the occurrence of the same on the window of the window at the scene of the crime-" The very same window Holmes had been staring at, as no doubt Watson can deduce himself. "-suggests that at least one of the kidnappers had it a large amount on not only his feet, but his hands." Which along with several other clues suggests an occupation to Holmes. After all, a man or woman walking about that area would have had to fit in enough to get close enough to the couple to stab one and take the other without being caught in the act. "Giving us an occupation." The railways, of course.
It takes Watson a moment longer to put the pieces together and come to the same conclusion, but he does get there. "The railroad," he says, looking for confirmation. "He works on a train, or at the railyard." But the only problem, of course, is which one. Not to mention... there are at least a hundred places connected to railyards where a kidnapped girl could be hidden in London, not to mention on a train. But that would be best left to the Irregulars, he knows.
"Have they had any luck?" he asks hopefully. "I mean to send a note over to the Hospital to inquire after Mr. Yaxley's condition, as well."
"No," Holmes says, turning back to face Watson from across the room. The pipe is replaced in his mouth; from the amount of smoke in the room, Holmes has clearly been at it for hours. And the pacing... well, the lack of news from the Irregulars explains that, as well. Nothing to do but wait and think. And think and think. "They have not. They've been returning one by one all day with news only of where she certainly is not."
Which, Holmes freely admits, is a good thing. But there are hundreds, thousands of places she might be. They cannot simply check each place one at a time. It won't work, despite the fact that he had reached this conclusion hours ago and sent the Irregulars searching immediately.
But what will work is retrieving more data. The window... and the actress. The two best leads. Miss Baker's words repeat in his mind: She was not the most reliable of maids, and I was not surprised when she did not arrive that morning... A foregone conclusion that Miss Winstone is deceased... or is on her way to death. I always knew she'd be trouble one way or another. And the faceless chorus girl who had said that Miss Baker's name wouldn't be inscribed upon her dressing room door much longer... Lord Darnley's lover... the cousin would not be able to pay her rent without the girl.
Holmes finds himself a minute later, having stopped in his pacing to stare at the wall behind Watson, and blinks. Focusing again on the ever-patient doctor, Holmes nods. The window. "We must get in that building."
“Agreed,” Watson says, nodding. He glances at his father’s watch and snaps it closed, tucking it back into his pocket. “It seems a bit early for such public burglary, though. I say we go to Mr. Yaxley’s room first, and then out to Kingsway.”
It’s a quick process, readying himself for the evening activities; as Holmes generally looks out for his money, he’s not accustomed to having to make sure he has it, but he does check his pockets. He tucks his small toolkit into his coat pocket as well, and makes certain he has his service revolver.
That is the end of his preparations, and he turns to wait for Holmes, who at least hasn’t gotten himself into another staring daze. Watson is near to being overcome by the amount of smoke in the room, though, so it’s a relief to be able to open the sitting room door and let some of it out. He stops in the open doorway, however, glancing back over his shoulder. Who knows what they’ll run into this evening? Holmes is already swinging his riding crop, but that may not be enough.
“Revolver,” he says patiently, waiting.
Not surprisingly, this reminder has Holmes turning back around and reaching for his revolver, which is for some reason under several books and yesterday's paper. Why he is unable to remember his revolver at any given time but can determine which cigar type and brand a smattering of ash came from on sight is anyone's guess, but he will freely admit that it's a good thing he has Watson to remind him of that sort of thing (he manages to remember his coat by himself this time, although to be completely honest most of the time he doesn't forget it so much as leave in a haste and determine it unnecessary).
After all, who knows what they'll end up doing by the time the night is through? Holmes would be lying if he said he didn't hope for a confrontation of some sort, even injured as he is. Confrontations typically mean that they're getting close.
A moment later, he reappears, revolver retrieved and pipe replaced in his pocket. Well, he does hope for some excitement. But he can't help but hope that it doesn't require his having his pipe blown up again. He's just getting used to this one.
He doesn't argue with Watson's plan- this time- and sure enough, soon they are on their way to Mr. Yaxley's room. Hopefully while they're away, the Irregulars won't appear with urgent news, but Holmes for one absolutely cannot wait, cooped up, any longer. He would go mad. "I suppose he has no one to look over him while he is in recovery but the hospital staff," he says as they near the building; it's almost more of a statement than a question, but the fact that he bothers to say it out loud to Watson is telling: Holmes is more than slightly uneasy about Yaxley being unguarded while in such a vulnerable state.
Watson shakes his head slowly. “No one but the staff, I’m afraid,” he agrees. “And whatever constabulary happens to be nearby at the time. I suppose I’ll hear back from them as soon as they can write; no one has sent word of any significant downturns, but the man was stabbed.” He’s not likely to be in good condition either way, frankly, even if he survives.
He glances over at Holmes. “You think he knew something about what was going on. That he wasn’t simply a bystander or in the way when they went after Harriet Winstone.” It would make sense, he supposes. He still has no idea why anyone would go after a maid this way… and hopes to God that she’s still alive. Who knows, frankly? She could have been dead an hour after they’d taken her, if not sooner, or she could still be alive. If they’d wanted her dead, why wouldn’t they simply have killed her when they stabbed her fiancé?
"Or if he was simply a bystander, he certainly is no longer," Holmes says. The nature of the attack- Yaxley being stabbed and Miss Winstone being taken- implies that she was the intended victim. But if the stabbed fiancé should survive, even if he wasn't involved or hadn't been included by Miss Winstone, he certainly would become involved. He would at the very least have seen the attackers.
Holmes isn’t certain. It would make less sense, considering again the nature of the attack, for Yaxley to have been the intended target. But as usual, Holmes refuses to make any guesses without enough information. If Yaxley was the intended target, was involved, there are any number of reasons the attackers might have taken Miss Winstone instead of killing her immediately. None of them are particularly pleasant, but that only makes them more likely.
“Either way, he becomes a threat as soon as he wakes,” Holmes points out. “If he wakes. He could identify his attackers at the very least.” Unless he was left only on the brink of death on purpose... but without seeing his wounds, Holmes doubts it. It seems only luck and poor aim that he is still alive. “You saw his wounds. In your opinion, did they appear professional?” In this, Holmes certainly trusts Watson’s opinion, since he is a physician.
Watson shakes his head slowly. “Certainly not a doctor’s, or someone who uses fine motor skills professionally. Even with a very brief window, anyone accustomed to cutting flesh would know where to hit to kill as quickly as possible.”
He can see the image of the knife wounds in his mind’s eye. “No, they were done by someone accustomed to using a knife, but not one with any sort of training. One good clean thrust, but they barely nicked his small intestine, and with any luck that damage has been repaired.” He shakes his head. “The internal and external bleeding is the problem; he lost a great deal more than he should have. But at best guess, I’d say hired muscle performed it. And not one who regularly murders.”
Sadly (and a bit frighteningly), there are many common murderers in London. But fortunately for them, Yaxley’s attacker (or the one who had stabbed him, at the least) is not one of them. They reach Yaxley’s tenement building and enter, garnering one or two strange looks, as they’re rather wealthier than the set that calls this area home. But most people just look away, not wanting to get involved, which is both a sad state of affairs and a blessing in this case.
Holmes pulls out his lock-picking set and Watson lets him go at it for once; they can’t leave behind evidence that they’d been here, or that anyone had been here at all… presuming the kidnappers haven’t been, yet.
Watson gets a look at the mention of his "best guess" (he knows how Holmes feels about that sort of thing), but the rest of it Holmes is silent about, which can be taken to mean approval and/or acceptance. He does wish he had seen Yaxley's wounds himself, but in the absence of that accepts Watson's account, which in and of itself speaks volumes, because no matter how much Holmes might like a person, his trust when it comes to evidence and the observational skills of others is so hard to come by as to be near non-existent.
But Watson's account is accepted and taken into consideration in silence for a minute as Holmes works on the door's lock; this only takes a few seconds, as the lock could be called simple at best. Despite Watson's great abilities at kicking down doors, Holmes is quite well-versed at lock picking and so he makes quick work of it, quickly opening the door and ushering Watson inside before shutting and then locking the door behind them from the inside.
The place itself, in terms of size and basic setup, is not much different than that they'd visited the day before, where Miss Winstone and her cousin (also Miss Winstone) live (lived). But this flat is clearly the home of a young bachelor, and just as clearly has not been visited in some days, meaning that the kidnappers had not come to this place since Yaxley was stabbed.
Holmes begins his search around the room- thorough, as Watson knows by now, but completely unplottable to any eye but his own- but then stops after a moment, reaching down to pick up a discarded shirt, which he sniffs and then stares at for a moment before promptly throwing it at Watson, who catches it automatically. Of course Watson will notice that it is covered in coal ash, along with a light dusting of the stuff all around the room from the bottom of Yaxley's shoes, his hands... and yet, Holmes is certain that the coal ash found at the scene was not from Yaxley himself.
"Yaxley works at the railyards," Watson concludes, startled. He hadn't realized that, had been too absorbed in examining the lad's injuries to realize that Yaxley also had been covered in ash..Not head to toe, of course, as patients are cleaned while in the hospital, but now that he recalls it... yes, there had been some on the boy's face and hands.
And if Yaxley works for the railroad, then it stands to reason... "I know we mustn't twist facts to suit theories, but we could conjecture that Yaxley may have known his attackers. It would explain how they could come upon the couple with no trouble."
"Indeed it would," Holmes agrees. It is a sensible conjecture; they had been unable to explain why the attackers' presence wouldn't have alerted the couple until they were close enough to attack. And the fact of the matter is that this sort of thing is rarely a coincidence. "Although I believe that only one of their attackers was from the railyards."
Holmes continues his search of the room, finding mostly discarded items of clothing and very little in terms of data about anything regarding the attack. If he had been involved in something, it is not apparent from his rooms. Which means that more breaking and entering will be required. Holmes straightens after a minute, looking back over at Watson, who has been poking about the room on his own. "Do you deem it late enough for more strenuous breaking and entering?"
Watson glances at his watch again. Eight pm now, another half of an hour perhaps to get to Kingsway... "If we're careful and not going in through the front." Looking around, he can spy nothing else of interest, it's true, not that he often sees things right off the bat, anyway. That is Holmes' specialty, as are so many things.
"Right, then." He replaces his watch in his pocket, and they're off, locking the door behind themselves so that Mr. Yaxley is not robbed blind during his period of convalescence.
~~~~~
Part Sixteen
Authors: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Do not attempt to operate Holmes and Watson while intoxicated. Also, these are not ours.
Summary: Watson is jealous. Holmes is clueless. Somehow this is all solved by sex.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: More slash, which we all know is what we skim the rest of the chapters to get to.
Word Count: 8,223
Author's Notes: Part 15
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen
~~~~~
Holmes, meanwhile, has absolutely no trouble speaking to a woman regardless of her state of undress. Oh, he is as distracted by it as any man, but also is quite able to carry on a conversation without turning red or looking in the least sheepish. If a woman chooses to bare any part of her anatomy to Holmes, Holmes is quite happy to go along with it. He is a gentleman when it suits him, and right now it certainly does not.
"Well, Miss Baker," Holmes begins, well aware that Watson is rather unable to concentrate in this situation. It will have to be him, then. Well, that's fine enough. Holmes can play a journalist as well as he can play anything else. "If you don't mind my saying, all of our research on the subject has led us to you and your career." He had, of course, quickly glanced about her room, spotting the paraphernalia from previous shows she'd been in without being obvious about it. "It's so kind of you to see us in person, I for one was completely convinced it would be impossible to meet you. You must be very busy, with this new opening tonight."
The actress smiles, batting her lashes a little and leaning in towards them, giving Holmes a very clear view of the fact that she has nothing on beneath the top of her robe. His eyes stray. He is only human. But he is still listening very intently to what she has to say. "You're too kind, Mr...?"
"Abbey," Holmes says, too quickly, belying sudden nervousness, and forces his eyes to meet hers. "Harold Abbey, miss."
Miss Baker smiles, pleased at the effect she's had on him, and continues on in a purr. "Mr. Abbey," she repeats. "You're quite right, of course, I am a very busy woman, but never too busy to take a moment to meet with kind gentlemen as yourselves. I've been working on this performance since the beginning a month ago. I think it might be my best role yet."
Holmes' eyes widen hugely, obviously impressed. The effect makes him look much younger than usual. "I can't imagine how you could outdo your role in Moliere last April," he says admiringly.
Flattered, Caroline Baker rests a hand against her collarbone, just above her breasts, and although Watson can appreciate the scenery as much as anyone else, he can't help but notice Holmes admiring the view, as well. And for some reason, despite the fact that he knows how rare it is for Sherlock Holmes to care for anyone or to do what they'd done the night before, he doesn't like it when the other man pays attention to this whore.
At that last descriptor, Watson forces his brain to halt. Well, that had certainly been violent, hadn't it? Much more violent than he'd anticipated his thoughts as being. Still, the clenching in his gut does not disappear, but in fact only worsens when Miss Baker leans forward again, a bit farther this time.
"You're too kind, Mr. Abbey," she very nearly purrs, her eyes ticking to Watson, who forces a smile.
"Mr. West, Miss," he says politely. "I will be eager to compare the two performances after tonight."
"It's always such a pleasure to meet such devoted fans," Miss Baker replies, smiling a tad smugly. "Now, please. What do you need to know for your piece? Anything you need is yours." Watson's jaw clenches completely of its own volition, but he doesn't say a word, maintaining a pleasant smile and letting Holmes do the talking. He doesn't think he'd be capable, at any rate.
Dutifully keeping his attention solely on Miss Baker and whatever pieces of her anatomy she chooses to put in his line of vision, Holmes begins coming up with questions regarding her career, her favorite roles, this newest project, how she prepares herself, everything a journalist would naturally ask of her. He begins writing it down, too, or at least makes it seem as though he is (in reality he seems to be writing some sort of chemical equation in his scrawl of a shorthand, along with what may or may not be several bars of a song).
Interspersed periodically, of course, are stammering compliments and several shows of blushing and swallowing while she seems to lead him along, so that within a few minutes, it's an easy thing to get her to discuss less pleasant matters, such as the story one of their colleagues at the Dispatch had done.
"Miss Baker, you'll have to excuse the horrible subject matter," Holmes finally says sheepishly. "But our colleague recently investigated a crime in which a young lady's fiance was wounded, and then the young woman had gone missing. He insisted that the young lady worked as your maid. If that is indeed true, you must let us express our condolences. How frightening that must be for you."
Looking vaguely startled by this line of questioning, Miss Baker flips open an embellished ornamental fan and begins to fan herself, making sure to flutter it just below the line of her cleavage. Watson mimes being quite entranced right along with Holmes, although certainly not to the same degree. He's sure Holmes is in a class all his own in terms of acting, but he still wants to hit him. And to strangle Miss Baker for her utter ridiculousness, as a close second.
"Oh, it was entirely terrifying," she says in a breathy voice. "Mr. Abbey, I can assure you--though she was not the most reliable of maids, and I was not surprised when she did not arrive that morning--it gave me a terrible fright to find a constable on my doorstep of all places."
She tuts, shutting the fan with a snap in a sharp motion. "The girl constantly had her head in the clouds. Always daydreaming about that bit of rough she'd managed to lure in. I always knew she'd be trouble one way or another, but she starched the linens so well that I couldn't justify dismissing her."
Although he looks about the same as he's looked the entire conversation- which is to say, completely entranced- Holmes actually is hanging on every word for this part of the conversation, watching the actress carefully. Interesting, he finds it, that she should refer to Miss Winstone in the past tense in such a manner. As though there is no hope of her returning- a foregone conclusion that the girl is dead?
He spends a moment looking justifiably impressed by her bravery and sympathetic about the maid's less-useful nature. Poor Miss Baker, to have such a horrible thing happen.
"I suppose that won't be a problem now," Holmes says sympathetically after a moment. "Still, it's a terrible thing." Not for the missing young woman, of course. For Miss Baker.
"Oh, it is," the actress says sadly, nodding. There's a loud rap on the door, and she sighs. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I really must continue preparing for rehearsal. But I trust I'll see you both after the performance this eve?" She might be addressing both of them, but her eyes are on Holmes.
"Caroline!" someone shouts through the door, and she sighs, standing and dropping her robe, stepping behind a curtain. Holmes and Watson are left gaping at the fact that she'd just been standing there for a second, naked.
From behind the curtain, she calls, "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. West. Mr. Abbey, if you have a moment, I could make use of an extra set of hands in fastening all of these... hooks."
Watson's eyes widen, and his jaw clenches for a second. Not giving Holmes time to respond, he latches onto the other man's arm in a vise-like grip and begins to drag him to the door. "So sorry, Miss Baker, we really must be going!" Slam.
The shock of seeing the woman actually drop her robe in front of them had actually thrown Holmes quite out of his persona for a moment; he couldn't help the moment of deja-vu, recalling the Woman doing nearly the same thing the last time she'd been in London. He has no idea how he continually ends up in situations such as this one, but he's not entirely certain he minds. Granted, in comparison Caroline Baker is hardly interesting at all in any sense of the word, but Holmes can't say she's not attractive.
He does not manage a response, but rather only barely opens his mouth to stammer something when suddenly Watson is dragging him bodily out of the room. Watson might actually have just dislocated his shoulder, he's dragging Holmes so painfully from the little room. This receives a quiet howl of pain from Holmes, who doesn't dare try to shake Watson's grip until the door is shut and they are backstage once more.
At this point, Holmes finally turns his attention to Watson, who... appears quite livid, actually. Holmes spends a moment staring at the other man with wide, uncomprehending eyes, clearly not understanding why this should be so, before weakly pulling at his arm a bit, wanting it released from Watson's painful hold. "I don't believe she had any hooks at all back there," he says. Actresses. Either her career really is failing and she truly needs the press desperately, or she is truly... that susceptible to flattery. Not that Holmes is unaccustomed to that; he is himself rather susceptible to it. One of his many failings, he supposes. But he wouldn't bed someone because of it. Well, perhaps Watson.
"No," Watson grates out, releasing Holmes' arm only to shove at his shoulder, pushing the other man ahead of him and out the nearest door into an alley behind the theatre. He has a sudden vision of himself checking the alley for anyone nearby and then shoving Holmes up against the nearest wall and making him forget entirely about Miss Caroline Baker, but common sense intervenes before he does more than look about and check for passerby. Instead, he simply starts to walk, leaving Holmes to follow as he will.
Once they reach the Strand again, though, he can no longer hold it in. "Whore," he nearly spits. "Bloody whore. I did not like her in the least."
He's attracting attention now, though, and he knows he's going to have to calm himself or risk getting them both into rather dire straits. Clearing his throat rather violently, he finally turns to glare at Holmes. "Need you have been quite so very interested?" All right, so the calming isn't working as well as he'd intended.
"Yes," Holmes says unrepentantly, staring at the other man. He is a bit worried at the outburst, needless to say; after all, they are in public. It is not normally Watson who has to be kept watch over while in public, that's a certainty. The reversal of roles is quite startling, but no more than the anger behind the words, or the look in Watson's eyes that Holmes suddenly recognizes as... jealousy.
Holmes can't help that his eyes widen slightly at that; he might be a genius of observation by all accounts, but the man is hopelessly dense at times when it comes to matters of emotion that aren't related to motives, acting and disguise, or witnesses. It had never occurred to him that Watson might actually be jealous of his ridiculous flirtation with an actress in order to get information he needs. He's done it a thousand times before- and more than that, on a few more desperate occasions.
It had never bothered Watson before. Or maybe it had, but he couldn't admit as much to himself. Or perhaps... perhaps the night before had had the sort of meaning to Watson that Holmes had tried not to allow himself to hope it had.
And so Holmes is left blinking over at him, a bit startled and yet unable to say that it wasn't necessary, ever focused on the matter at hand as he is. "It was necessary, or I wouldn't have bothered with her. Didn't you notice, Watson, she continually referred to Miss Winstone in the past tense? She believes the girl is dead. Or soon to be."
Still angry, Watson turns and continues to walk, but this time he goes more slowly, and Holmes falls into step next to him as always. "I had not noticed," he says more quietly after a moment. "I do apologize. I'm afraid I was not as observant as I should have been."
He glances at his father's watch. "At last count, we've... Christ, nine hours at the least until it would be safe to enter either Yaxley's property or that above the alley in Kingsway. We could go to Baker's home as well, while she's at her bloody performance."
And as for what they're to do with their time until that night, when it's safe to do any breaking and entering... he doesn't know. They could eat, and likely return to Baker Street to... sit. And worry, in his case, or stew. Probably to regret his explosion of temper, which he feels could easily flare up again if tested.
"Hmm," Holmes begins, as they eventually do start back toward Baker Street and home. Miss Baker's residence... "Perhaps. Or Lord Darnley." Every avenue must be investigated, after all.
They might have to return to the theatre, but Holmes does not think that now is the moment to suggest that to Watson. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut on that, considering instead the window. The window, Mr. Yaxley, Miss Baker thinking Miss Winstone is deceased, the stabbing, the cousin. Holmes' mind goes over every piece of evidence over and over in a circle and in a line, in every order he can think of continually, as it's been doing since he woke up that morning.
Well. Except the moments when he was watching Watson dress. He wasn't quite thinking of the case at that moment. Or just now, for a moment, seeing the doctor so angry... he still is. Holmes... almost doesn't know how to react to that.
"I do have samples to test," he says after a moment. Samples from the alleyway, of course. "Oh, damn. Watson, you shouldn't have dragged me out of there so quickly, I was hoping to locate and congratulate that blonde chorus girl on molesting you so thoroughly. I can hardly blame her." Of course, all of this is said completely in public and with such a straight face, as though it's completely normal conversation, that no one takes even the slightest notice. No one but Watson, that is.
Watson pales, and he actually stops walking for a moment, gaping at Holmes' back. The detective just keeps walking, not pausing, as is his usual routine, and Watson has to hurry to catch up. He might not have bothered, but he feels the need to hiss out of the corner of his mouth, "I'm going to throttle you."
Does the man want a sentence of two years' hard labour? Their reputations ruined, likely social exile from England... is this what he wants? Possibly about to suffer a cranial explosion, Watson is unable to do anything more after that save to follow Holmes back to Baker Street, where they return to the rooms and Holmes locks the door, presumably to keep Mrs. Hudson out. Watson, for his part, is still dazed and in shock.
"Are you completely mad?" he finally manages, immediately correcting himself. "Oh, forgive me, I'd forgotten to whom I'm speaking! You utter madman, you can't just say things like that in publ--"
He's cut off by what feels more like an attack than anything else as Holmes nearly tackles him back against the wall. And there is no more talking for at least a few minutes, until Watson frees his mouth just long enough to ask, "I thought you had samples to test?" If Holmes pulls away, Watson will drag him back, bloody hell...
Whether or not Holmes is bothered by being called a madman isn't apparent, as he appears not to have heard anything Watson had said to him before tackling him (as well as a man injured as Holmes is is able). But when Watson pulls away to ask about his samples, Holmes can't help but spend a moment looking horribly thoughtful. Samples to test... right.
"Samples," he repeats, breathing hard, "you're right." He speaks as though he has suddenly recalled that such things exist, although the tone is less pronounced than usual, undoubtedly due to the fact that his breathing is already labored. His eyes, too, betray him; they're much less focused than his usual intense stare, pleasantly glazed over in a manner that makes Holmes' entire face look much less sharp, less hard, than is typical for the calculating detective.
After a moment, though, Holmes begins to pull back, making as though he's going to move away from Watson. He does this really out of no desire to test samples at all, but just to force a reaction from Watson, which is quite typical of him in any situation. It is equally typical of Watson to know exactly what Holmes is doing, but to give in anyway.
Watson does not disappoint, grabbing on to Holmes' arm for the second time that day and yanking him back almost viciously (punishment which the detective undoubtedly deserves), dragging a sharp, pained gasp from Holmes that quickly becomes another noise when their mouths meet again, somehow more violently this time than even a minute ago.
Even though he's currently the one pressed against the wall, Watson still manages to at least have partial control over the situation, not relinquishing Holmes' arm save to drag the other man's coat back over his shoulders, taking his own off as well. Never before has he been so completely frustrated at wearing so many layers... He fights with his waistcoat, and Holmes isn't helping, as they're both trying to undo the buttons, but finally Watson gives up with a groan into the other man's mouth, working on Holmes' shirt.
He gets it off and doesn't bother with shucking his once it's undone, far too absorbed in exploring Holmes' torso, which he'd regretfully neglected more than he'd wanted to in their mad scramble the night before. And when Holmes gets his trousers undone again, the noise he makes is barely muffled.
Although at one point, Holmes may have wanted to take this a little slower than the night before (not that it would be very easy to take it any faster), by the point Watson makes that noise Holmes has absolutely forgotten any and all notions in his head about speed or exploration or anything, really. He's finding it exceptionally difficult to keep hold of one thought more than a second or so; every time Watson does... just about anything, Holmes completely forgets anything he'd managed to think at all.
Watson hasn't let go of his arm; in fact he is holding so tightly to Holmes that Holmes is starting to lose circulation in his hand, but he doesn't mind, would rather Watson be holding on to him tightly just to prove that everything is... well, real. Holmes has always had a very strange relationship to pain- it's just as good, if not better than pleasure as a diversion, at shutting his mind off, and as such has over time become irreparably mixed in his mind. So the fact that Watson gripping his arm hurts... only adds to Holmes' inability to breathe, or to keep himself under any semblance of control. He's practically panting within minutes.
And he still has his other hand, after all, which is put to very good use a moment later. He's quickly getting quite good at undoing Watson's trousers, which is the sort of skill Holmes is certain he wouldn't mind honing. And even though Holmes finds that doing that he is having a very hard time concentrating, he nevertheless manages to pull back from Watson just enough to make a very thorough, very enthusiastic inspection of the other man's neck and collarbone with his tongue and then his teeth, unable to be still or to keep himself from groaning as Watson explores what he can reach of the detective's still-bruised torso.
Forced to let go of Holmes' arm to regain the use of his hand, Watson immediately goes for Holmes' trousers this time, nearly ripping them open in his haste to return the treatment Holmes is affording him. "Christ," he chokes, that being the current extent of his vocal capabilities. He's not going to manage anything more, not with Holmes attached to his throat...
He gets a very satisfying noise from the detective as his hands reach their goal, and the next few minutes are a frenzy of activity as Watson's hopes of taking things more slowly and more gently are dashed... not that he's disappointed in the least. In fact, he's rather shockingly happy about the entire thing, as evidenced when they both nearly collapse some minutes later, finished quickly once again and slowly returning to an awareness beyond that of each other.
And Watson finally realizes, some time later, that they're propped up against the wall in the sitting room, Holmes leaning against him while he leans on the wall, with their shirts off or nearly and their trousers undone. Feeling entirely decadent (and a bit embarrassed that he hadn't been able to control himself long enough to finish undressing and/or reach a bed), Watson just sighs, one hand resting comfortably on Holmes' back.
"That," he says finally, "was not the sort of testing I think you had in mind." He chuckles. "Or perhaps it was."
His forehead leaning on Watson's shoulder while the rest of him uses the doctor (and the wall behind him) to remain upright, Holmes opens one eye to watch the smile on Watson's face that he knows is there when he chuckles a little. It is a rare thing to get a smile out of Watson; maybe that is what makes it so valuable. Rarity can give value. But still, Watson's not miserly with smiles, not really. Maybe it has only been recently that his smiles have been so rare.
It doesn't matter, because the sight makes Holmes grin a little to himself... although he was already grinning, every bit the most evil, incorrigible, childish grin a man could wear. Holmes is indeed quite pleased with himself. And, of course, with Watson.
"Indeed, the test was wildly successful," Holmes mumbles into Watson's shirt, which is half unbuttoned, the attempt at removing it having been abandoned by an impatient Holmes seeking the other man's trousers instead. "Though of course it will have to be repeated at a later time. For the sake of accuracy."
"Accuracy being of the utmost importance," Watson replies immediately, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes for a moment, just wanting to rest. "It cannot be sacrificed under any circumstances. Of course... many trials must be conducted before your hypothesis can be proven."
He pauses. "I don't even know what your hypothesis would be."
That gets a laugh from his companion, the vibrations of his humor vibrating through Watson's shoulder and making him shiver slightly. Watson's hand slides up Holmes' back to rub the nape of his neck thoughtfully as he considers. "But I will not forgive you if you include Gladstone in any of these particular tests."
Amused, Holmes briefly allows his eyes to drift closed again, for a short time too content to move, or to worry that he appears too comfortable where he is. His face is half buried in Watson's shoulder- the excuse being that tired out as he is, he is using the other man to hold him up- and Holmes can't help but savor the quiet moment, the smell of Watson and now sex, too, all around him and Watson's hand on his neck.
This of course gets a shiver out of Holmes completely against his will, but he bits his lip against it, refusing to give Watson reason to stop. Instead, Holmes forces his mind to the idea of Gladstone and of hypothesis.
"I am confident there is a hypothesis or two to prove," he says, quite sure that there is. After all, Holmes had made Watson himself into a case. In fact, Holmes isn't entirely convinced that Watson isn't still a case, only that the other man does not fit nearly so neatly into the frame his mind had used to distance himself from the matter at hand. Frustrating, to say the least. Even now it can be. Holmes is not any more accustomed to what has been happening than Watson, only more open-minded about it all to begin with, more ready to accept it.
And as for Gladstone... "I think I shall only require one test subject."
Watson makes an agreeable noise, his own eyes still closed, but when they both start to sway on their feet, even against the wall, he knows they'll need to become horizontal very soon. "I'm going upstairs to nod off for a bit," he announces tiredly. "You should do the same down here. But if I don't soon make an effort to make my room and the bed seem used, Mrs. Hudson will figure us out."
And as much as he might want to doze off with Holmes, they can't take the risk of Mrs. Hudson becoming suspicious, as she has a tendency to simply invade in the middle of the day, bringing food and mail. If she should spy a door locked again and both of them within it, she would question it, even if she did not automatically come to the correct conclusion.
Although Holmes is slightly suspicious himself that the landlady already has figured them out- before there was anything to figure out, strictly speaking- this is one thing he is not prepared to test. There are a few lines even Holmes will not prod at, at least right at this moment in time, when he is still not convinced that he's going to wake up suddenly and realize this was all a dream.
It's easy right now not to worry or wonder what would happen if some day that was the case, what he would do with himself. Right now Watson is right there and he has a case and everything is as it should be. But it won't always be, and Holmes always knows that in the back of his mind, can only hope that he hasn't fallen into a trap laid by his own mind, or worse, Watson's, clinging to a hope that can't be justified.
It doesn't feel like that right now. Right now he's physically worn out, in a pleasant way. But mentally, Holmes is not worn out at all, and in fact his mind is beginning again to race, refusing to come to a halt, everything he had seen and heard this morning running through his mind over and over. It had halted briefly- a miracle in and of itself- but now there is no chance now that he'll take Watson's advice. There is simply too much to do.
Even so, Watson is tired, and Holmes cannot argue with the good sense behind that statement, and so after a moment pushes off of Watson with a groan to rest his weight on his own two feet again (and to begin righting his clothing as much as Holmes ever bothers). Watson's bed... it has no bedding, and Holmes is certain he had recently bled all over it. "There are no bedclothes," he points out, and it is clear from his tone and the focus, the sharpness that has returned to his gaze that he will not be sleeping again today. It's not typical of him to think of something so mundane as bedclothes, but recalling that he'd slept on the bed often when Watson was gone has him wondering how much, exactly, he'd bled on the bed, and suddenly not wanting Watson to realize how commonplace it was for Holmes, in a chemically induced stupor, to curl up on the bed that was once Watson's and wish that he was brave enough to shoot himself.
That sort of memory, now while he is engrossed in a case, with Watson present and life back on track for a while (until the next time), gets a mild frown out of Holmes, who quickly looks around the room, not wanting Watson to question his attention to the bed's lack of dress. "Although... surely Mrs. Hudson thought of that."
"She did," Watson says drily. "This morning. It's been cleaned and made." Of course, Watson can make use of the excuse that he'd sat up with Holmes to be sure that his concussion didn't pose any risks, but that excuse won't work now and on future nights. He doesn't know how they're going to manage all of it, because he had... well, he would like to sleep next to Holmes again. To wake up next to him again. It had been comforting in a way that is familiar to him, but also strange.
Familiar because he'd often enjoyed waking and feeling Mary's warmth on the mattress next to him, but strange because even that hadn't brought the same sensation of time being stopped. Contentment, yes, but never wonder with Mary. He's afraid to hope that it had simply been the novelty of the experience, but after what they'd just done (again!), he can begin to hope that all of this isn't only the excitement of the new and the forbidden.
Straightening his own clothes, he sighs and shoves himself up off of the wall as well, squeezing Holmes' shoulder on his way past to the narrow staircase. "I'll be down in a few hours. Try to rest yourself if you can." It will undoubtedly be a long night.
To that, Holmes makes a noncommittal sort of noise. They both know very well that Holmes will not rest; Holmes wonders if Watson realizes how relevant the phrase 'if you can' is to this situation. He cannot rest. Not when he has a case to solve. That's how it has always been, how it always will be, and there is no changing it.
But Holmes doesn't mind; would rather be working than resting, anyway, and once he's done watching Watson disappear up the stairs, he unlocks the door, picks up his coat, and pulls his samples and his pipe out of his pocket. He really had wanted to test the samples... but testing Watson had taken priority. Holmes doesn't know what that means, but he certainly takes note of it.
Or he does very briefly, before he begins his work, humming to himself now and then and pulling out the "notes" he'd taken during their interview with Miss Baker. He glances over the equations there, and spots the bars of music (indecipherable scrawls to any other eye), realizing now why he is humming Mozart in conjunction with these particular tests. Notably, he does not question why he might be humming at all in the first place, but rather happily begins his tests, content as only the manic detective can be when he is frantically trying to solve a case.
~~~~~
It's some six hours later when Watson finally emerges, freshly shaved and dressed in well-aired, if not cleaned, clothes. He finds Holmes still humming a bit and sitting at the window, puffing away at his pipe... and suspects that he's likely been pacing but meant to pretend that he hadn't been, as there had been a sudden flurry of activity and the sound of something falling over (he sees now that it had been a stack of books) before he'd come into view on the stairs.
"Evening, old boy," he says calmly, raising a brow at the state of the room, worse than usual. "How did the samples turn out in the end? Anything of use?"
Ignoring Watson's appraisal of the room, Holmes does not pause to raise an eyebrow back at him, but rather of course launches directly into an explanation of his findings. Watson knows him well enough that he knew very well that asking the detective about anything else would be futile; Holmes won't discuss anything until he's given a lecture or two on his findings. And that is what he does; Holmes doesn't communicate, not as most people, but rather lectures. That is, when he's not flinging insults over the heads of those around him.
Luckily, Watson knows this and immediately asks exactly what Holmes wants to discuss. Holmes knows, though, that it's not just placating him. Watson is interested. That is undoubtedly why Holmes took to explaining things to him so often in the beginning. He does demonstrate rather more patience with Watson than with anyone else, at least on occasion.
"The blood was Yaxley's alone," Holmes says immediately. "The young woman was not injured, at least at that location." Which indicates... several things. But Holmes doesn't go into that just yet. "But more importantly-" Well, from a deductive reasoning standpoint, otherwise one might argue that the young woman's safety is the most important thing. "-I know from where her kidnappers came." He lifts an envelope, holding it out to Watson after a moment. It contains... what would appear to the untrained eye to be... well, dirt. Holmes' eyes meet Watson's before he adds, "The both of them."
Watson's brows go up. Well, that does make sense; there would have had to have been at least two. One to stab Mr. Yaxley, and one to abduct the girl. They must have been prepared for him to fight back, or the young couple had been surprised. "That does make a great deal of sense," he agrees.
Taking the envelope, he sniffs at the dirt, smelling coal, but he doesn't have the often-astounding olfactory ability Holmes possesses. "Coal, then. What else?" He supposes Holmes will no doubt go through his entire process, but he should like to hear the ending rather quickly, since they must undoubtedly go after the girl. "And where? Have you sent out the Irregulars already, and informed Lestrade?"
"Irregulars, yes," Holmes says, standing. Or, rather, more propelling himself away from the window to begin pacing again, removing the pipe from his mouth to put both hands behind his back. "Lestrade, no. The Inspector will hardly be interested until the girl or her captors are discovered." Which Holmes of course means to do, but he has yet to find their exact location.
"As for the kidnappers-" here Holmes snatches the envelope back from Watson, although the other man is hardly fighting him, having already deduced what he could from the contents. Incorrectly, unfortunately, but he was close enough that just yanking the envelope from him is enough rebuke for now. Well, that and a sharp look.
"-not coal. Coal ash." He removes some of the sample from the envelope, showing Watson what appears to be dirt, but in it finer dust that leaves marks on his already-marked hands (as Holmes quite often uses his own hands and other appendages to test various theories). "To such a degree that added to the occurrence of the same on the window of the window at the scene of the crime-" The very same window Holmes had been staring at, as no doubt Watson can deduce himself. "-suggests that at least one of the kidnappers had it a large amount on not only his feet, but his hands." Which along with several other clues suggests an occupation to Holmes. After all, a man or woman walking about that area would have had to fit in enough to get close enough to the couple to stab one and take the other without being caught in the act. "Giving us an occupation." The railways, of course.
It takes Watson a moment longer to put the pieces together and come to the same conclusion, but he does get there. "The railroad," he says, looking for confirmation. "He works on a train, or at the railyard." But the only problem, of course, is which one. Not to mention... there are at least a hundred places connected to railyards where a kidnapped girl could be hidden in London, not to mention on a train. But that would be best left to the Irregulars, he knows.
"Have they had any luck?" he asks hopefully. "I mean to send a note over to the Hospital to inquire after Mr. Yaxley's condition, as well."
"No," Holmes says, turning back to face Watson from across the room. The pipe is replaced in his mouth; from the amount of smoke in the room, Holmes has clearly been at it for hours. And the pacing... well, the lack of news from the Irregulars explains that, as well. Nothing to do but wait and think. And think and think. "They have not. They've been returning one by one all day with news only of where she certainly is not."
Which, Holmes freely admits, is a good thing. But there are hundreds, thousands of places she might be. They cannot simply check each place one at a time. It won't work, despite the fact that he had reached this conclusion hours ago and sent the Irregulars searching immediately.
But what will work is retrieving more data. The window... and the actress. The two best leads. Miss Baker's words repeat in his mind: She was not the most reliable of maids, and I was not surprised when she did not arrive that morning... A foregone conclusion that Miss Winstone is deceased... or is on her way to death. I always knew she'd be trouble one way or another. And the faceless chorus girl who had said that Miss Baker's name wouldn't be inscribed upon her dressing room door much longer... Lord Darnley's lover... the cousin would not be able to pay her rent without the girl.
Holmes finds himself a minute later, having stopped in his pacing to stare at the wall behind Watson, and blinks. Focusing again on the ever-patient doctor, Holmes nods. The window. "We must get in that building."
“Agreed,” Watson says, nodding. He glances at his father’s watch and snaps it closed, tucking it back into his pocket. “It seems a bit early for such public burglary, though. I say we go to Mr. Yaxley’s room first, and then out to Kingsway.”
It’s a quick process, readying himself for the evening activities; as Holmes generally looks out for his money, he’s not accustomed to having to make sure he has it, but he does check his pockets. He tucks his small toolkit into his coat pocket as well, and makes certain he has his service revolver.
That is the end of his preparations, and he turns to wait for Holmes, who at least hasn’t gotten himself into another staring daze. Watson is near to being overcome by the amount of smoke in the room, though, so it’s a relief to be able to open the sitting room door and let some of it out. He stops in the open doorway, however, glancing back over his shoulder. Who knows what they’ll run into this evening? Holmes is already swinging his riding crop, but that may not be enough.
“Revolver,” he says patiently, waiting.
Not surprisingly, this reminder has Holmes turning back around and reaching for his revolver, which is for some reason under several books and yesterday's paper. Why he is unable to remember his revolver at any given time but can determine which cigar type and brand a smattering of ash came from on sight is anyone's guess, but he will freely admit that it's a good thing he has Watson to remind him of that sort of thing (he manages to remember his coat by himself this time, although to be completely honest most of the time he doesn't forget it so much as leave in a haste and determine it unnecessary).
After all, who knows what they'll end up doing by the time the night is through? Holmes would be lying if he said he didn't hope for a confrontation of some sort, even injured as he is. Confrontations typically mean that they're getting close.
A moment later, he reappears, revolver retrieved and pipe replaced in his pocket. Well, he does hope for some excitement. But he can't help but hope that it doesn't require his having his pipe blown up again. He's just getting used to this one.
He doesn't argue with Watson's plan- this time- and sure enough, soon they are on their way to Mr. Yaxley's room. Hopefully while they're away, the Irregulars won't appear with urgent news, but Holmes for one absolutely cannot wait, cooped up, any longer. He would go mad. "I suppose he has no one to look over him while he is in recovery but the hospital staff," he says as they near the building; it's almost more of a statement than a question, but the fact that he bothers to say it out loud to Watson is telling: Holmes is more than slightly uneasy about Yaxley being unguarded while in such a vulnerable state.
Watson shakes his head slowly. “No one but the staff, I’m afraid,” he agrees. “And whatever constabulary happens to be nearby at the time. I suppose I’ll hear back from them as soon as they can write; no one has sent word of any significant downturns, but the man was stabbed.” He’s not likely to be in good condition either way, frankly, even if he survives.
He glances over at Holmes. “You think he knew something about what was going on. That he wasn’t simply a bystander or in the way when they went after Harriet Winstone.” It would make sense, he supposes. He still has no idea why anyone would go after a maid this way… and hopes to God that she’s still alive. Who knows, frankly? She could have been dead an hour after they’d taken her, if not sooner, or she could still be alive. If they’d wanted her dead, why wouldn’t they simply have killed her when they stabbed her fiancé?
"Or if he was simply a bystander, he certainly is no longer," Holmes says. The nature of the attack- Yaxley being stabbed and Miss Winstone being taken- implies that she was the intended victim. But if the stabbed fiancé should survive, even if he wasn't involved or hadn't been included by Miss Winstone, he certainly would become involved. He would at the very least have seen the attackers.
Holmes isn’t certain. It would make less sense, considering again the nature of the attack, for Yaxley to have been the intended target. But as usual, Holmes refuses to make any guesses without enough information. If Yaxley was the intended target, was involved, there are any number of reasons the attackers might have taken Miss Winstone instead of killing her immediately. None of them are particularly pleasant, but that only makes them more likely.
“Either way, he becomes a threat as soon as he wakes,” Holmes points out. “If he wakes. He could identify his attackers at the very least.” Unless he was left only on the brink of death on purpose... but without seeing his wounds, Holmes doubts it. It seems only luck and poor aim that he is still alive. “You saw his wounds. In your opinion, did they appear professional?” In this, Holmes certainly trusts Watson’s opinion, since he is a physician.
Watson shakes his head slowly. “Certainly not a doctor’s, or someone who uses fine motor skills professionally. Even with a very brief window, anyone accustomed to cutting flesh would know where to hit to kill as quickly as possible.”
He can see the image of the knife wounds in his mind’s eye. “No, they were done by someone accustomed to using a knife, but not one with any sort of training. One good clean thrust, but they barely nicked his small intestine, and with any luck that damage has been repaired.” He shakes his head. “The internal and external bleeding is the problem; he lost a great deal more than he should have. But at best guess, I’d say hired muscle performed it. And not one who regularly murders.”
Sadly (and a bit frighteningly), there are many common murderers in London. But fortunately for them, Yaxley’s attacker (or the one who had stabbed him, at the least) is not one of them. They reach Yaxley’s tenement building and enter, garnering one or two strange looks, as they’re rather wealthier than the set that calls this area home. But most people just look away, not wanting to get involved, which is both a sad state of affairs and a blessing in this case.
Holmes pulls out his lock-picking set and Watson lets him go at it for once; they can’t leave behind evidence that they’d been here, or that anyone had been here at all… presuming the kidnappers haven’t been, yet.
Watson gets a look at the mention of his "best guess" (he knows how Holmes feels about that sort of thing), but the rest of it Holmes is silent about, which can be taken to mean approval and/or acceptance. He does wish he had seen Yaxley's wounds himself, but in the absence of that accepts Watson's account, which in and of itself speaks volumes, because no matter how much Holmes might like a person, his trust when it comes to evidence and the observational skills of others is so hard to come by as to be near non-existent.
But Watson's account is accepted and taken into consideration in silence for a minute as Holmes works on the door's lock; this only takes a few seconds, as the lock could be called simple at best. Despite Watson's great abilities at kicking down doors, Holmes is quite well-versed at lock picking and so he makes quick work of it, quickly opening the door and ushering Watson inside before shutting and then locking the door behind them from the inside.
The place itself, in terms of size and basic setup, is not much different than that they'd visited the day before, where Miss Winstone and her cousin (also Miss Winstone) live (lived). But this flat is clearly the home of a young bachelor, and just as clearly has not been visited in some days, meaning that the kidnappers had not come to this place since Yaxley was stabbed.
Holmes begins his search around the room- thorough, as Watson knows by now, but completely unplottable to any eye but his own- but then stops after a moment, reaching down to pick up a discarded shirt, which he sniffs and then stares at for a moment before promptly throwing it at Watson, who catches it automatically. Of course Watson will notice that it is covered in coal ash, along with a light dusting of the stuff all around the room from the bottom of Yaxley's shoes, his hands... and yet, Holmes is certain that the coal ash found at the scene was not from Yaxley himself.
"Yaxley works at the railyards," Watson concludes, startled. He hadn't realized that, had been too absorbed in examining the lad's injuries to realize that Yaxley also had been covered in ash..Not head to toe, of course, as patients are cleaned while in the hospital, but now that he recalls it... yes, there had been some on the boy's face and hands.
And if Yaxley works for the railroad, then it stands to reason... "I know we mustn't twist facts to suit theories, but we could conjecture that Yaxley may have known his attackers. It would explain how they could come upon the couple with no trouble."
"Indeed it would," Holmes agrees. It is a sensible conjecture; they had been unable to explain why the attackers' presence wouldn't have alerted the couple until they were close enough to attack. And the fact of the matter is that this sort of thing is rarely a coincidence. "Although I believe that only one of their attackers was from the railyards."
Holmes continues his search of the room, finding mostly discarded items of clothing and very little in terms of data about anything regarding the attack. If he had been involved in something, it is not apparent from his rooms. Which means that more breaking and entering will be required. Holmes straightens after a minute, looking back over at Watson, who has been poking about the room on his own. "Do you deem it late enough for more strenuous breaking and entering?"
Watson glances at his watch again. Eight pm now, another half of an hour perhaps to get to Kingsway... "If we're careful and not going in through the front." Looking around, he can spy nothing else of interest, it's true, not that he often sees things right off the bat, anyway. That is Holmes' specialty, as are so many things.
"Right, then." He replaces his watch in his pocket, and they're off, locking the door behind themselves so that Mr. Yaxley is not robbed blind during his period of convalescence.
~~~~~
Part Sixteen